Bước Vào Thế Giới Hồi Giáo EPub tải xuống miễn phí

Christeena Knowles cjk1956 — My first encounter with the Portland poet Carl Adamshick’s work was “Out past the dead end sign,” a long poem in American Poetry Review in 2009. It’s a poem of great sustain, its plain statement crossed with sinuous thinking, a mad dream and a sensible conversation at once. Yet as skilled as he is at the long poem, the shorter poems in his first book, Curses and Wishes (LSU Press, 2011, winner of the Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets), are even more striking as bold, important announcements, aware of what poetry has done, and excited about what it has yet to do. Any alert graduate of an American high school could place Curses and Wishes in the tradition of Winesburg, Ohio and Spoon River Anthology, sharing as it does a placid Midwestern surface that masks beneath it ambiguity and complexity, but this is really international poetry: its geography is really chorography, the study of what is unobserved and borderless. Adamshick dissolves America into a form, turns of thought, shapes in the air, with a subtly detached, dissident vision. The committed imagism of his short poems offers a percussive clarity, and like any rhythm is as much about its rests as about its notes: what is left out moves us as much, if not more than, what is left in. Memoir I feel something impossibly small that might become pain as I slide a piece of paper under everything my mother has said. The title is partly tongue-in-cheek, referring to the vogue of memoir, and the tendency of contemporary poetry to be autobiographical, to distinguish the writer’s life from the six billion others through details, sensation, and sentiment. Here, though, the structure and substance of memoir become one. No details, no sensation, no revelation, only a breath-stopping emblem of memory and poetry. It starts as if still parodying the memoir—“I feel”—but by the third word the speaker has fractured the promise of the title’s humor, with the indistinct “something.” What unfolds from there is the entirety of the poet’s autobiography, an elaboration of the old joke about how many poets it takes to change a light bulb: “Two: one to change the bulb, and one to stare out the window, look at the rain, and think of his mother.” Whether you buy the idea from psychology that all human speech begins in the infant’s crying for its mother, this poem testifies to at least one individual’s poetic impulse toward this tableau. And how powerful is that “slip”! We slip paper under doors, sometimes under an insect to carry it outside, because paper is very slight, and “everything/ my mother has said” must be immense. Are the casually posited “everything” and “something” the same in this poem? One thing is impossibly small (suitable for a small poem) and the other thing is incalculably large, although without weight. A complicated matrix of dependencies emerges in these five lines, baffling until they are resolved the way the poet resolves them, with brevity and composition. The small thing only “might become pain,” in the second line. The poem is a snapshot, not a film. On the facing page of “Memoir” is “New Year’s morning,” another quickly-tied knot that asks something of the reader: New Year’s morning A low, quiet music is playing— distorted trumpet, torn bass line, white windows. My palms are two speakers the size of pool-hall coasters. I lay them on the dark table for you to repair. I hear the music at first literally, “low, quiet” perhaps because a well-celebrated Eve has led to a hangover, perhaps because the speaker is simply a quiet, orderly jazz aficionado: the trumpet’s distortion and the bass line’s tear could be due to a fuzzy needle, a bad radio signal, or intentional fragmented composition, perhaps Miles Davis and Ron Carter playing with an effects processor; but then, after a nice, orderly line break, we are presented with “white windows,” which in order to admit into this grouping we may have to redefine what sort of “music is playing” low and quiet this morning, as the year begins. Not music at all, maybe, but the torn, distorted self that has somehow managed to achieve another year. Judging from the state of the speaker’s hands (speaker!) and how they are arrayed before us, repair must begin immediately. His palms are on our dark table, either the counter where the repair arrangements and payment are discussed, or the work table itself, where we, as the professionals the poem has made us, will use our craft to restore them. And then we may listen clearly to the music he has to say. Repairing is a good job, the fixing of small engines, being able to service the objects of the house and farm. “Memoir” and “New Year’s morning” are poems of close relationships, but “Harvard, Illinois” broadens in scope to speak on behalf of a town. The poet’s choice in titling the poem “Harvard, Illinois” can’t avoid acknowledging the elite desire of the name, and the distance between the town and the college, and a sense that the town is no more interested in the institution than the town of Havre, Montana is