By Christian Wiman
Each Riven factor is Christian Wiman’s first assortment in seven years, and barely has a ebook of poetry so borne the stamp of necessity. no matter if in stark, haiku-like descriptions of a melanoma ward, surrealistic depictions of a social order coming aside, or fluent, defiant outpourings of compliment, Wiman pushes his language and types until eventually they holiday open, revealing startling new truths inside. The poems are pleased and sorrowful even as, abrasive and gorgeous, densely actual and credibly mystical. They attest to the human starvation to believe life, even at its such a lot harrowing, and the facility of paintings to make our such a lot extreme reviews not just apprehensible yet transfiguring.
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Le digo entonces hasta que me callo: —Hay, madre, en el mundo, un sitio que se llama París. Un sitio muy grande y muy lejano y otra vez grande. La mujer de mi padre, al oírme, almuerza y sus ojos mor tales descienden suavemente por mis brazos. 6 —You look so old, my son! And steps along the yellow color to weep, for she finds me aged in the sword blade, in the mouth of my face. Weeps for me, becomes sad for me. How can she miss my youth if I’m always to be her son? W hy does a mother ache finding her sons aged, if their ages never reach hers?
21 Salutación Angélica Eslavo con respecto a la palmera, alemán de perfil al sol, inglés sin fin, francés en cita con los caracoles, italiano ex profeso, escandinavo de aire, español de pura bestia, tal el cielo ensartado en la tierra por los vientos, tal el beso del límite en los hombros. Mas sólo tú demuestras, descendiendo o subiendo del pecho, bolquevique, tus trazos confundibles, tu gesto marital, tu cara de padre, tus piernas de amado, tu cutis por teléfono, tu alma perpendicular a la mía, tus codos de justo y un pasaporte en blanco en tu sonrisa.
My stomach empties, my jejunum empties, want pulls me out from between my own teeth caught with a sliver by the cuff of my shirt. A stone to sit down on, isn’t there even that for me? Even that stone that trips the woman who’s given birth, mother of the lamb, the cause, the root, not even that for me now? At least that other that passed crouching through my soul! At least the calcaretic or the sick (modest ocean) or that no good now even to throw at man, that one, give me that one, now, for me!