Bin Ramke - Massacre of the Innocents (Iowa Poetry Prize)
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Massacre of the Innocents : Poems Iowa Poetry Prize
author
:
Ramke, Bin.
publisher
:
University of Iowa Press
isbn10 | asin
:
0877454922
print isbn13
:
9780877454922
ebook isbn13
:
9781587291999
language
:
English
subject
American poetry.
publication date
:
1995
lcc
:
PS3568.A446M37 1995eb
ddc
:
811/.54
subject
:
American poetry.
1 Utopia
Page 11
Practical Linguistics
He learned to breathe in German but no one gave him a seat on the subway. Trying times continued on his walk through the park, daffodils and dangerous birds. Morning at the museums and angels buzzed impudently above the garbage, the sweet smell of refuse sufficient.
His Italian was better than that. He could not account for his whereabouts the night he disappeared. The police don't really care: they have a routine. He cannot leave his apartment without peering first through the curtain with a Dantean sense of doom.
In the future I will live in the past he said to himself in Spanish. The smell of politics followed him down the streets of a major Central American capital, tall secret policemen watched his progress, his ambiguous back.
During his most angelic dream he awoke in Farsi while the rugs around him flew. Like butterflies. The room filled
Page 12
with Persian carpets flapping. Agonized women leaned down toward his face to whisper secrets of his recent past.
Page 13
Tricks
Labyrinth as home. Maze as pattern of pauses, as place to live; and the necessary minotaur. A clever man can make his stringless way through. In February 1858 Bernadette Soubirous saw in the Grotto Massabielle a beautiful lady in a blue sash. The lady appeared eighteen times to the fourteen year-old girl, and would say in the local dialect: Que soy era Immaculada Concepriou. The first to be cured by her cold water was Bouriette, stone mason. Bernadette died at age thirty-five, a sister of the Order of Nevers. Other women, often Korean, some local, from cities in the mountains Leadville, Silt, Rifle, Fairplay move from Denver to Houston to Denver, following the lonely men who make money. A little money, a little time. Small world, grim or cheerful. They work in bare rooms with narrow beds and clock radios to set the mood,
Page 14
with bottles of oil on the window sill. They take credit cards. Sometimes on a warm day the sound of traffic drifts through the curtain. Windows high, with cracked panes. Her accent thick and her teeth bad, still she is lovely. Curled black hair, wide forehead and long legs as if turned on a lathe. Maple, a man thinks; Ash. She smiles through him like an arrow. When Orson Welles appeared on late night television he did a magic trick with a Cuban cigar. The trick failed. He was lonely and fat and a failure. He died. The trick was mind reading, such a pointless passion when it works. There are no men too big for their bodies.
Page 15
Thin Soup
B: Up.... I am up. I strike with my bare heel the reality of the sensible world.... A: It is a kind of coup d'tat.... And then?... You dress? Paul Valry, ''Colloquy within a Being"
(Dialogue between A and B)
A: Afternoon radio, its music of small deals and willing suspensions, makes me suspicious of my vision of the garden throughout that summer when I spent whole days at the window.
B: Rows of espaliered trees and green heavy in the evening trapped spots of light, black wholeness engulfing that edge of the world the sun's solemn way up lifting heavy skirts monkish. Sitting at a window all day was a way.
A: I saw that glistening taut triangle, her spectacular scapula, sun bather, garden ornament: a back view across pools, scaphoid skirts floating watery paddling herself, her reflection, across anticipation.
B: Person, personally, I wouldn't watch so obviously; I, eyeing them that way, disgraceful.
A: It is second nature to us to look, first nature not to.
B: See, a leaf has fallen in the water. It circles her memory like a little boat or she it, she skirts it, scaphoid.
A: She had plans.
B: She wanted you to be any kind but this, waking the children and pounding on the heart at three a.m. drunk as a doorman in Macbeth.
Page 16
A: I answer you calm as a traffic light cautioning: hope is the random virtue where there's danger and dignity. When I was seven years old I walked from where we lived on the actual river to the theater where Band of Angels premiered. Baton Rouge, with algorithmic beauties. I walked holding the hand of my beautiful aunt who loved me best. My aunt and uncle sold groceries to the passing ships, they lived on their grocery barge
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