A. R. Ammons
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"Glare is a high-energy, relentlessly self-aware collision with the whole of life."—Albert Mobilio, Salon A superb long poem by the contemporary master of the form, Glare comprises two sections, "Strip" and "Scat Scan." The poem demonstrates, yet again, why A. R. Ammons's poetic voice is a national treasure: by turns cosmic, self-inflating, self-deflating, eloquent, intimate, bawdy, comic, precise—and always unmistakably his own.
still about an hour up): oh, if only the brook could not make any sound unless it were filed away in the museum: the wind when it blows, and lately it hasn’t, shouldn’t be allowed to trifle with so many leaves: and I mean leaves, because believes it or not, leaves are still on the trees! snow came before frost this year, hard frost I mean: so over by the hill next to the bridge, snow bent leaves over the road as for an arcade: the traffic had to one-line and slow as through a tunnel: it
Chapter 111 Chapter 112 Chapter 113 Chapter 114 Chapter 115 Chapter 116 Chapter 117 Also by A. R. Ammons Copyright Part One Strip 1 wdn’t it be silly to be serious, now: I mean, the hardheads and the eggheads are agreed that we are an absurd irrelevance on this slice of curvature and that a boulder from the blue could confirm it: imagine, mathematics wiped out by a wandering stone, or grecian urns not forever fair when the sun expands: can you imagine cracking the story off we’ve
ordinary, the marvelous would not be valuably rare: whereas, if it were perceived to be marvelous, we’d sit about in trial podsnapperies waiting for the ordinary to come true: so the world tilts on many a teeter-totter, for where’s the fun (or scare) of anything level, still, or equal: I no longer (did I ever) care what you think: I am so much alone, you are not here: I am here with the words that like thistle fuzz float away: only when the fuzz gets away will the world’s weight be dealt
later sheriff for sixteen years and owned a whole beach: he was feeling good one day (white lightning) and reached into the back seat of his Terraplane & gave me twenty dollars, me, just twelve years old and in love with nothing but paper pads & PENCILS 105 nature poetry, nature poetry he’s got nature poetry up piss ass nature poetry, nature poetry he’s got nature poetry up piss ass DA deDA I mean DUM de DUM music for my opening: overture to my manure (you’re out on the highway of
and say what must be: what must be: you ask: (the crows gathered somewhere across the hill this morning—August 3—and there was a flurry of raucous introduction, the new young, ready to fly, getting acquainted with the old community, winter together ahead, the isolations of summer-rearing behind): I try to hide the old fool playing the fool, but you hear, don’t you, the young man, still young, still under there saying yes yes to the new days darkened howsomever: it is a sad song but it sings