Lauterbach - Under the Sign
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Ann Lauterbach is one of Americas most innovative and provocative poets, acclaimed for her fierce, sensuous and intellectually charged poems. In this, her ninth book of poems, Lauterbach pursues longstanding inquiries into how language forms and informs our understanding of the relation between empirical observation and subjective response; worldly attachment and inwardness; the given and the chosen. The poems set out not so much to find cogent resolutions to these fluid dyads as to open them to the fact of unknowing that is at the core of all human curiosity and desire. A central prose section tracks along a meditative edge, engaging the risky task of opening the mind to the limits of apprehension; the final section evokes, in the figure of the instructor, the essential contemporary question of how information becomes knowledge
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USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China penguin.com A Penguin Random House Company First published in Penguin Books 2013 Copyright 2013 by Ann Lauterbach Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. Page viii constitutes an extension of this copyright page. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lauterbach, Ann [Poems. Selections] Under the Sign / Ann Lauterbach. pages cm. (Penguin Poets) Poems. ISBN 978-0-14-312418-4 ISBN 978-1-101-62730-3 (eBook) I. Title. PS3562.A844U53 2013 811'.54dc23 2013021794 In memory of
Leslie Scalapino
Stacy Doris
and for our students
Thanks also to Paul Slovak for patience and perseverance, and Anna Moschovakis, Marina van Zuylen, Michael Brenson, and Nancy Shaver for their enduring friendship and help along the way.
The bugs are back. The skin is salty. Behind the curtain, a mistake or just old dark thrown across space. I have an inky drawing of a hairy stick pressing wind. Lovely, now, the milky shade. Behind the curtain, junk orbits and a serenade to those who keep watch while the ditch fills with lost things.
The distant river flirts with light. The water is alight. In the dust of a former moon, an abridgment. If this were prose, little agreements would obtain, and you could turn toward the missed like an angel on a fence. I mean a bird, a bird in prose. The spun ordeal arises as a missing object, its body enclosed so to be a convenient newsy thing, the dead soldiers spouse.
What exactly was intended to be kept in this regressive frame? Some figure? Some petty marker? She will trade her mothers ring for passage. Let her come aboard. Veet! Veet! The blue jays yell is hollow the way that light blinds.
asked the boy, alarmed to be asked
to say when or what might be repeated
the soldiers word the doctors word , how
world might be known by saying. Gone now from the said radical child hears only an orgy of hunches under the swollen noise. Liaison. Betrayal. Betrayal.
Some of us, some of them, no accounting for response as in the screen palace we count our dead. Blind to this or that futurist moment there are so many moments untold. Who then arranged this episode? Who then killed the child? Im getting good at sailing
unaccompanied through time holding on to delay
forfeiting the familiar bridge
across a mirage betrayal
whose voice concedes and is still recalled
even as it bends under the weight
of forgetfulness. Im getting good at counting
and at seeing the view from the
window of a dream. We hunker down under the pines and refuse to recall. Fire! Excellent inferno! Another cosmos passes through.
The mild noises of night are a form of waiting and then the dream touches and reminds like a hand. This reveals, and so a weary ambit collapses the foreground scene.
Fine, I said, have it your way. He said he loved small things.
How small? I asked. No answer. A book arrived in the mail I did not order.
The leaves, many of them, were falling.
Perhaps, I thought, it was sent just in case.
It was, she said, her favorite color. The dog barked. He was new to the neighborhood.
Fine, I said, have it your way. He said he loved small things.
A book arrived in the mail I did not order. Today was more or less full of surprises.
Something in the mix of habit and hope. Surprise, she said, is a kind of wind.
Perhaps, I thought, it was sent just in case.
To what or to whom are you referring?
I refer, she said, to the dog. How small? I asked. No answer.
The leaves, many of them, were falling. The dog barked. He was new to the neighborhood.
It was, she said, her favorite color. Do animals forget? I asked.
The leaves, many of them, were falling.
Something in the mix of habit and hope.
A book arrived in the mail I did not order. How small? I asked. No answer.
Today was more or less full of surprises. to Celia Bland
With fewer, more ordinary, words.
Words of one syllable, for example. For example: step and sleeve .
These are two favorites, among many.
Many can be found if I look closely. But even if I look closely, surely a word is not
necessarily here, in the foreground.
I see an edge of a paper, I see orange.
I see words and I see things. An old story,
nothing to foretell the ordinary mission.
I see her winter and I see And even the Romans fear her by now.
Are these words in
translation or barriers to translation? I see John and an open book, open to a day
in August. I am feeling defeated
among these sights, as if I will never find either sleeve or step. These ordinary
pleasurable words, attached to
ordinary pleasurable things, as if to find them is to say I am
announcing criteria. Step , sleeve ,
you are invited to come up and be within ordinary necessities. Coat.
She looked out. Nothing here, among these, resembles. She went on. There were lists, objects, names, but still nothing resembling. The sky was a kind of sorrow, cold and stained a pale sunless gray, it too did not resemble. And she, her lies adrift over the humdrum, thought to turn back but by then as you already know was lost.
The wrists illness, having
touched the spider, erupting as grid
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