A01=Talvikki Ansel
Author_Talvikki Ansel
Category=DCF
eq_bestseller
eq_biography-true-stories
eq_isMigrated=1
eq_nobargain
eq_non-fiction
eq_poetry
Product details
- ISBN 9780300070323
- Weight: 109g
- Dimensions: 140 x 235mm
- Publication Date: 27 Mar 1997
- Publisher: Yale University Press
- Publication City/Country: US
- Product Form: Paperback
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The winner of the 1996 Yale Series of Younger Poets competition is Talvikki Ansel for My Shining Archipelago.
"Ansel`s poetry is refreshingly original," says the distinguished poet and contest judge James Dickey. "She renders the heat, the closeness, the mystery, and the terrible fear of the undisclosed, the lurking, the waiting to happen. This is true imagination, true craft."
Flemish Beauty
Yesterday, all winter,
I had not thought of pears, considered:
pear. The tear-shaped, papery core,
precise seeds. This one channeled
through with worm tunnels.
Bruises, a rotten half—
sometimes there’s nothing left
to drop into the pot.
That phrase
I could have said: “you still
have us…”
The knife
slides easily beneath the skins,
top to base, spiraling
them away.
The insubstantial us.
It could as well be the pear
talking to the river, turning to
the grass (“you still have us”).
Besides, it’s just me
a pear in my hand (the slop bucket full
of peels)—and sometimes, yes, that
seems enough: a pear—
this larger one,
yellow-green, turning to red:
“Duchess” maybe, “Devoe,”
or what I want to call it: “Flemish
Beauty.”
When I can’t sleep,
I’ll hold my hand as if I held
a pear, my fingers mimicking
the curve. The same curve
as the newel post
I’ve used for years, swinging
myself up to the landing, always
throwing my weight back. And always
nails loosening, mid-bound.
"Ansel`s poetry is refreshingly original," says the distinguished poet and contest judge James Dickey. "She renders the heat, the closeness, the mystery, and the terrible fear of the undisclosed, the lurking, the waiting to happen. This is true imagination, true craft."
Flemish Beauty
Yesterday, all winter,
I had not thought of pears, considered:
pear. The tear-shaped, papery core,
precise seeds. This one channeled
through with worm tunnels.
Bruises, a rotten half—
sometimes there’s nothing left
to drop into the pot.
That phrase
I could have said: “you still
have us…”
The knife
slides easily beneath the skins,
top to base, spiraling
them away.
The insubstantial us.
It could as well be the pear
talking to the river, turning to
the grass (“you still have us”).
Besides, it’s just me
a pear in my hand (the slop bucket full
of peels)—and sometimes, yes, that
seems enough: a pear—
this larger one,
yellow-green, turning to red:
“Duchess” maybe, “Devoe,”
or what I want to call it: “Flemish
Beauty.”
When I can’t sleep,
I’ll hold my hand as if I held
a pear, my fingers mimicking
the curve. The same curve
as the newel post
I’ve used for years, swinging
myself up to the landing, always
throwing my weight back. And always
nails loosening, mid-bound.
