Shanahan - Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing

Here you can read online Shanahan - Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. City: Carbondale, year: 2017, publisher: Crab Orchard Review & Southern Illinois University Press, genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

Romance novel Science fiction Adventure Detective Science History Home and family Prose Art Politics Computer Non-fiction Religion Business Children Humor

Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.

Book:
Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing
Author:
Shanahan / Charif
Publisher:
Crab Orchard Review & Southern Illinois University Press
Genre:
Books / Detective and thriller
Year:
2017
City:
Carbondale
Rating:
4 / 5
Favourites:
Add to favourites
Your mark:
- 80
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5

Description
Author's other books
Similar books

Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing: summary, description and annotation

We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.

In Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing, poet Charif Shanahan explores the various ways in which we as a species inherit identity constructs, chiefly about race and sexuality, and how we navigate those constructs in the creation of our identities--

Shanahan: author's other books

Who wrote Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.

Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work

Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.

Light

Font size:

↓

↑

Reset

Interval:

↓

↑

Bookmark:

Make

INTO EACH ROOM WE ENTER WITHOUT KNOWING Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First - photo 1

INTO EACH ROOM
WE ENTER WITHOUT KNOWING Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award Southern Illinois University Press
www.siupress.com Copyright 2017 by Charif Shanahan
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America 20 19 18 17 4 3 2 1 The Crab Orchard Series in Poetry is a joint publishing venture of Southern Illinois University Press and Crab Orchard Review. This series has been made possible by the generous support of the Office of the President of Southern Illinois University and the Office of the Vice Chancellor for Academic Affairs and Provost at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Editor of the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry: Jon Tribble
Judge for the 2015 First Book Award: Allison JosephCover illustration: Running Children, Morocco, 1951, by Irving Penn, Vogue
(December 1, 1953), 84; Cond Nast Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Shanahan, Charif, 1983 author.
Title: Into each room we enter without knowing / poems by Charif Shanahan.
Description: Carbondale : Crab Orchard Review & Southern Illinois University Press, 2017. | Series: Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Identifiers: LCCN 2016035391 | ISBN 9780809335770 (paperback) | ISBN 9780809335787 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Identity (Psychology)Poetry. | Racially mixed peoplePoetry. | BlacksRace identityPoetry. | African AmericansRace identityPoetry. | GaysIdentityPoetry. | BISAC: POETRY / General.
Classification: LCC PS3619.H35442 .A6 2017 | DDC 811/.6dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016035391 Printed on recycled paper.

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper)

For my parents ... we are like siblings,
you & I, separated
by many years, & rooms. Aracelis Girmay

GNAWA BOY, MARRAKESH, 1968

The maker has marked another boy to die: His thin body between two sheets, Black legs jutting out onto the stone floor, The tips of his toenails translucent as an eye. Aracelis Girmay

GNAWA BOY, MARRAKESH, 1968

The maker has marked another boy to die: His thin body between two sheets, Black legs jutting out onto the stone floor, The tips of his toenails translucent as an eye.

Gray clumps of skin, powder-light, Like dust on the curve of his unwashed heel And the face, swollen, expanding like a lung. At its center, the sheet lifts and curves: His bodys strangeness, even there. One palm faces down to show the black Surface of hand, the other facing up White as his deserts sky. As if underwater, He passes from that room into the blue Porcelain silence of the hall, where the light Skinned women have gathered in waiting: No song of final parting, no wailing Ripped holy from their throats: The women do not walk into the sun, They hide their bodies from it (those pale wrists, those pale temples): They do not walk the streets, They do not clutch their own bodies, They do not hit themselves in grief

TRYING TO SPEAK

Another time, on their bed, he called out holding a .38 against her neck slurring something about freedom. And she repeating the Arabic name shed given him Salim: the kind, the undamaged paled like flame, an empty cocoon, separating, dispersing. From the hallway, I watched him step down and walk out of the room, running his hand through my hair as he crossed the threshold.

Composed, turning to glance at the clock, she closed her robe and asked me to take the chicken from the freezer.

