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An Architecture
"In "AN ARCHITECTURE," Chad Sweeney reveals himself to be a Frank Gehry of making an overwhelming but coherent form in precise words that measure "the violet gleam of girders," where "art is/the ghost between us." The world swells with meaning before things "smolder," "collapse," "drown". . . . And within the violent changes that he so precisely records, there are moments of rest and deep regard for what is passing. The poem is an elegy for the world in all its beauty and disturbing variety. -Maxine Chernoff Chad Sweeney's AN ARCHITECTURE, with its epigraph from Heraklitus (the philosopher of fiery flux), looks like a house that can't stand still, its 56 sections shape-shifting through spaces of meaning that are 'excavated / rather than built.' Among these magical passages, 'the nouns are verbs / the conduit between I and I .' Here, house and inhabitant (as form and content) perpetually exchange their positions, showing 'the snake / swallowing // peristalsis of / the world // by which these rooms // are constituted.' In Sweeney's swift architecture, memory assumes the power of imagination, and language becomes a platform for the mind's 'I speak, therefore I are.' Sweeney, as Vitruvius before him, makes architecture the sister-discipline of music. -Andrew Joron Chad Sweeney's AN ARCHITECTURE gives us a poetry of what is and is not, things stationed and unstationed, as objects and ideas move away from themselves and in doing so, act as we least expect them to-an ice mandolin makes music by melting; a pit appears in the air; fire-that most elemental Heriklitan substance-reads aloud. A lovely extended meditation. -Gloria Frym"
- GenresPoetry
68 pages, Paperback
First published December 10, 2007
25 people want to read
About the author
Chad Sweeney
15 books34 followersChad Sweeney is the author of PARABLE OF HIDE AND SEEK (Alice James, 2010), ARRANGING THE BLAZE (Anhinga, 2009), AN ARCHITECTURE (BlazeVox, 2007), and A MIRROR TO SHATTER THE HAMMER (Tarpaulin Sky, 2006). He is editor of Days I Moved Through Ordinary Sounds: the Teachers of WritersCorps in Poetry and Prose (City Lights, 2009) and coeditor of Parthenon West Review with his pal, David Holler.
His work has appeared in Best American Poetry, New American Writing, VERSE, Colorado Review, Denver Qtly, Crazyhorse, Forklift, Barrow Street, Pool, Slope, GutCult, H_ngM_n, Electronic Poetry Review, Coconut, Interim, American Letters & Commentary, Bird Dog, the tiny, Tea Party and elsewhere. He is a PhD candidate at Western Michigan University where he teaches creative writing and serves as assistant editor of New Issues Press in Kalamazoo Michigan.
His work has appeared in Best American Poetry, New American Writing, VERSE, Colorado Review, Denver Qtly, Crazyhorse, Forklift, Barrow Street, Pool, Slope, GutCult, H_ngM_n, Electronic Poetry Review, Coconut, Interim, American Letters & Commentary, Bird Dog, the tiny, Tea Party and elsewhere. He is a PhD candidate at Western Michigan University where he teaches creative writing and serves as assistant editor of New Issues Press in Kalamazoo Michigan.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
March 8, 2008
There is so much to love in this book. If you have ever gone through a period (or continue to dip in and out of them, like I do)where you experience the world as if you are at least two people: one living and one observing, this book will show you that you are both alone and not alone, simultaneously-- and that seeming paradox is at the heart of this book-- how one can experience a vast set of emotions, landscapes, eras, days, not just as one self but as a myriad of selves. One aspect of this faceting of self is compassion, empathy and curiosity, while the darker side of it is confusion, alienation and dispossession. The title, "An Architecture" reflects the conflicting heart of the series of poems, as they break down into the impossibly vast variations of what it is to share space (physical, emotional, historical, mental) with others, living and dead, real and ideal. The range of emotions are immense, from the dual, "my solitude/ shaped like a city/ distinct/ from your solitude/ shaped like a city" to the multiple, "what clothes tomorrow will be worn/ how many millions/ and who/ chosen", to overwhelm: "too many choices/ give me a shovel and a pit", and on again into the ecstatic, "to approach that bed at the center of everything/ a slaughterhouse, a summer/ festival : kiss her mouth/ not to awaken but to sink her/ deeper that her dreams might engender/ in minds everywhere young and old".
