No Feeling is Final, but finally all feelings matter in Ann Iverson's
lovely and haunting book: it is this sense of life as an ongoing
opening to acceptance that frames this book throughout. In "When
the World," a poem written in response to the pandemic, Iverson writes:
We saw darkness. /We saw light. We opened the windows/ to let air in /
and we began to breathe. This opening to light and air, to breathing in t
he world, happens not only in this poem but in poems throughout the book. I
Iverson quotes these lines from Rilke: Nearby is the country they call life./
You will know it by its seriousness.Iverson's poems both cherish and celebrate
this life-affirming seriousness.
Jim Moore, author of six poetry collections, including Prognosis and Underground
lovely and haunting book: it is this sense of life as an ongoing
opening to acceptance that frames this book throughout. In "When
the World," a poem written in response to the pandemic, Iverson writes:
We saw darkness. /We saw light. We opened the windows/ to let air in /
and we began to breathe. This opening to light and air, to breathing in t
he world, happens not only in this poem but in poems throughout the book. I
Iverson quotes these lines from Rilke: Nearby is the country they call life./
You will know it by its seriousness.Iverson's poems both cherish and celebrate
this life-affirming seriousness.
Jim Moore, author of six poetry collections, including Prognosis and Underground
|
excerpts
Art LessonsSunflowers
Oil on Canvas, 1888 VINCENT VAN GOGH In 5th grade, the teacher handed out a brochure from which to order prints of the classics for 99 cents. My mother ordered several, among them your Sunflowers, perhaps why I have these conversations with you. Even in the print, the impasto was quite evident Though just 11 years old, I thought the vase of the half way dying giants a bit peculiar, almost scary like the tangling monsters in bad dreams. But their floppy, golden heads made her happy, and it made me happy to dutifully carry home a new print every month in its tubular container that we opened together on the kitchen table. You painted them for Gauguin, who never made you happy, but the Sunflowers must have spoken to you of a life free of torment, one of complete elation. A life where yellow holds the brush and the eyes of life and death are equal in their beauty. And Gauguin painted you painting them as though the two of you followed in a circle those nine autumn weeks in and out of the yellow house in Arles until the tragic took the canvas over. I remember them in the living room in their great oak frame she bought at the Salvation Army, then again in the kitchen, and then again in the hall, over her bed, and then back again to the living room. Oh, she moved your flowers around so much, and all I did was follow them around and her. Myopic Vision
You went to church three times a day preached to potato farmers clubbed and cut yourself drank kerosene saw color and ate the blunted world. Now we hang your pain on freshly painted walls or walls that have no hope on walls that say If you hang a painting I will make you happy. It works in our 24 x 36 poster -size world. Vincent, I’m sorry but it works. No Feeling is Final
Palm Sunday, 2020 The world quiet as cotton. Every window a mouthful of moon. Branches shaped as a lady's high heel. The loon's maniacal call. When was it God that you taught about love with no touch? Where was it that your son healed the sick with His hands? Remind me of those hands, arms that face. For time her now has lapsed. Good Wednesday All day I listened to the workers take down the giant oak. I only listed would not watch. Its glorious branches strewn on the lawn. Of course I could only imagine. I listened to the saws the trucks the grinders from my desk of everlasting work. The tree wept and I heard it. |
Definite SpaceThe Yellow Ribbon
She doesn’t have an oak so the giant pine will have to do. It’s not a ribbon either, but a length of yellow tulle. Her arms will hardly reach around, though she relishes the imperfect gesture as the heart clashes with the cliché. When the clouds move in, she looks up into the shooted shadows of branch, her view of the world obstructed by love and war. It’s the only yellow around an old pine tree that she can see, as far as she will let herself look down her simple minded street, un-ablazed with fire and bombs, common, at peace, year after year. E-Mail
Wired nights, unable to plug in to the socket of sleep, your father rises before dawn, turns the computer on. Invisible lines carry invincible love, one word at a time over seven seas, over skies, bright and muted. Today you’ve been blown down, an IED thrown by a man in a donkey cart, a boy by his side. Your hummer destroyed. Your damaged ear rings for days. The printed message trembles in your father’s hands. Mouth of Summer
Where Does Time Go? Into the mouth of summer veins of leaves forgiveness building a tree from rings. What enters into time’s path is eaten alive though none will admit. We like time since we have no choice. Here’s a heartache; here’s some joy like weeds and perfect flowers arranged in a vase. It’s all very beautiful. We have convinced ourselves of that. Tell me something different and I will follow. I Believe in Signs, Do You? If the swallowtail lands in your garden, and not the greening down the way, it must be a sign. Don’t you think? A message from the other world an omen into light. If the dying come to you in their dreamy makeshift clothes with a basket of goodbyes it must be an emblem of the world between the worlds. Am I right? I do not know how small the opening between heaven and this place or how the enormity of one shall pass through – I just know of these signs and the fragrant hands from which they flow the gestures how they move what is moved and why. |
Come Now to the WindowThe Cats
To find such glory in a dehydrated pea on the tile between the stove and fridge. To toss the needs of others aside when you simply aren't in the mood for affection. To find yourselves so irresistible. And always in a small spot of sun, you sprawl and spread out the pleasure of yourselves never fretting, never wanting to go back to erase your few decisions. To find yourself so remarkable all the day long. Rapunzel Rapunzel never wanted to leave her tower really, not for anyone. Only wanted the world To come up to her level of gravity, like flying in a plane away from everyone you love on the day you need it most. her hair has nothing to do with her story. |