Hoks - The narrow circle

PENGUIN BOOKS THE NARROW CIRCLE NATHAN HOKS is the author of Reveilles. He lives with his family in Chicago, where he teaches at Columbia College and runs Convulsive Editions. THE NATIONAL POETRY SERIES The National Poetry Series was established in 1978 to ensure the publication of five poetry books annually through five participating publishers. Publication is funded by the Lannan Foundation; Stephen Graham; Joyce & Seward Johnson Foundation; Juliet Lea Hillman Simonds; the Poetry Foundation; and Olafur Olafsson. 2012 COMPETITION WINNERS the meatgirl whatever, by Kristin Hatch of San Francisco, CA Chosen by K. Silem Mohammad, to be published by Fence Books The Narrow Circle, by Nathan Hoks of Chicago, IL Chosen by Dean Young, to be published by Penguin Books The Cloud That Contained the Lightning, by Cynthia Lowen of Brooklyn, NY Chosen by Nikky Finney, to be published by University of Georgia Press Visiting Hours at the Color Line, by Ed Pavli of Athens, GA Chosen by Dan Beachy-Quick, to be published by Milkweed Editions Failure and I Bury the Body, by Sasha West of Austin, TX Chosen by D.

Nurkse, to be published by HarperCollins Publishers THE NARROW CIRCLE NATHAN HOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS PENGUIN BOOKS Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com First published in Penguin Books 2013 Copyright Nathan Hoks, 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this product may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchase only authorized editions. constitutes an extension of this copyright page. Image credits appear .

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Hoks, Nathan. [Poems. Selections] The narrow circle / Nathan Hoks. pages ; cm.(National poetry series) ISBN 978-0-14-312373-6 I. Title. PS3608.O48285N37 2013 811.6dc23 2013006561

For Teddy ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thank you to the editors of the following venues in which some of these poems first appeared, often in different versions: Boston Review; Colorado Review; Crazyhorse; Forklift, Ohio; H_ngm_n; jubilat; The New Megaphone; Poem, Home: An Anthology of Ars Poetica; SCUD.

Infinite Interior appeared on a broadside for the Pop Mirror-Shaped Reading in Madison, Wisconsin. Thank you to Lewis Freedman and Andy Gricevich. Thank you to my family for their tolerance and encouragement, and thank you to everyone whose spirit and intelligence helped along these poems, especially Nikki Flores, James Shea, Chad Chmielowicz, Chris Hund, Joel Craig, Joseph Bienvenu, Jorge Snchez, Vieve Kaplan, Leora Fridman, Catherine Theis, Jill Magi, Maureen Ewing, Larry Sawyer, Michael Anichini, Eugene Sampson, Sarah Green, Jared Stanley, and Kate Hollander. Thank you also to Paul Slovak at Penguin and Stephanie Stio at the National Poetry Series. CONTENTS They told me that I had five senses to inclose me up.And they inclosd my infinite brain into a narrow circle,And sunk my heart into the Abyss, a red round globe hot burningTill all from life I was obliterated and erased. WILLIAM BLAKE THE INTERIOR FLIGHT TO THE INTERIOR Ive got secrets Im about to leave in the river And it makes me feel homeless to stand here Having to think them through. Silence yourself, says the tree line You are miniature, absorbing Time on your way to the end of the tunnel.

You are about to enter an orange plain And the sound in your head will be A car starting in the rain. You will fill yourself With pockets. You will file your nails Until the heart of your ghost fills with glowing juice. Finally you feel fully washed of your self, Blown into several pieces of sky, transparent But also a bloblike raindrop. For the rest of the day you will glue Blue and green squares to the tree trunks. Every rotting leaf is a form of speculation You have inherited from the raindrop.

When the shadow splatters, the thing itself splatters. All of us become the river. SHADOW OF THE INTERIOR My friend Michael always carries His chair from house to house. He calls this chair his heart, his warm Beeping heart that he cannot shake From his hands no matter how hard He shakes them. Imagine, he says, Imagine having to look at your inner life Always in your hands, always pointing The direction from place to place Until you cannot stand it. One day You are in a desert where there is Simply no context for your feelings.

A rhythm rattles your head. Light sneaks quickly into your eyes And you cannot tell yourself from sky. You need a place to lie down, a place To bore into. You will be happy to Have your chair. You will clutch its Thin legs and think about the moon. Lucky you. Lucky you.

You see everything inside out. BIRTH OF THE INTERIOR The oysters I did not eat are in the fridge Dreaming of the ocean they did not mean To leave. They came here on an Airplane, in many ways like my wife Who is washing her face in the bathroom That makes your face feel like it is Shrinking so you try to get out. If you stand Up too fast you feel blood running Circles in your head, tightening the skin around Your nose and cheekbones. Perhaps your hair Grows a little. In the mirror you dont Notice major changes but you feel Something large poking its soft head Through your chest.

You are excited For the new installment. You run to Tell your friends to get out their cameras. They have never heard of cameras. You Walk across the couch to the window Where the raindrops have settled Into a little pool on the sill. You are Half of everything you see. The indiscretion Pulverizes your insides.

You have to wear A shiny fur hat to cover up the pieces. OPERATION WHITE OUT My friend John is always carrying on About the laundry detergent. His neighbors Have built tall fences. When he walks Into a party the host turns up the music. I try to cheer him up, invite him over For jelly donuts. His sullen face bothers My dogs.

His bloodshot eyes seem to drip On their egg-white fur. I try to distract him By sharing my theory that over the years The skys shade of blue has been Gradually lightening so that soon The sky will be white all the time. You wont want to bleach your undershirts. You wont care about the enzymes, How they work away at the marinara On your cloth napkin. And the lake Of soluble phosphates will fill with Algal blooms and kill the fish and plants. The same green spot is growing inside me.

PERSONALITY TEST Everyone tells me I look like Jim. Jim, I say, who the hell is Jim? In truth I know him, but Im feeling anxious About these accusations. I have to flip Through a stack of magazines just to Work up the courage to go to bed. And When I awake Im not certain Im in The right room. My fear is assuaged When I see Jims portrait hanging Over the dresser. I reach for the feathers I keep on the nightstand.

Their silky Texture teases my insides, begs them To come out. Another tissue wriggles And glides its cursive across the wall. If I were to close the curtain more dust Would appear around the rim Of my water glass. I cant drink any more. My insides will be washed away. Finally you feel fully washed of your self