By T. R. Hummer
T. R. Hummer's new and typically pyrotechnic assortment takes its identify from the infrequent (in English) singular type of the typical be aware ''ephemera.'' In a piece of startling originality, the poet provides a meditation on ephemerality from the viewpoint of the ephemeron itself because it passes, be it the person, the atom, the particle.Hummer's paintings is existential and atemporal. The scope of the poems steadily broadens from the outlet part, also referred to as ''Ephemeron,'' via ''Either/Or,'' that is a fulcrum, directly to plural ''Ephemera.'' The imaginative and prescient that emerges is haunting, evoking the aftermath of a actual, mental, and religious apocalypse.Relentless in its stalking of the boundary among being and nonbeing, Ephemeron turns into a tour-de-force that shines a focus into darkish corners of Being, revealing but extra darkness.
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Extra resources for Ephemeron: Poems (Southern Messenger Poets)
The ﬁnal radiance arrives: everyone ossiﬁes, tipping statues undercut by erosion, skeletons in derelict museums punching out, departing. Œ The lovers dressed, pulling underwear from under the chaise, stockings from the mantle, fur from bushes, hiding their feelers, hooves, horns. Œ Before they burned the bodies, they killed them; before they killed them they tortured them; before they tortured them, they gave them jobs. Œ Impossible not to forget the beautiful men, the children clever at their books, women full of wisdom, dead, my own body vaporized, my nation.
A rat in the dark attic at midnight, bolt-cutter teeth incising insulation. Black wire, red wire. A spark. The pianist’s hands stop playing. Œ The train enters the tunnel, great piston breaches the oily cylinder, clockwork tide is driven to foam on the rocks, and the marriage is over. 26 Ca se History We live in God’s imagination, he whispers on the street to strangers. He needs to take his medication, But the angel of his unborn prescription squats with a sword of ﬂame at the pharmacy door. We live in God’s imagination.
All the angels in Rilke gather at the bookshop to argue with Whitman: who touches this book touches what? Œ A couple in a convertible at midnight, arguing bitterly; moon half eroded by the solar wind; at roadside a dead coyote, half eaten by ants. Œ Willows laced over the pond water of history, their image fractured by the ordnance of a war only the dead remember, or a simple wind. Œ 20 What happened at the end, when everyone thought there was no one left to think, was simple: they forgot it all had ended, and went on.