By Rae Armantrout
Strand. String.
In this dream,
the paths cross
and cross again.
They are spelling
a real boy
out of repetition.
Each one
is the one
real boy.
Each knows
he must be
wrong
about this, but
he can’t feel
how.
The fish
and the fisherman,
the pilot,
the princess,
the fireman and
the ones on fire.
Poet Bio
-processed.jpg)
Rae Armantrout, one of the founding members of the West Coast group of Language poets, stands apart from other Language poets in her lyrical voice and her commitment to the interior and the domestic. Her short-lined poems are often concerned with dismantling conventions of memory, pop culture, science, and mothering, and these unsparing interrogations are often streaked with wit.
More By This Poet
Twilight
Where there’s smoke
there are mirrors
and a dry ice machine,
industrial quality fans.
If I’ve learned anything
about the present moment
•
But who doesn’t
love a flame,
the way one leaps
into being
full-fledged,
then leans over
to chat
•
Already the light
is retrospective,
sourceless,
is losing itself
though the trees
are clearly limned.
Our Nature
The very flatnessof portraits
makes for nostalgia
in the connoisseur.
Here’s the latest
little lip of wave
to flatten
and spread thin.
Let’s say
it shows our recklessness,
our fast gun,
our self-consciousness
which was really
our infatuation
with our own fame,
our escapes,
the easy way
we’d blend in
with the peasantry,
our loyalty
to our old gang
from...
More Poems about Living
Vagrants and Loiterers
You got that clean waistcoat,
the bright white of a well-tailored
shirt, you got those loose-as-sacks
slacks and some spit-polished shoes,
and you know, whether you are looking
like money, or about to take a stroll,
to tilt that hat like you own
the world; yeah, smoke...
What Women Are Made Of
We are all ventricle, spine, lung, larynx, and gut.
Clavicle and nape, what lies forked in an open palm;
we are follicle and temple. We are ankle, arch,
sole. Pore and rib, pelvis and root
and tongue. We are wishbone and gland and molar
and...
More Poems about Mythology & Folklore
Blade, Unplugged
It’s true: I almost never
smile, but that doesn’t mean
I’m not in love: my heart
is that black violin
played slowly. You know that
moment late in the solo
when the voice
is so pure you feel
the blood in it: the wound
between rage
and complete surrender. That’s
where...
Don’t Bother the Earth Spirit
Don’t bother the earth spirit who lives here. She is working on a story. It is the oldest story in the world and it is delicate, changing. If she sees you watching she will invite you in for coffee, give...