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2 POEMS Leora Fridman |
THEY SAY GIVE UP the last way you tried
__ HOW COULD ASKING Or, another person likes the way I act toward old tow my saviors around with me, figurines I own. Or, what sort only imagine an attack? When well at the crossroads of doctored not seeing sniffing. Because you like The god I don’t talk to is the god of the god of more yelling I have no prayer for fallen hugeness Good morning, other continents I also want to pet
__ I told someone recently that I've been interested in a "politics of giving-in." I'm thinking about that in these poems, and think about (very physically) the body heaving back, hollowing out almost like it's been punched in the stomach and is flying backwards for a very long cinematic-style time, being pulled back by its middle vertebrae, broadening in the back, hollowing in the front, making space in the front there for what could come, even when it is actually already been hit, maybe, or propelled—but it holds open, holds open more space, and gives in more. (Is this a move from The Matrix? It's very possible! I'm pretty sure I didn't make it up!) And what could a politics of this be, of continuously putting effort toward flying back, making space in the front for something to come in and maybe even to be wrapped up/around. I think, what could action look and sound like if it comes from giving in, acknowledging, making space for what is, even if what is is discord, is cruelty, is unfortunate, is decay. One poem I heard most recently do this holding-open was Alice Oswald's, one which she spoke, stunningly, aloud, and you can listen to [here]. And Sarah Gridley writes, "Where by love I mean a failing, copious / and opaque, heart without a practical power / most feeling the gives of undone."
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