By Cal Bedient
Sweet Necklace ushers an extreme new voice onto the sector of yankee poetry. Lush and turbulent, the poems amassed right here divulge the violence underlying all acts of union and construction, a violence for which poetry could be a redemptive language yet within which language itself is usually implicated. Cal Bedient explores a variety of typical emotional landscapes -- together with the constellation of the relations, love, and profound lossãand his paintings is usually deeply intimate and verbally unique. The brutality of either private and non-private event reveals reckoning in those complex and majestic new poems.
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Extra info for Candy Necklace (Wesleyan Poetry Series)
Shouting in the face of women and France, shouting the Alps into grave mounds. as if the music that made light of their flesh could make light of their flesh. Page 8 Back a Van Gogh Yellow The air feels punished after you speak. You're one of the incurables. I love that in you. Sometimes when I think of you, my sex climbs falling time like a canoe lifting itself up on end. It doesn't know there is anything in it, then it loses all. You want it that way, ignorant of grammar, like God. To be with you is to be around you, skirting the sizzling rococo of your circuits.
Praise all focus impersonal as the chord a child plays biting his tongue; Richard Goode's Schubert delicate as the surf's quick-stepping wash-back; the ballet troupe's determined tattoo to stage left; the gymnast's rubber-band spring off the beam. This mortal on morning's ragged shore, this shell broken open by the night-waves, this face picked from atoms, is intention's gift, intention's grief. " And I am there, friendisland that greets barefoot Friday like Thursday and Saturday. in the faith that puts out cream for the night-cat above the small hut Proximate, in the sea Impassible.
You believe that. One which I am. Who speaks and who hears and who knows is none of it plain or happy. Having it come, the fire in the ice, the particles waded. O how I burn. Her arrows spray toward the mark, a buzzing rain of error. No one has ever broken her heart. Horns the color of semen and coffee, I too have hardened in the world. Terrible rain of hooves, pound me to where you are. Page 12 The Ache of Not Yet Being Clothespinned nipplesare they for you? A living knife of pain cutting to the other side?