Young - Bender: new & selected poems
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- Book:Bender: new & selected poems
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- Publisher:Copper Canyon Press
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- Year:2015;2012
- City:Port Townsend;Washington
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We hope you enjoy these poems. This e-book edition was created through a special grant provided by the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation. Copper Canyon Press would like to thank Constellation Digital Services for their partnership in making this e-book possible.for Laurie Copyright 2012 by Dean Young All rights reserved Cover art: Dean Young, You Call Yourself aCosmologist? ISBN: 978-155659-403-8 eISBN: 978-161932-035-2 Support Copper Canyon Press: If you have enjoyed this title, please consider supporting Copper Canyon Press and our dedication to bringing the work of emerging, established, and world-renowned poets to an expanding audience through e-books: www.coppercanyonpress.org/pages/donation.asp Contact Copper Canyon Press: To contact us with feedback about this title send an e-mail to: 
The Chinese character for poetry is made up of two parts: word and temple. It also serves as pressmark for Copper Canyon Press. Since 1972, Copper Canyon Press has fostered the work of emerging, established, and world-renowned poets for an expanding audience.
The Press thrives with the generous patronage of readers, writers, booksellers, librarians, teachers, students, and funders everyone who shares the belief that poetry is vital to language and living.
The Chinese character for poetry is made up of two parts: word and temple. It also serves as pressmark for Copper Canyon Press. The poems are set in Caslon. Book design and composition by Phil Kovacevich.Yesterday I saw L again, by a case of kiwis and she seemed wrongly tall as if wearing cothurni. Would it be better never to see her at all? In Jims poem about death, shirts pile on a chair. I imagine them folded, the way shirts are, arms behind the back, then boxed in mothballs and marked with Magic Marker, Jims Shirts. Probably what would really happen is his wife might save a few to hang among her own. Even that off-the-shoulder thing of hers commingled with grief, overlapping ghosts. The rest shed give away, maybe dump in a Salvation Army bin in some parking lot or just drop off in Peoples Park.
It scares me to think of that guy with sores on his face trying on the parrot shirt. It scares me how well it fits. Maybe if I just walked up to her and said, Enough. Maybe she still has my blue belt. Outside, the rain riffs off the shingles, wind mews down the exhaust tube of my heater.
The bear could almost talk, the crippled dog could almost run and we could almost love each other forever. Funny word, forever. You can put it at the end of almost any sentence and feel better about yourself, about how youve worked in a spray of sparks accomplishing almost nothing and feel thats exactly what the gods intended; look at the galaxies, spilled milk, their lust and retrograde whims. What was it you were promised? Im sorry if it turned out to be a lie. But the girl really did drink fire from a flower, the dog did leap a chasm, days advanced and the stars spun through our umbras and threw their backward light upon the bent, deniable, rusted, unaffirmable, blank-prone forever.
Silly boy scrubbing at a spot, solar eclipse projecting half-bitten dot in the pinholed box. And throbbing is the head upon the breast, throbbing the knot inside the chest so I can hardly say your name. Trains rattle down by the river, the finger with its sliver throbs, the first Monday of every month, Grandmother polished the silver. Is life just intervals of pulses, ripples spreading on a lake from where the rock was tossed? Do not forsake me darling though we be carried off. Every instance has its day and night, every inkling is full of blinks, the power going on and off so fast we can hardly think until here comes a storm, poor dog scuttled under the bed, poor dream we recall almost not at all no matter how we cling because throbbing is the sea and we be torn apart.
So what? Youre made of twigs anyway. You were on an errand but never came back, spent too long poking something with a stick. Was it dead or never alive? Invisibility will slow down soon enough for you to catch up and pull it over yourself. No one knows what color the first hyenas tongue to reach you will be. Or the vultures who are slow, careful unspellers. So go ahead, become an expert in sleep or not, either way you can live in a rose or smoke only so long.
You will still be left off the list. You will still be rain, blurry as a mouse.
Grown men should not wear shorts in airports unless they are baggage handlers. Bearded men should never play the flute. Most heavy metal music is anger over repressed homoerotic urges is the sort of idea that got me beat up in high school. There is nothing sadder than a leaf falling from a tree then catching an updraft higher than the tree then getting stuck in a gutter. Symbolism is highly suspicious because it cant be helped. There is always something you can never touch, never have but there it is, right in front of you.
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