Read I Love Artists: New and Selected Poems by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge Free Online
Book Title: I Love Artists: New and Selected Poems|
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The author of the book: Mei-mei Berssenbrugge
Edition: University of California Press
Date of issue: April 10th 2006
ISBN 13: 9780520246010
Format files: PDF
The size of the: 21.10 MB
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I Love Artists brings together a selection of poems from eight of Berssenbrugge's previous collections, including: Summits Move With The Tide , Random Possession , The Heat Bird , Empathy , Sphericity , Endocrinology , Four-Year-Old Girl , and Nest
In addition, this selection includes a number of new poems...
From Summits Move With The Tide (1974)...
Tang tang tang tang tang tang tang
ting ting ting ting ting
I eat a goat
bite into the flesh
of the spirit of the island
brown-eyed spirit flies
like an empty goat skull
odor of sea shells.
- Aegean, pg. 3
From Random Possession (1979)...
My great-grandfather dozed after drinking
hot liwuor in his dark room full of books
When she entered to wake him without knocking
as she did every night being the first grandchild
he was dead. One fur sleeve touched the floor
Once he carried her in his big sleeve through
cold halls to the kitchen where they were burning
straw. His daughter took her smelling of wormwood
behind the fireplace to feed. It wasn't the same robe
he died in, bu the same colour and cloth. My mother
really can't remember the smell of lynx, herbs
against moths, nor the slowness of his step
which must have been told.
- Chronicle, pg. 6
From The Heat Bird (1983)...
A critic objects to their "misterian" qualities
I look it up and don't find it, which must relate
to the mysteres in religions. Stepping
across stones in the river, which covers
my sound, I startle a big bird who must circle
the meadow to gain height. There is a din
of big wings. A crow loops over and over
me. I can see many feathers gone from its wing
by sky filling in, but it's not the big bird
I walk into the meadow to find what I've already called
an eagle to myself. At first you just notice a heap
like old asphalt and white stones dumped
- The Heat Bird, 1, pg. 15
From Empathy (1989)...
I used the table as a reference and just did things from there
in register, to play a form of feeling out to the end, which is
an air of truth living objects and persons you use take on,
when you set them together in a certain order, conferring privilege
on the individual, who will tend to dissolve if his visual presence
is maintained, into a sensation of meaning, going off by itself.
First the table is the table. In blue light
or in electric light, it has no pathos. Then light separates
from the human content, a violet-coloured net or immaterial haze, echoing
the violet ice plant on the windowsill, where he is the trace of a desire.
Such emotions are interruptions in landscape and in logic
brought on by a longing for direct experience, as if her memory of experience
were the trace of herself. Especially now, when things have been flying apart in all directions,
she will consider her hotel lobby the inert state of a form. It is the location
of her appointment. And gray enamel elevator doors are the relation state,
space behind them being a ground of water or the figure of water. Now,
she turns her camera on them to change her thinking about them into a thought
in Mexico, as the horizon when you are moving can oppose the horizon inside
the elevator via a blue Cadillac into a long tracking shot. You linger
over your hand at the table. The light becomes a gold wing on the table. She sees
opening, with an environment inside that is plastic and infinite,
but it is a style that has got the future wrong.
- Texas, pg. 26-27
From Sphericity (1993)...
I did not know beforehand what would count for me as a new colour. Its beauty is an analysis
of things I believe in or experience, but seems to alter events very little. The significance of a bird
flying from grapes in a store relates to the beauty of the colour of the translucency of grapes.
There is a space among some objects on a table that reminded her of a person, the way the bird reminded her,
a sense of the ideal of the space she would be able to see. Beauty can look like this around objects.
A plastic bag on a bush, moving slightly, makes an alcove, a glove or mist, holding the hill.
Time can look like this. The plane of yourself separates from the plane of space between objects,
an ordered succession a person apprehends, in order to be reminded.
- Ideal, 1, pg. 65
From Endocrinology (1997)...
The bird watches a man and woman dance. He touches her stomach. There's circulation around her
in intercapillary space, empty or hollow, in relation to organs. A virus transfers firefly genes
to a tobacco plant. The plant glows in the dark. How much evolution derives from "something in the air,"
not a square of light above a niche in a white wall. Light, your intestines. Fluid, lines of light. As if,
when you think about something, it already has a frame that's a priori. Think before that moment, freedom is inside there.
Think before the man and woman, their freedom of an animal among silvery trees. Which trunks light hits is an endocrine
permutation, a state of being or a physical state. Hormones are molecules, material, invisible. Their flow is random,
mesh through which a body is sensed, not an image. The form of her body is important,
as how she is here, though there's no physical evidence of her physical suffering.
- Endocrinology, pg. 68
From Four-Year-Old Girl (1998)...
The "genotype" is her genetic constitution.
The "phenotype" is the observable expression of the genotype as structural and biochemical traits.
Genetic disease is extreme genetic change, against a background of normal variability.
Within the conventional unit we call subjectivity due to individual particulars, what is happening?
She believes she is herself, which isn't complete madness, it's belief.
The problem is not to turn the subject, the effect of the genes, into an entity.
Between her and the displaced gene is another relation, the effect of meaning.
The meaning she's conscious of is contingent, a surface of water in an uninhabited world, existing as our eyes and ears.
You wouldn't think of her form by thinking about water.
You can go in, if you don't encounter anything.
Though we call heavy sense impressions stress, all impression creates limitation.
I believe opaque inheritance accounts for the limits of her memory.
The mental impulse is a thought and a molecule tied together, like sides of a coin.
A girl says sweetly, it's time you begin to look after me, so I may seem lovable to myself.
She's inspired to change the genotype, because the cell's memory outlives the cell.
It's memory that builds some matter around itself, like time.
- The Four Year Old Girl, 1, pg. 83
From Nest (2003)...
Increasingly in our world, forgiveness is asked for, granted, withheld, face-to-face or below the surface, like low combustion, and I need to elucidate the chain of oxidation.
You fill around the open space of our being here, tensile welds, not empty in the sense, a weld yields.
The pathetic story is removed from calculation.
Yet, banality in identifying with others is no cause for pathos to dissolve.
So, I continue to calculate my house, its significance as a holding place for something to look at (image, word), building would illustrate.
I saw, when a building falls, interior remains interior.
Then, individuals acquire that same size.
Also, the innateness of being a witness annexes size, by seeing putting you next to.
I mean, immense size.
One folds in and re-opens to outside, not "as if" building for someone afraid of heights, who strains long, structural tresses of light, trying to wear out an image.
- Safety, pg. 125
From New Poems...
I go to her house and walk with her as she draws me or knits, so it's not one-on-one exactly, blue tattooed stars on her feet.
I pull the knitted garment over my head to my ankles.
Even if a detail resists all significance or function, it's not useless, precisely.
I describe what could happen, what a person probably or possibly does in a situation.
Nothing prevents what happens from according with what's probable, necessary.
A chance occurrence is remarkable, when it appears to happen by design.
- I Love Artists, 1, pg. 129
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