Contradance (Phoenix Poets) by John Peck
By John Peck
In a rustic the place a lot of the admired poetry seeks to verify the fleeting current and its altering values, John Peck's poetry comes as a massive, if not likely, present. Peck's verse offers the playing cards of the fragmentary, ideogramic, juxtapositional, and elliptical during the deck of typically discursive syntax. Echoing overdue excessive Modernism, Peck's paintings, within the phrases of novelist Joseph McElroy, is "a manner of seeing things," convinced "in the packed vividness of the referential."
Avoiding the slender id- or group-specific standpoint of a few of his contemporaries, Peck invitations us to go into the bigger humanscape and unearth with him disregarded connections to our shared prior and to each other. In Contradance, his 9th assortment, Peck's ardour for inquiry and ancient mirrored image hasn't ever been greater or extra superbly embodied.
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Extra info for Contradance (Phoenix Poets)
And that his next act was to stand on Jordan bank extending his right hand, filling it, sower to the river. The verb for what happened next has gone downstream. Before them, though, it became present and put forth oodles of fruit whether figs, oranges, or olives a gap now hides, and whether the sudden orchard rooted, trunks browing water, or bobbed and stilted away. But their joy, that is recorded. A question had gone unanswered. Or else that answered it, everything enormous met with the lightest touch, non sequitur.
If it all floated away they must have followed clamoring: a Winter’s Tale, the statue swaying, breathing. Sower. River. Fruit. And under them, the ponder press of the enclosed thing, of the enciphered megaton seed. 47 1618 She must have stood in the crowd, his word entering her. The painter’s Negro girl, in Philip the Fourth’s Spain a slave, is his outcast choice for the Emmaus road house. Already in Brazil the Jesuits have built their first sugar mill. Cleopas and the other flank Yeshua at table tucked in a corner viewed through the kitchen partition.
See. Yet I did: bridal thighs in copper maturity under blue eels tattooed across her dimpled sacrum—that badge studs a mute vaunt across the fathomless rumble thrumming out of nowhere. At ninety-six everything I do will signal to everything I cannot do across a bridge of haze at the northern rim of the Canyon, no separation and all alive. Leaving we come on a pair of black swallowtails pressed flat against tussocks, ants on their bemedalled tuxes, their glide past exhaustion. Blues on the trailing fans recede irrevocably among rows of stuttering sunspot orange, their entranced vesper showering firework sulfur through gold.