Karisma Price
You made a stranger
perform your own
tantrum. Don't be
embarrassed. I'm
still here. Where I am from,
a man is judged if he cannot
finish what he started, so
finish me. Show me
how you fight and I'll
show you how to possess
Chopin and turn him
into something darker
than his own shadow.
Little Lazarus, why wasn't it you
who yanked the song
out of me? I blessed
the bloody knuckle
with the percussion
you could not make.
The fist that was not
yours formed into a furious
tumor, a flat flounder
forcing its living against
the brown swamp
of my face. You made sure
I was opened properly. If you
were a real man, you would've
let me feed your hunger
in an easier way, would've
let me teach you Fats Domino
with one hand
held over my gaping
left socket while the other hand
danced among the ivories.
Instructor of the obedient,
I see you. We both call
others to move for us,
both own heavy
hands that draw blood
from the objects
we wish to be.
from the book I'M ALWAYS SO SERIOUS / Sarabande Books
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"A Conversation with Maggie Millner"

"We’re wrong when we make the assumption that the 'I' and the self are coextensive, even in poems that seem totally autobiographical. I want to be taken seriously as a maker of artifice, and I’m interested in inviting my readers away from that assumption, while also maintaining a sense of intimate disclosure, which we typically associate with the lyric poem." 

via THE PARIS REVIEW
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What Sparks Poetry:
David Baker on "The Telling"


"I stood there at the glacier and felt deep below my feet the world moving and the ice dying. Glaciers melt from the bottom, and from within, as they creep along inexorably toward lower ground and, eventually, toward oceans and seas. How to write about such things? How can a small lyric poem begin to suggest the complexities of the subject and this place? I guess the answer is, how can we not try?"
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