Kazim Ali at Bowdoin College
Kazim Ali recorded live at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, Maine, October 19, 2006, and made possible by a grant from the Davis Family Foundation.
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Sarah Messer at Bowdoin College
Sarah Messer recorded live at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, Maine, October 5, 2006, and made possible by a grant from The Davis Family Foundation.
Off on a Tangent
If you had a rock in a sling, a tangent is what would happen if you let it fly. Death, were you what my grandfather heard in those last years or where his hearing went, in place of? Can’t hear us now, pop, earth shot deep: six feet of dirt in your ear. […]
Division
When we came back to my mother’s house, the year my father left and I sickened almost to death, the moths in the kitchen thickened in their numbers and gathered around what we put in our mouths to nourish us; and I could barely eat, my stomach was a swamp, a sluggish […]
Morning Poem of Sincerity, With Two Lines by a Four-Year-Old
In the thin stand, mist and thought though my thought jars little but my eyes, jumping through them over the lichen—sometimes within itself, sometimes sidewise after two squirrels— each start starts more branches than a tree has, for my heart is like a teapot whose mist neither settles nor rises […]
Cowrie Apostrophe
Let circumstance be breeze. At once: shells rush, rub ocean, is it sure or is it unsure? You are unsure then sure. On shore, then are shore. Sink, shell, not once as one but down to one ten thousand thousand ones. Now you are thought approaching thought. A thought that moves like breeze, not surf—an […]
Late Winter
It leaves turds shaped like rice grains beside the jar of rice grains, and dry as them. It is not behind the stove now. It is rummaging in my sink. It is a simple thing, hungry like you or me. The residue of my life passes through it as we are the residue of lives […]
The Smell of Warm Grass, and Shakespeare’s Majestic Silence
are the open last October day of warmth arisens which we cannot but mistake for spring. Think April; think Perdita blushing, proof that art is what we are most when most ourselves—I don’t mean art like lying whispered out ears, making up what those ears hear like dolls of eden-stuff we foul out […]