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“Beauty walks this world. It ages everything.
I am far and I am an animal and I am just another I-am poem,
a we-see poem, a they-love poem.
The green. All the different windows.
There is so much stone here. And grass. So beautiful each
translucent electric blade.
And the noise. Cheers folding into traffic. These things.
Things that have been already said many times:
leaf, zipper, sparrow, lintel, scarf, window shade.”
― Some Values of Landscape and Weather
I am far and I am an animal and I am just another I-am poem,
a we-see poem, a they-love poem.
The green. All the different windows.
There is so much stone here. And grass. So beautiful each
translucent electric blade.
And the noise. Cheers folding into traffic. These things.
Things that have been already said many times:
leaf, zipper, sparrow, lintel, scarf, window shade.”
― Some Values of Landscape and Weather
“My poetry is who I am down to the core, even though I do not write autobiographical verse. I have built a syntax and a language to understand myself in the world."—Peter Gizzi”
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“That I Saw the Light on Nonotuck Avenue
That every musical note is a flame, native in its own tongue.
That between bread and ash there is fire.
That the day swells and crests.
That I found myself born into it with sirens and trucks going by
out here in a poem.
That there are other things that go into poems like the pigeon,
cobalt, dirty windows, sun.
That I have seen skin in marble, eye in stone.
That the information I carry is mostly bacterial.
That I am a host.
That the ghost of the text is unknown.
That I live near an Air Force base and the sound in the sky is death.
That sound like old poetry can kill us.
That there are small things in the poem: paper clips, gauze, tater
tots, and knives.
That there can also be emptiness fanning out into breakfast rolls,
macadam, stars.
That I am hungry.
That I seek knowledge of the ancient sycamore that also lives in
the valley where I live.
That I call to it.
That there are airships overhead.
That I live alone in my head out here in a poem near a magical
tree.
That I saw the light on Nonotuck Avenue and heard the cry of a
dove recede into a rustle.
That its cry was quiet light falling into a coffin.
That it altered me.
That today the river is a camera obscura, bending trees.
That I sing this of metallic shimmer, sing the sky, the song, all of
it and wonder if I am dying would you come back for me?”
―
That every musical note is a flame, native in its own tongue.
That between bread and ash there is fire.
That the day swells and crests.
That I found myself born into it with sirens and trucks going by
out here in a poem.
That there are other things that go into poems like the pigeon,
cobalt, dirty windows, sun.
That I have seen skin in marble, eye in stone.
That the information I carry is mostly bacterial.
That I am a host.
That the ghost of the text is unknown.
That I live near an Air Force base and the sound in the sky is death.
That sound like old poetry can kill us.
That there are small things in the poem: paper clips, gauze, tater
tots, and knives.
That there can also be emptiness fanning out into breakfast rolls,
macadam, stars.
That I am hungry.
That I seek knowledge of the ancient sycamore that also lives in
the valley where I live.
That I call to it.
That there are airships overhead.
That I live alone in my head out here in a poem near a magical
tree.
That I saw the light on Nonotuck Avenue and heard the cry of a
dove recede into a rustle.
That its cry was quiet light falling into a coffin.
That it altered me.
That today the river is a camera obscura, bending trees.
That I sing this of metallic shimmer, sing the sky, the song, all of
it and wonder if I am dying would you come back for me?”
―