PLANTATION

When he finally brought the hammer down One half inch from my mothers face The hole in the wall Wide as a silver dollar I was close enough Huddled there In the folds of her lap Her arms wet with sweat and crossed Against my back And since from the room All sound had gone I was clear enough to see inside The cracked plaster: A river delta, fractured, Branching off and becoming The sea... Or, a tiny moon On a shore of red sand The tide lapping it in foam and tuggingNo, Twelve dead presidents perched there Each with the face of my father Tight-lipped, vacant-eyed Scanning the field for a body to mark Then locking in on her knee-bent dread Ordinary, mammary A yellow suckling heavy on her tit... No, I think it was her one good eye Refusing to blink, Scaling the bare-white wall At the core of the mind (Without measuring its height), Then circling a waterless well In a desert without sand, Unnumbered sisters Caught in the belly of the boats Where there was too much sound to hear, Though only one voice, one cry Their dark arms like trellised vines Crossed and reaching.

INTO EACH ROOM WE ENTER WITHOUT KNOWING

A boy dyes his shirt the iridescent sky of dawnor is it dusk? Rouged and glittered he begins, smacking his lips as he slinks into the clubs deep bass hum. Older men, on display by the bar, slip off their tees leading the child a labor of word, lyre, bark Ecstatic, he lurks into the back room, slipping his tongue through the bodys shutters.

Floorboards unhinge. A skein of teeth unravels. What pattern of occasion will free him? A prayer rug for a strict occasion. A patch of sand, enclosed within a mesh fence, where women in headscarves kneel in sajdah, hot from the days sun, a pleasure this agony of warmth and muscle: knee to sand, head to sand. A pleasure: restraint from lamb and water, the empty carafe, the scales of fish, meatless and hanging to dry, the grapes never to become wine. Eating grapes, my friend harangues me about the state of affairs in Riyadh.

His lips are wet, he is driving a Nissan rental. At a streetlight, a single blackstart lands on the side-view mirror: a lore of midnight and melancholy song. This Arab spring, my friend continues, my friend stops... Yes, I say, thinking of the blackstart somewhere in a baobab by now. Somewhere, a mother faints at the butcher when a lambs tongue is cut from the head the butcher pressing his fingers into the eye sockets for leverage and the vague cool of the air passing through the room awakes her as when Muammad awoke in the night desert: no spruce to shade the dead meat of him, no wind, not even stars a single blackstart lands on his knee: and as the mother exits another boy begins his journey to the city, wearing yellow sandals and a ring on each finger.

MASSA CONFUSA

A body was left me.

I did not put it on: Two densities of bone, Two methods of eye. In the spleen an oasis, An oasis as mirage All my people burned On either side of me.

SELF-PORTRAIT IN BLACK AND WHITE

If I said I did not want to live anymore, Would you understand that I meant like this? The years form a mythology I can almost explain. I see in colors because they are always so much A part of the problem: A fire engine is a backpack and my father. Dollar bill is headscarf, star and crescent. Candy cane is barbershop and my choice of men.

Gray is skin, the bridge in the center of your eye Now, stirring milk into my coffee with a bent spoon, I stir milk into my coffee with a bent spoon.

ON THIS HARD BENCH

you look at me, i look away to the swan in the canal everything here has meaning: my luggage, your cigarettes, our undone shoelaces, the water, the park. i speak with meticulous finality, each word its own sentence, and you listen as to a sermon, hoping that the moral can be forgiveness is divine

Light

Font size:

↓

↑

Reset

Interval:

↓

↑

Bookmark:

Make

Similar books «Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing»

Look at similar books to Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.

Kathleen Shanahan Maca

Ghosts of Galveston

Debby Shanahan

Cracked Shell: Life as an Emerging Scapegoat

Brendan Shanahan

Mr Snack and the Lady Water: Travel Tales From My Lost Years

Erich S. Gruen

Constructs of Identity in Hellenistic Judaism

Tom Shanahan

Spiritual Adrenaline

Shanahan

The Technological Singularity

Ali Muhammad

Running with the champ: my forty-year friendship with Muhammad Ali

Mike Shanahan

Gods, Wasps and Stranglers: The Secret History and Redemptive Future of Fig Trees

Douglas

Beyond The Utopian Ideal

Murray Shanahan

The Technological Singularity

Catherine Shanahan MD

Deep Nutrition

Daniel Shanahan

Toward a genealogy of individualism

Reviews about «Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing»

Discussion, reviews of the book Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.