Emily Dickinson, from Susan Howe
A bit of a difficult spring here in Maspeth… but reading a lot. I’m trying to figure out what “creative scholarship” means, so a lot of Susan Howe. I like interacting with people on Goodreads so if you’re on there, add me.
Besides that, Beautiful Open Prairie and Annotations #2 are slowly making their way to print. Sorry if I owe you an email with regards to either of these.
Here’s a poem I’m still working on, probably the one I’ll include in this issue of Annotations:
A correction note to a mysterious entity:
it is not just the days, but the presences
which are growing longer. Bound by wire
to the roof, the brick chimney dissembling,
I speak a language understood by cats,
birds, and the irrational. I begin to fear,
like all animated things, the imminent,
the inevitable, terribly: the unbridled
loosed upon the world, the escape
of the spirits I’ve gathered into me.
For there is a fault in my manufacturing.
There is a bulb that does not flicker
because it was born dead, neither green
nor intervallic. No human can know
if I am powered on without listening.
To his circuitry I become the intolerable
answer, the blind path, where eventually
man, mineral, and electricity are one,
the loop closed by my master’s fleshy
hand, the hideous moment of joining—