By Dorothea Lasky
"In strains that take me back to the fact of how William Carlos Williams insisted that purely the mind's eye supplies us entry to truth, Lasky's poems evoke a convention of dwelling, as bloody and lousy and gorgeous as residing can ever be."—Julia Bloch, Bitch
"The attractive factor approximately Lasky, in all her paintings, yet relatively the following, is her skill to create that very same experience of earnestness, the experience that she is telling you a secret."—InDigest journal, InDigest Picks
Go, courageous and mild reader, with Dorothea Lasky to the "purple hotel / the place the fowl lives." choose her, as you might have willingly long past down the darkish passages sooner than, together with her bare-faced poems for advice. Thunderbird's managed rage plunges into the black inside armed with not anything yet guts and Lasky's personal fiery middle to gentle the way.
Baby of air
You rose into the mystical
Side of things
You may well now not reside with us
We positioned you in a bit home
Where they close and locked the door
And at night
You blew out
And went wandering . . .
Dorothea Lasky can also be the writer of Black Life and AWE, either from Wave Books. She lives in New York.
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Additional info for Thunderbird
Sample text
Thank you to CAConrad for featuring “The Room” on his Jupiter 88 video series. Thank you to Zachary Pace and everyone at THEthe Poetry for featuring my poem “Who to tell” in their Poem of the Week series. Thank you to Joshua Beckman for his invaluable counsel on this book and to everyone at Wave Books, for making this book possible. Special thanks to my family and friends for their inspiration, care, and support.
I mean that as a very serious question Why can people be so cruel and why do they want to hurt other people And why do they hate with such intensity And why do normal things make normal people so mad Matthew Savoca wrote in a poem That Mother Nature is the new art If that is true then what Would that nature be I really don’t know I really don’t know I’m serious—I don’t Oh, I am so stricken Oh, I am so stricken with fear When the evil comes around Paranoia is the new art A lump of deceit Worry is the new art And compulsion And repulsion, an ugly heart A voice is the new art But it is rancid A rancid tune That I have worked out with care and concern To make ragged That you have worked out pitilessly That you have striven for That you have bent your fingers for That you have come around to Only to watch it come around again Orange flowers in the grove Are not ugly flowers But they are dumb medals Of the sun, who has watched them Who has cured them in its heat Only to watch them grow Not birdless But without birds Not moonless But to be a flower without a moon Not a tree that has fallen with a lump of birds But a moon that has fallen with a lump of birds So that it is no longer a moon So that its voice has no planetary pull So, that there is no center So, that center is beside the point So that the tone is pain always And hurt always So that this life is always about Dodging pain, but also inflicting it And not a body Not a body that feels But a spirit that feels A burned-out spirit That is old and grey and small And never renewed Nor revived That never has life That is pageless and poreless That is dead for all time An ugliness has reached across this space It is no feeling But ugly feelings are the way we make of it And what I say feelings are Are feelings And what I say are feelings Are also not feelings And what I say are old hurts Are new hurts And what deceit And what deceit makes a moon go negative And what black hole Is the opposite of a rock I only have you and me I only have this hand to hold you with And if I am an empty space And if I am a truly empty space Then my open hand is empty too Then my heart a wide and open plain Then my brain a dense infinity A dense infinity of nothing That holds no power And if I hold no power Then what ugliness could I truly hold To make you so mad at me To make you so cruel And to extend that cruelty elsewhere And if paper and bone make up light And if animal fur makes up the night And if light and earth are nothing Then what is this light that shows my face?
It is dead Writing is there It is dead Horses are magical Planes fly The flowers are beautiful Writing is death The poem is dead It was always dead Respect poems Respect this poem It is dead And you are dead And I am dead And when we talk and kiss and eat We do it on a dead timeline Which is the history of the world Which is something like fate Which if we were only able to really understand We would know Is something more like physics III. I am tired now They say the flower died there before On the cursed land Let’s look at the flower again Before we fade away The white flower Was born out of dew Parents who were water and air Two or three green bulbs The sun The air Would you like to think of its petals?