interested in the sea, or Paris, Texas is in matters Eiffel and baguette. It’s 1,061 miles between Harvard, Illinois and Cambridge, Massachusetts according to Google maps, if the driver stays in I-80. And only 74 miles from downtown Chicago, hardly anything in modern distances. Here is the poem: Harvard, Illinois When someone moved to town, we went mad wondering what caused it. A whole family come to settle in the green house two doors down from the end. The grain elevator blocking the sun from three on. If he was going to work the fields or on cars. If her hair was the only toy the children had. Of course Adamshick’s Harvard, Illinois is a township of the mind, of his memory and artfulness and our speculation. It is polynomial, absolutely specific. And as in “Memoir” the promised precision is immediately upset by chosen indistinction: when “someone” moved to town. One must permit the echo of e.e. cummings’ “anyone lived in a pretty how town” in the first line, and then let that echo fade away in the “madness” of the neighbors, who have to come to terms with the new inhabitants of a place that is already theirs in language, the perfectly said “green house/ two doors down from the end,” followed by a sentence fragment whose predicate is supplied by regional accent: “The grain elevator/ blocking the sun from three on.” I marvel at “from three on,” which shouldn’t work, yet it pierces my heart. Fundamentally the poem is one sentence, voluntarily broken into fragmented clauses. The parallel and now independent “If” statements suggest “then” statements, but there is no “then” except teleology: yes, he is going to work the fields, yes her hair is the only toy, perhaps because the town has said so. Not in real life, of course, but this is a state of being rather than mere truth. Her hair as a toy indicates poverty, the gestures of children in her arms, pulling at her, but also the image of her hair, and of the townsfolk looking at her hair, which must be marvelous hair. It must be long. She is at least ten percent Medusa in my understanding, an automatic monster by being from somewhere else, a problem for the town to deal with, and a subject for a poem to distinguish. She is a mother, importantly, and as we learned in “Memoir,” mothers and poems are closely aligned, involuntarily, the way a child pulls a mother’s hair. It is what children must do. The speaker of the fourth poem I’d like to look at is no child, but is still speaking on behalf of the crowd, not just the residents of Harvard, Illinois, but everyone within earshot: HOPE I thought of a day— just one when we all lived perfectly. I thought of what that would do for us, how we would celebrate the anniversary of perfection. I dreamed so long I burned up on re-entry. Despite its focus on a space that allows both hope and hopelessness, “Hope” deploys its poetic effect in a way that radiates joy at composition, delight in singing. Much happens at the line breaks, with a hurry-up-and-push rhythm that speeds forward with good news about his visionary dream of living perfectly, and holds back the bad news about the dream, that to wake is annihilates. The short poem in Adamshick’s hands is a tool to affirm and deny human worth; they are poems of inner conflict after all. “Hope” delays its conceit for the final line: not a generalized “dreamer” but poetic impulse itself is the spaceship that cannot, have abandoned human experience, return to it. Compare this poem to Robert Frost’s “After Apple Picking,” whose speaker is “overtired/ Of the great harvest I myself desired” and recalls thousands of apples that escaped his grasp and fell to the ground, and were sent “surely to the cider-apple heap/ As of no worth.” Like Adamshick’s speaker, the result of trying to engage with the mysteries of perfection and imperfection is uneasy sleep: both poems stand alertly in front of us, with terrible shrug. Through deft attention to image and sound, Adamshick’s shorter poems suggest the character of being, inexplicitly. Certainly he jokes in all four of these poems with titles that could put at ease Norman Rockwell: memories of mother, a morning, small-town America, and the very vulnerable “Hope.” But these are not the real subjects, and each poem is a moon shoot. They are like Terrence Malick films, whose beauty we remember (headlights in the sagebrush of Badlands, tough geometries of fields in Days of Heaven, hillsides in smoke in The Thin Red Line) but wouldn’t have noticed without their tales of murder, cruelty, and exploitation. Curses and Wishes gives the darkness fuller space in its longer poems “Out past the dead end sign,” “The emptiness,” and “Our flag,” which in their mastery are admirable(—beyond that, I mean. “Our flag” is everything I didn’t know I wanted a poem to be.); these shorter poems occupy a big space space in my mind. They are like wood that has been heavily notched, used long, and discovered only now, removed from their original uses and almost forgotten. Intimate and familiar, these are poems that catch at the throat.

Ana Carolina anaalencar — Ultima, con todo lo que me puede enseñar