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June-tree
Peter Balakian
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June-tree
Peter Balakian
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Prize-winning poet and New York Times -bestselling author Peter Balakian offers the best of his previous poetry, as well as thirteen new poems.
For three decades, Peter Balakian's poetry has been praised widely in the United States and abroad. He has created a unique voice in American poetry -- one that is both personal and cosmopolitan. In sensuous, elliptical language, Balakian offers a textured poetry that is beautiful and haunting as it envelops an American grain, the reverberations of the Armenian Genocide, and the wired, discordant realities of contemporary life.
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Thema
LiteratureThema
Literature GeneralFROM DYERâS THISTLE (1996)
August Diary
8/1
From here groomed fields and clumps of trees,
a silo of corrugated tin and a white barn blur.
a silo of corrugated tin and a white barn blur.
Unseasonable cool days,
high, blue, a few clouds like ripped pillows
as if this were a lip of the North Sea
high, blue, a few clouds like ripped pillows
as if this were a lip of the North Sea
and I could look out and imagine Denmark.
But Iâm in my office three floors up.
But Iâm in my office three floors up.
8/3
In Armenian thereâs a wordâgarodârhymes with âmaud.â
The beautiful ones are not faithful
and the faithful ones are not beautifulâ
and the faithful ones are not beautifulâ
a student said that about some Pavese translations,
here in my office.
here in my office.
Should I tell you what garod means?
8/5
Whatâs happening in Spitak and Sarajevo and the West Bank
is splayed like the cortex of a silicon chip in the fuzzy air.
is splayed like the cortex of a silicon chip in the fuzzy air.
Maria, the physician from Armenia, was 25 & had one plastic arm and one real arm. I met her in East Hampton on the deck of a house on the dunes.
After the earthquake she had no husband,
no parents, and only one child.
no parents, and only one child.
âIâm in a good mood today,â she said, âletâs talk about
something else.â I poured her an Amstel Light.
something else.â I poured her an Amstel Light.
8/10
The coolness intrudesâ
month of wind-sprints and retching for the coach.
It comes back like nerve ends after surgery.
month of wind-sprints and retching for the coach.
It comes back like nerve ends after surgery.
Along a country road cicadas rattling.
Chicory and sweet pea intruding on the ripe barley.
Chicory and sweet pea intruding on the ripe barley.
I picked up some seed packs from a junk shop on Rt. 20,
a tomato blazed in red ink/1926, Fredonia, N.Y.
a tomato blazed in red ink/1926, Fredonia, N.Y.
8/11
Whatâs between us? The red ink of the tomato?
How does an image stay? Or is it always aftermath?
The way deep black reflected the most light in Talbotâs first calotypes.
The way deep black reflected the most light in Talbotâs first calotypes.
But garod: tongue of a snake,
meaning exile, longing for home.
meaning exile, longing for home.
Thomas Wedgwood got images by getting sunlight
to pass through things onto paper brushed with silver nitrate:
to pass through things onto paper brushed with silver nitrate:
wings of a dragonfly, the spine of an oak leafâ
fugitive photograms. But he couldnât stop the sun
until it turned the paper black.
fugitive photograms. But he couldnât stop the sun
until it turned the paper black.
Stop the light before it goes too far?
Or is desire what garod means?
Longing for a native place.
Longing for a native place.
8/17
Maria said she was learning how to connect nerve endings
in the hand so hands and arms would work again.
There were so many in Armenia without working hands and arms.
in the hand so hands and arms would work again.
There were so many in Armenia without working hands and arms.
At the end of each dendrite is a blurred line
like the horizon Iâm squinting.
like the horizon Iâm squinting.
Image of the other:
light-arrested; not the image of ourselves.
light-arrested; not the image of ourselves.
8/21
After digging scallions one day Dickinson defined freedom:
Captivityâs consciousness, soâs liberty.
Captivityâs consciousness, soâs liberty.
Maybe garod is about the longing for the native place
between two selves.
between two selves.
8/22
I love the brute force of silence in Roger Fentonâs
Sebastopol from Cathcartâs Hill, 1855. The Crimean inner war.
Sebastopol from Cathcartâs Hill, 1855. The Crimean inner war.
The artlessness of silver is like my tongue in your wet space,
or like the news photos that bring us the pressure of disaster.
or like the news photos that bring us the pressure of disaster.
Beloved topography,
garod then must mean yearning.
garod then must mean yearning.
Is that how we loved under the rattling Nippon porcelain,
in the light calotyped by the fire escape?
in the light calotyped by the fire escape?
8/25
garod: the grain chute that spills
into a dark barn which is endless,
like the self when itâs out of reach.
into a dark barn which is endless,
like the self when itâs out of reach.
Are we so lonely that a constellation
could blacken and fill up that same barn,
could blacken and fill up that same barn,
and that be me or you?
But still weâre piss and oats and stock in there.
Weâre like civet, who wouldnât love it.
Weâre like civet, who wouldnât love it.
8/31
the new glass-plate pictures:
transparent as air, Szarkowski wrote
transparent as air, Szarkowski wrote
like windows
the fragmentary, scruffy, particularity
of real living behind themâ
of real living behind themâ
Physicians
1
Above school kids in Episcopal
jackets cherubs are singing
to the beautiful fake lapis
of St. John the Divine
jackets cherubs are singing
to the beautiful fake lapis
of St. John the Divine
and from this side chapel
I see through the blue
to the 6th floor of St. Lukeâs
where my fatherâs heart caved in.
I see through the blue
to the 6th floor of St. Lukeâs
where my fatherâs heart caved in.
In the thirties my grandfather
made his rounds three floors down.
In the weak sun the black rocks
by a shepherdâs robe seem piled
made his rounds three floors down.
In the weak sun the black rocks
by a shepherdâs robe seem piled
like fat medical texts
or small suitcases full of Dickens
in German my grandfather translated
to learn English so he could pass
or small suitcases full of Dickens
in German my grandfather translated
to learn English so he could pass
his exam in the Empire State,
to use his silver instruments
on the eyes ears nose and throat.
to use his silver instruments
on the eyes ears nose and throat.
In a snapshot heâs large-eyed, glazed,
as if he shouldâve followed
his cousin, the Bishop, to a cave.
as if he shouldâve followed
his cousin, the Bishop, to a cave.
Instead he climbed down
the catastrophes of New World
faces, the warped shapes
that flare up the senses.
the catastrophes of New World
faces, the warped shapes
that flare up the senses.
Tubes lit in the throat.
The auscultated fog
of the ear tuned
to pass the pitches
The auscultated fog
of the ear tuned
to pass the pitches
of the world. I think of him
scoping the cochlea,
that purgatory
where the screech
scoping the cochlea,
that purgatory
where the screech
of a yellow Checker
and the mute twittering
of Satchmoâs horn
were white light.
and the mute twittering
of Satchmoâs horn
were white light.
Down the ducts of joy and pain
my grandfather called tears
(not lachrymae Christi),
but the fissure between two continents
my grandfather called tears
(not lachrymae Christi),
but the fissure between two continents
that sent him with Armeniaâs
refugees along the junked canals,
the Dardanelles, the Atlantic.
refugees along the junked canals,
the Dardanelles, the Atlantic.
Eye to eye with a lens,
he could see the retinaâs
orange spot,
and it was a floating nation.
he could see the retinaâs
orange spot,
and it was a floating nation.
On a clean meta...