Poetry

Dark Archive (New California Poetry, Volume 32) by Laura Mullen

By Laura Mullen

Darkish archive: the aim of a gloomy archive is to operate as a repository for info that may be used as a failsafe in the course of catastrophe recovery.

Laura Mullen’s fourth assortment is a chain of fantastically interrelated poems that explores tips to effectively signify the truth of swap and loss. Mullen pinpoints what's at stake: the opportunity of communique and connection—and the desire of intimacy. Invoking Wordsworth’s "I wandered lonely as a cloud," she pushes experiments in realization opposed to their limitations in an array of poetic types. Poetic tropes are measured opposed to typical phenomena as Mullen examines what "witness" may possibly suggest within the context of the aftermath of typhoon Katrina, the mess ups of capitalism to impression social justice, the homicide of James Byrd in Texas, the non-public lack of a mom determine, and a disintegrating love affair.

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Additional resources for Dark Archive (New California Poetry, Volume 32)

Sample text

Or come to know the shower from the show glowing lower, after after. Riveting Dada data into yada yada or featherweight father patter, bright assurances slur past disaster. Just a matter of being in clover: light on your feet (on the water), numb to number. Luck’s all in a row for the rower still towing the two towers, that fist mover, arriving to rev here his motto motor: heck of a heck of a huckster. Stir that into y’at dat dat dat, back at it: at at. Up to downriver to undo the fluent liar oiling our troubled slaughter.

For example Oh we’re going to have so much fun can I my wife by then everyone but brought together to tell them three hours on the phone with my agent rewrite it of course the advance open on the floor beside his bed complaining of a headache early he said crumbling like sand and slipping away all Said books paints creatures sounds chained films sounded filmed chains To be a scrap a piece of a lesson lifted on the wind to be lost and found Before we could paint the house we had to scrape off the old paint.

So solo soul, oh so soluble soma. Dark harbors. Sea? D. A-lights in the last call a tight swallow—god and gone—a fraud of your own shadow. Cold coda. Cod 44 The White Box of Mirror Dissolved Is Not Singular White for diluting dreams Cy Twombly Sun or eye or boat or stiff reeds on a small island rising out of their own reflection A surface alluded to these ambiguous traces seeming to undulate like a spill of cloud against cloud or a pale drift net deep in a white ocean These airs made of what remains of a repeated gesture To begin with nothing I won’t tell anyone what you say here the water promises and the reeds take it up as a whisper which reaches at last the very ears gossip discovers A reiterated not makes at once as surface as if removed and as modulated its horizon too high a landscape the auditor is led always deeper into and shut out of lead on lead You’ll tell I know you will A “counter-love .

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