Aftermath: Poems by Sandra M. Gilbert

By Sandra M. Gilbert

Sandra Gilbert's poems are fantastically located on the intersection of craft and feeling.—Billy CollinsThe name of this collection—at instances mournful, sardonic, and joyous—refers to the grief within the wake of loss. but those poems will not be with reference to the implications of loss but additionally in regards to the complicated stories of persistence, acquiescence, and rebirth that, with success, mark the aftermath of sorrow. from "Aftermath: Kite"       But the concept is just paper in spite of everything,       a soul that adheres to a stick, tears open, shreds       as if it is flung to the floor in a last glossy fall,       and eventually the road is going limp, the mountain climbing ends.       Beyond the push & sweep, an arc of silence—       though a brain imagined this flight, & proved it as soon as.

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Aftermath: Poems

Sandra Gilbert's poems are superbly positioned on the intersection of craft and feeling. —Billy CollinsThe name of this collection—at occasions mournful, sardonic, and joyous—refers to the grief within the wake of loss. but those poems will not be as regards to the implications of loss but in addition in regards to the advanced studies of persistence, acquiescence, and rebirth that, with success, mark the aftermath of sorrow.

The hello delay

The hi hold up asks what occurs round the announcing of a specific thing and the receiving. in and out of our day-by-day communications, there are occasions, there are silences, déjà-vus, and intentions. those poems query the made up our minds nature of our relations to each other: What if this territory isn't really commonplace in spite of everything?

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L. G. 44 THE ANNIVERSARY mustn't be worded or worried any more now that two cycles of seven have passed away and moon by sun by week by quickening year I too have passed past too much memory­ And whose was the anniversary anyway? Was it hers who sobbed and put her head in the oven, was it theirs who made this day their wedding day, or his who couldn't keep from getting born? The tumult of birth pummeled and plunged him out, nothing could stop the clenched fist of the womb, the lips that gaped and uttered him head to toe, the what that made him ugly or smart or handsome­ and then (as you lay dying) the afterbirth, the cage of breath, the blood, the aftermath.

The bride and groom were cutting into the first thick layer of cake. In Jutland foxes barked among the hills. The daughter wore silky red and black, and on the misty island of Fan0, where the mother was born, the tall waves of the North Sea broke and broke. �9 How ' WE DIDN T TELL HER that the housekeeper said that the gardener said that someone named Jean or Jeannie or Jenny who was his friend or maybe his boss had said that today that just today he was hit by a car & he was killed he died at once in the prime of his handsome youth he who was her youngest her onetime baby ice-cream cone with dimpled arms & scrumptious tummy he who gardened & prayed for purity on earth but we said let's wait let's 30 wait to tell her till we're sure & we called the gardener the housekeeper the irrigation lady the police the coroner the highway patrol the neighbors we called everyone but her until at last the gardener said no no how could the housekeeper get it so wrong it wasn't him it was someone else who was hit by a car& killed today & we rejoiced & were glad we hadn't told her because his handsome flesh his pulsing prime returned to us as a gift more precious than before & as for the other one, the other mother's son who really died 31 today we let him go we didn't give him another thought.

DECEMBER I, 2007 MoviNG OuT Darling, I'm pushing the house into the garden, into the black arms, the green embrace of the oaks. Yesterday, two giants lugged the grand piano, its synapses still crackling with your tunes, up the steep steps, the narrow path to the gate. Now it muses in the what is this of a warehouse, and the silence where it used to stand has forgotten your forte. Out in back of the back, workers dig in unsteady rock, but now the house is moving faster than they can hew and hack: the house has started to unpack: its walls possess new places, doors flap open, windows heave from hinges- 49 and now the sofas fly into a maze of ivy, the hallways gaping under a hollow of sky!

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