By Stephen Mcleod
Stephen McLeod's first full-length ebook of poems and the winner of the may possibly Swenson Poetry Award backed through Utah nation college Press
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Additional info for Borgo Of The Holy Ghost (Swenson Poetry Award)
And there’s a boulder like the one at Pollock’s grave, who, incidentally, was Recently featured on a postage stamp without a cigarette—there was much Debate about the cigarette. And standing there I couldn’t help thinking about Pollock, The last person who should have occurred to me, except he too Was possessed, driven, but that’s pretty obvious so I stop thinking about Pollock’s brain sprays and his little barn outback, also preserved, and I Remember that my friend and I drove hundreds of miles upstate To lay eyes on this rough place and, of course, the famous Mountain.
Whole bins of hard snow grinding toward the River. I pray For tight leaves sleeping, Lime-pale, translucent, not even leaves, ideas of leaves. Thawed sap stirring; ﬁrst blood of spring ﬂashing from a New Year’s penny, Raise this miglior Fabbro, in your spheric hand: our neighborhood’s Bum muttering sidewalk conspiracies, roaring the Internationale, Slept through the blizzard. I thought he must be underneath. But there he is today, Castro and Congo, paper cup trembling. I’ll bet the boy who runs the video store showed him the subway.
And soon I turn butterﬂy, Indigo tenor warming up with scales; The lips of His breath make the tiniest Kissing sounds, echoes in the cupola: Wingbeats. Transformation. It isn’t easy. Some days, today for example, waking’s A struggle: skating sleep’s watery turns, Not ready to trade the dream, Confused as it thins into light. Is this the same funereal light, The same dream-pigeons in their turns: Devastating—roof to sill to roof to sill? Eventually, one gives up the dream. And thankfully. It was only a dream.
Borgo Of The Holy Ghost (Swenson Poetry Award) by Stephen Mcleod