Back Through Interruption
eBook - ePub

Back Through Interruption

Kate Northrop

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  2. English
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eBook - ePub

Back Through Interruption

Kate Northrop

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Kate Northrop's Back Through Interruption is a deeply moving and thought-provoking collection of poetry. It takes the reader through a world that is at once beautiful and tragic, sacrosanct and profane.

"Kate Northrop's elegant, intelligent, wonderfully plotted first book, Back Through Interruption, has been born under the sign of the double helix and is governed by that shape. These are poems of being two: woman and man, daughter and mother, sister and sister. Like magnets they are held together by attraction or parted by force of opposition. In these poems, no matter what changes in the cast of characters, what is important is that they are all creatures in, and creations of, a text." —Lynn Emanuel, judge

"Kate Northrop's poems are drawn ineluctably to the place where passion and intelligence collide—and often they end with passion having fled and intelligence standing alone, surveying 'the way we travel into memory.' But Northrop's intelligence is so coruscating that it possesses all the passion of passion itself. 'I would be judged, ' says a woman on the verge of adultery, 'and what was individual / would collapse under the burden / of a story.' But she is wrong. In these dazzling poems, individuals and their stories stand side by side, each making the other glow more brightly than they would alone." —Andrew Hudgins

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Informations

Année
2013
ISBN
9781612777764
Sous-sujet
PoesĂ­a

Two

The Advice of the Dream

The dream that escaped the dream
went to live in a field. It was happy,
being undreamt, snapping dead sticks to add
to the fire it warmed itself around.
All night, in order to stay awake, it counted places.
How many oceans? How many mountain trails
lined with fern and woodchip, with flower?
And how many windows in the evening strangely lit?
The arms. Avenues. Estuaries
of ancient rivers, markets of spice, cumin
shifting in the barrels like sand,
like the desert, like anything in the open air.
It happens that the characters inside the dream
mill about, awkwardly, lost.
They’ve been knocked from the epic,
loosed from line of plot, from story.
The index cards have gone blank in their hands.
What’s my line? When do I enter? And where should I stand?
Evenings in the field, there’s the rustle
of autumnal husks, and beyond that,
a slight creek running. The advice of the dream?
It’s important to stay unattached
to an actual happening. This makes you fleet-footed,
able to be everywhere in the world.

Landscape with a Lake

Over & over you’ve returned, all summer,
troubled—
circling the lake, unable to decide,
and seeing that now the poor
echoes of laughter, the last rising voice
has looked around, shuddered
& disappeared,
what will you do? The reeds, softened
by algae, draw back, and the torn pods of cattails,
which during the day
surrounded the lake, return
to dusk. It’s a relief—isn’t it?—not having
to be seen.
(And do you feel less
obvious in the dark? Can you keep
forever, these secrets?)
Say I will return
to my wife and there go the herons you saw earlier, there go
memories of herons. Say I will not and something inside slips,
the particular arrangements, the shapes
& layer of clouds. Cirrus,
Cumulus—these are the lovely names,
the children. All summer you’ve returned,
listened to the sounds of water, listened
for a voice, a decision. But now
the wind is gathering in the north,
and now it is somewhere behind you,
where the leaves already are falling,
and the snow is coming on—thick
& deep. We will not be here
very long. Do not
tell the truth. Don’t leave me.

Landscape with House at the Edge of a Field

What was it that you wanted to say?
I’ve been waiting
and after all this time, nothing,
not a word. The geese
are crossing over
and your picture’s
on the table. Under the lamp. I won’t remove it,
and the women who visit look sour, or snicker
like idiots.
Where are you?
It shouldn’t matter, I know. You were only
some trouble—a few drinks
in a rusted-out pickup—
but I believed. Now, over the rows
of long broken stalks,
the sky goes grey. And the husks, those uneasy
remnants, begin to scratch
and rustle. Soon I will open the door
of the house. I will go in.

The Murderer

When he enters the room,
the walls darken,
just slightly, and a cloud
covers the lake. But nobody notices. The party’s
already started,
and our hosts, dreamlike, serve up the last
of the summer cocktails
to gorgeous guests. Outside,
floating across the terrace, white petals. An old yacht
slides by. The murderer
is touching the cream pitcher. He circles
through conversations, then he is turning over
his silver:
the salad fork, just once, the spoon. His hands
move exactly—cool, detached
like the light slanting lower across the lawn. Slowly, in
October,
the body will surface, the body
will reveal itself
and though nobody knows yet, some women,
after the capture, will say I could tell something
was different. I just kind of sensed it,
but that’s not true. Only the walls
knew he was sliding among us,
a secret celebrity, and trailing after him
drama, romance, disease.

A Glimpse of You, a Vision

What else was I doing in the kitchen
but watching?
For weeks I stood at the sink
long after the lights of the last car
had crossed the room. It was the end
of summer, and ahead, the hours
were shortening. I listened
in the dark where the curve of the faucet
glowed blue in the moonlight, familiar
& strange, like something
dredged up, like evidence. The wind stirred,
brushed the lowest branches of the oak
close against the house—and how else explain?—I knew it
the moment before,
then it was happening: You were there, sudden figure
at the window, your face a pale
white bloom, your shadow
vanishing in the yard through leaves.

Her Body in t...

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