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Articles by Brian Simoneau
No Small Comfort
“an eminently readable, even compelling collection.” Close literary observation of the natural world, what we might think of as the Robert Frost mode, has enormous poetic potential, but too often it becomes a retreat from the present. The waves of global anxiety, of political unrest and ecological terror, now seem too urgent for anyone, poet or reader, to rest in the gaze’s frozen moment. Yet the attraction remains.
No Small Comfort
$14.95 Available on backorder No Small Comfort quantity Praise In No Small Comfort we find America’s interiors and exteriors, the homes and landscapes messy, chaotic in a way that any of us might recognize. And yet these scenes are imbued with a kind of peaceful acceptance, as well, even as the ground drops out from beneath our feet in these lines and “fog / becomes an essay / on gravity and fate / whose claims won’t hold up.” Some poems we go to for comfort, others to be shaken awake.
OF BEING TRANSMITTED ON A SILVERY ALIEN WHEEL
Last night’s songbird. Tonight’s theremin or kite. Owls, abduction. Alighting lights. We each had dreamed a calling, a cantillating dove, transmission, telepathy, elation. Were or were not of the same mind or neither, the same kind or hybrid. In a sedan on fire or not on fire, or the cottage on the waste of a highway’s long strip. Then lab or labyrinth. Pristine bone or carving on a plinth of crystal, cool master breath.
YOU WORE OUT YOUR WELCOME WITH RADIANT ABILITY
Tarred, tarried July above the finger-point of by-law. Quiet men are quietly roofing in runic arrests. Progress can be stopped with only minor internal damage and a length of rope short enough to miss the point. Everything can and will happen at once. Except the sun’s light, which is not full, but an incomplete weave that covers the most controversial areas of interest.
Two Poems | Boston Review
She says I have the most rape-able voice in the building. Perhaps grasping as a violin bow over a bridge. The lucky hum of plums and peaches. Or a tangle of lingering. Skin and seeds. Week after week, she offers me ripe slices of pear on a blue glass plate. Crystalline sound, twang or dirge, there is such sin in it. Voice of kneel and cunt, of hunt and loot. Between songs, I give her two pair of my dangly earrings. They no longer fit me.
Manifesto
Mar 14, 2017 Image: Emily Bell Make a mountain out of every molehill. Roll up dirt the way a kid gathers snow around itself to make a man, but skip the coal, coal in mountains a major reason molehills must make do, Make a mountain out of every molehill. Roll up dirt the way a kid gathers snow around itself to make a man, but skip the coal, coal in mountains a major reason molehills must make do, or if you’re the mittened kid, don’t make your man look fixedly at what happens to our summits.
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