Description
Book Synopsis"If you take a broad squint at our nation's new poets you can find two general strategies: poets who are carrying the torch, and poets who are using it to start fires. And then we have Joshua Beckman. He seems to be doing everything."--Daniel Handler, The Believer "Beckman ...does the incredible work of writing poems full of desire, for a world in the midst of radical upheaval."--Publishers Weekly (starred review for Take It) Joshua Beckman is at his most immediate, attentive, and available in The Inside of an Apple. Beckman's latest collection of sincere, spare poems invites the reader to experience a revelation of consciousness and a generosity of spirit. Let my still dark soul be music. A made whistle floating out a window arranged. Some little thing fell and I picked it up and up it kept on going. Eight dead stars make a sickle, and the earth is covered in grass. Joshua Beckman is the author of nine books, including collections of poetry, translations, and collaborations. He is the recipient of numerous awards, including a NYFA fellowship and a Pushcart Prize. He lives in Seattle and New York.
Table of Contents[Stars [I live bark frost scene the inside of an apple Along the river [Quit & Silver streamers dazzling winter [In the air as russet apples [I’m not with my [That being alive [silvered out night [flecks (August 28) [rain stones curved [flowers from [stations formed and made The Plant [Yeah, well [strands of gold [Being of lambkin mind Waste & Use [Being in ways [confident [clappers clapping [moon [reveling of Oregon [light sand [shell plucked [starlings [flower puffs of dust [junk plums [Powder’s [Raise while you can Daisies are calming That’s Not What I’d Do [On 13th street [Early end of year first snow [on a twig [Crackle crackle porch light Sitting on that chair a peg above my head earth stars Park hurt calls How the mountain calmed me down [Not gloss year candles [Ocean which I pushed up full of scarlet God’s cabin’s a jungle [Smiling granite [Couldn’t then see [Not as in some madrigal of trashbird God’s Wicker Basket Furnace The Curtain [living real things [a bit of / combed hair [tablets [I saw hearts in Proust [a hammer flattens [Grey light shadow [caution’s loving [falling terrors of [hot in my frame [Lofted cold falls [Let my still dark soul
