By Nate Klug
Where I-95 meets The Pike,
a ponderous thunderhead flowered—
stewed a minute, then flipped
like a flash card, tattered
edges crinkling in, linings so dark
with over the top bright
that, status, ready, on the overpass edge,
the onlooker couldn’t decide
until the tip, or maybe then,
what used to be published and what were hidden.
Using various types and attaining quite a number musical results, Nate Klug’s someone lines the unraveling of astonishment upon small scenes—natural and family, political and religious—across America’s East and Midwest. The book’s name foregrounds the anonymity it seeks via a number of ability: first, via shut commentary (a concrete observed, a goshawk, a bicyclist); and, moment, through translation (satires from Horace and Catullus, and excerpts from Virgil’s Aeneid). Uniquely between modern poetry volumes, somebody demonstrates fluency within the paradoxes of a spiritual lifestyles: “To stand someday / outdoors my religion . . . or maintain ready / to be claimed in it.” Engaged with theology and the classics yet by no means abstruse, the entire whereas the poems stay grounded within the extra special, actual international of “what it's to believe: / moods, part moods, / swarming, then darting loose.”
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Extra info for Anyone (Phoenix Poets)
A goshawk huge and aloof, picking at something, nested in twigs and police tape for a while we all held our phones up It is relentless, the suddenness of every other song, creature, neighbor as though this life would prove you only by turning into itself 39 Errand Watchfulness in unexpected fits like photic sneeze reflex, this morning the big tree’s blown a horny cauliflower crown, white petals that come off wetly, in fistfuls, all down the sidewalk mid-May’s incessant blooming, shedding, how each eyed thing refuses sameness, is this praise then?
43 The Gladiator His mirrored sunglasses a kind of silence, his silence its own impermeable pride. Croquet stakes stubble the yard where he works, campfire-scars of small gardens gone wrong. Between his mother’s shed and the sidewalk fence lies the circle of dead grass he stalks every afternoon, gazing up and around as if freshly hurled onto the sand of Gérôme’s Colosseum. He first selects a sawed-off golf club from their wooden stand, wrapping it behind his rippling shoulders, then, as the sitar music picks up from his boom box, charms the metal stick down one arm like a rigid snake.
25 In Calico Rock, Arkansas Matthew 26:73 From No Jake Brake and No Barn Burn on to Peppersauce and Greasy Slim old East Calico now a ghost town so anyone’s language shall reveal him decrepit stones once City Jail tells iron sign the words still welded kept and lost in Calico Rock 26 Novitiate for Matt (Brother Isaac) Entire Thursdays in your room. Morning’s easy, now afternoon with its sense of sand leaking from your fist: holes in prayer everywhere you’d already filled them. Breathing out, you think not of the Psalms but lazy dogs as sunlight forks and darts across the floor—ambiguous flashes of oak roots under water or, lacunae intact, a scroll from Qumran, swallowed by a bunch of passing clouds.