Rave - by Olga Broumas (Paperback)
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<p/><br></br><p><b> About the Book </b></p></br></br>Frank, incendiary, and luminous collection by influential poet resounds with intense sensuality and seductively unique music.<p/><br></br><p><b> Book Synopsis </b></p></br></br><p><b>The Choir</b></p><p>I walk and I rest while the eyes of my dead<br> look through my own, inaudible<br> hosannas greet<br> the panorama charged serene<br> and almost ultraviolet with so much witness.<br> Holy the sea, the palpitating membrane<br> divided into dazzling fields and whaledark by the sun.<br> Holy the dark, pierced by late revelers and dawnbirds, <br> the garbage truck suspended in shy light, <br> the oystershell and crushed clam of the driveway, <br> the dahlia pressed like lotus on its open palm.<br> Holy the handmade and created side by side, <br> the sapphire of their marriage, <br> green flies and shit in condums in the crabshell<br> rinsed by the buzzing tide.<br> Holy the light--<br> the poison ivy livid in its glare, <br> the gypsy moths festooning the pine barrens, <br> the mating monarch butterflies between the chic boutiques.<br> The mermaids handprint on the artificial reef. Holy the we, <br> cast in the mermaid's image, smooth crotch of mystery and scale, <br> inscrutable until divulged by god<br> and sex into its gender, every touch<br> a secret intercourse with angels as we walk<br> proffered and taken. Their great wings<br> batter the air, our retinas bloom silver spots like beacons.<br> Better than silicone or graphite flesh absorbs<br> the shock of the divine crash-landing.<br> I roll my eyes back, skylights brushed by plumage of detail, <br> the unrehearsed and minuscule, the anecdotal midnight<br> themes of the carbon sea where we are joined: <br> zinnia, tomato, garlic wreaths<br> crowning the compost heap.</p><p><b>Elegy</b></p><p>Somebody left the world last night, I felt it<br> so, last minute, last half-breath before the storm<br> that hit all night last night drew back. Midmorning<br> windows streaked with mud like sides of ears. How long</p><p>the journey? Sails, the windowpanes the black<br> thick tarp that kept the woodpile. Dry<br> Southern wind, in minutes clothes bone-hard, clamped<br> to the line. Clouds heaving in. The sky, the sky, who did arrive</p><p>to kiss the eye behind the windswept sheet? Who was it, solo<br> no longer, shy and desirous to be clean? What song<br> arose, what crust between the lids<br> spat and forgot? I woke, my fingers in my eyes</p>
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