The Lonely-Wilds
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The Lonely-Wilds

Elizabeth Breese

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eBook - ePub

The Lonely-Wilds

Elizabeth Breese

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About This Book

"Traveling from her pastoral America to Neruda's Chile and the Ireland of St. Kevin, Elizabeth Breese sings the lonely-wild lyric of ditch flowers and raw honey, tornados and radios, broken birds and sailors lost at sea. Her ars poetica: 'little bee hand in pocket editions, the rough-/ cut paper combs, dancing for the things it loves.'"-Harryette Mullen"As with Dickinson and Stevens, to understand an Elizabeth Breese poem is beside the point; one apprehends it, the way one does a scent or strain of music. Roving, impure, funny, brainy, and passionate, hers is work I want to keep beside me for the good company and generous pleasures it offers line by gorgeous line."-Kathy Fagan

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Information

Year
2014
ISBN
9781631010286
Subtopic
Poetry
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Ars poetica
Grenora, N.D.
Calamity the way I think it
Northern pastoral
Chile
A prayer with a hydrangea in it
Supernature
Amen
Subsidy
Fontanel
Beverly & Doris, 1990
Murray River
Her portrait by Alan Lomax
Cenotaph
Inis Óirr
Self-portrait at Glendalough
Note
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to the editors of the following journals where some of these poems first appeared:
Barrow Street: “Subsidy”
FIELD: “Grenora, N.D.,” “Supernature,” “Calamity the way I think it” and “Self-portrait at Glendalough”
Sou’wester: “Amen”
I am grateful for the Vorman Scholarship Fund from the Department of English at The Ohio State University, which made the research for several of these poems possible.
For their help and wisdom, I would like to thank Kathy Fagan, Andrew Hudgins, Angie Estes, and Henri Cole. Thank you to my dear friends at The Ohio State University for their tremendous support and kindness. Claire and Annie, you’ve been true blue.
To my parents, thank you for encouraging me always.
ARS POETICA
The best & worst things happen here,
but everyone loves the idea of honey. So here
is my little bee hand in pocket editions, the rough-
cut paper combs, dancing for the things it loves.
The worst things are voices, wrong
somehow & sour. If it is not elderly enough to totally
crack its hips in my closed hand, I think of the long
limping walk toward disaster.
The voice of the sensual, if it does not crack
someone’s hips, will be put to bed
without a kiss. It must fight the urge to turn
over & ask what it did wrong until it falls asleep.
The worst things are all true; I have been the girl
whose bones are the hull of a ship called
lost at sea many time...

Table of contents