Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The poems in Gustaf Sobin's newest collection, Breaths' Burials, establish a dialogue with silence. Breath, its syllables buried in the resonant space between the word and the void, unlocks the gloriole, the ring of things released. Whether Sobin is writing about irises, Venetian architecture, or the wind-blown plateaus of his adopted Provence, his poems are nothing more nor less than a search for the redemptive, celebrating the regeneration of language out of itself. Breaths' Burials once again confirms the praise of Robert Duncan, who described Sobin's work as a poetry of great distinction, awakening the spirit to a world of errant clarities renewed.
legs caught in tall stalks of white iris, was what, finally, remained. monologue in which, abandoned to those immensities, each of us murmur. PSALMODIC knelt there, in that knuckle of rock. nothing's less than the word, brittle as crumbs, not even the wind, what's rising—gentian—just now, be- fore you. TRANSPARENT ITINERARIES: 1991 were no origins (so we were told), only ends. nowhere, really, to reach except those occasional places in which, sometimes, we'd orchestrate those
dust, what the fingers would cup, that dark, e- jaculated light. 'world,' you'd called it, what lay, just be- yond. there, your eyes as if rising out of their own buried negative, would meet, in the very same instant, their speckled mirrors. TEATRO sped, each time, into emptiness, gathering as we did—re- flexive—against the on- coming naught. taut, the tendons, the raw curtains drawn onto our own re- leases. what if room, the scuttled bracelets and strewn shoes were nothing
sought verticals—updrafts—amongst the ever more impacted masses. would, with so many white, scorching pellets, rid yourself of your own fatality, if you could, within the viscera of some elected 'other.' whose scarf, scarlet, would be light enough, seemingly, to in- hale. the divine, you knew, was never more than the nominal substitute for those wordless expanses. the dark daisy-chains of the nicht. would go on surviving yourself, wouldn't you, in those bright interstices: under their
world. (there were, we knew, no others). out, onto the windy stage of our landscapes, would wheel clouds, trundle en- tire cartloads of replica gods, too, in trompe l'oeil, the whole spectacle of the pre- empted. nothing's too far, it would seem, if—in flaking—it re- flect. if, spoken, re- sound. whereby 'would,' 'might,' the lost panoply of the conditional. yes, that even here, within the lens of my own breath, 'you' —of all words, the very first—might, at last, issue. be
we'd lusted, it seems, after so very little. channels, conduits, the secret history—perhaps—of history it- self, written in dark drafts, elusive scribbles. as if, inadmissible, mass in its very densities, were riddled. and you, nothing more than this breath that edged. tongue that in- sinuated. oh eyes so pale, you'd written, they'd promised grottoes. oh holy, the grottoes, the hollows, the weird birds of our own, dis- articulated heart. (what, in de- fault, had been