The question I kept asking myself when I read this book was, how is it we do this? How do we manage to survive this life where we are both distinct individuals alone inside our own heads, and at the same time inextricably linked physically and emotionally (and I'll add metaphysically because that covers the blurred borders), and not be crushed beneath the weight of it? The book seems to play out the waves of existential questioning that some of us are prone to- that there's a flux and a flow to peace, and it has pinnacles in moments of connectedness, and abysses in moments of seeming isolation.
Because, for writers, any existential questions about self are also going to touch on the act of writing, this book also questions the act of writing: "this is an audience/ participation myth. One reader/ opens the oven door. The other/ shoves her mother in." I find, like I do throughout this book, that I am much more deeply touched by the moments that seem to draw on the author's more personal mythos (like the lines quoted above) and not those that are more ironic, like poem # 25, which seems to update and slightly mock William Carlos Williams' famous wheelbarrow poem, or when large, unwieldy "poetic" symbols crop up-- like the asphodel, or the mandolin carved of ice. These poems are SO good when they are running in the vein of "there intervenes/ a street light or/ manhole around which she/ regathers her step and jostled/ by the crowd turns toward/ and away from-- its always/ both" that I am not as gripped by the pieces that draw from the level of being self-aware AS art, eg: "I flex my worry and count to seven./ An elegiac music,/ tulips yellow the water./ I speak, therefore I are." Call me a sucker for sincerity because I am. Not that questioning the purpose of writing and pointing at deeper ideas with these "high poetry" kind of symbols is not sincere, but it seems like playing in the shallows compared to the deeper places this book goes, effortlessly and breathtakingly, when they speak in a more personal mythology.
The question I kept asking myself when I read this book was, how is it we do this? How do we manage to survive this life where we are both distinct individuals alone inside our own heads, and at the same time inextricably linked physically and emotionally (and I'll add metaphysically because that covers the blurred borders), and not be crushed beneath the weight of it? The book seems to play out the waves of existential questioning that some of us are prone to- that there's a flux and a flow to peace, and it has pinnacles in moments of connectedness, and abysses in moments of seeming isolation.
Because, for writers, any existential questions about self are also going to touch on the act of writing, this book also questions the act of writing: "this is an audience/ participation myth. One reader/ opens the oven door. The other/ shoves her mother in." I find, like I do throughout this book, that I am much more deeply touched by the moments that seem to draw on the author's more personal mythos (like the lines quoted above) and not those that are more ironic, like poem # 25, which seems to update and slightly mock William Carlos Williams' famous wheelbarrow poem, or when large, unwieldy "poetic" symbols crop up-- like the asphodel, or the mandolin carved of ice. These poems are SO good when they are running in the vein of "there intervenes/ a street light or/ manhole around which she/ regathers her step and jostled/ by the crowd turns toward/ and away from-- its always/ both" that I am not as gripped by the pieces that draw from the level of being self-aware AS art, eg: "I flex my worry and count to seven./ An elegiac music,/ tulips yellow the water./ I speak, therefore I are." Call me a sucker for sincerity because I am. Not that questioning the purpose of writing and pointing at deeper ideas with these "high poetry" kind of symbols is not sincere, but it seems like playing in the shallows compared to the deeper places this book goes, effortlessly and breathtakingly, when they speak in a more personal mythology.
January 30, 2008
"I speak, therefore I are."
March 13, 2008
it has very short poems in it so that makes the reader want more of its feelings...
You GO Chad!!!
The ones that I loved were poems 1,8,9, and 23
You GO Chad!!!
The ones that I loved were poems 1,8,9, and 23
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews