By Peter Campion
Big Avalanche Ravine
Just the caution mild on a blue crane.
Just mountains. simply the mist that skimmed
them either and bled to silver rain
lashing the condominiums.
But there it sank on me. This urge
to carve a existence from the lengthy expanse.
To carry a few floor opposed to the surge
of sheer fabric. It was once a tense
and power and steel shiver.
And it stayed, that tremor, small and stark
as the noise of the hidden river
fluming its facet opposed to the dark.
In his moment choice of poems, Peter Campion writes in regards to the fight of creating a lifestyles in the USA, in regards to the urge “to carve an area” for romance and relatives from out of the monstrous sweep of recent existence. Coursing among the political and private with impressive ease, Campion writes at one second of his aggravating connection to the general public political constitution, symbolized through Robert McNamara (who makes a startling visual appeal within the name poem), then within the subsequent, of a haunting reverie underneath a magnolia tree, representing his impulse to flee the tradition altogether. He strikes via a number of varieties simply as without problems, as convinced in rhymed quatrains as in slim, tensed loose verse. In The Lions, Campion achieves a fusion of narrative constitution and lyric depth that proves him to be one of many absolute best poets of his new release.
Praise for Other People
“Campion is a poet who is aware that what a poet sees is not anything with out a mix of formal prowess and emotional insight.”—David Biespiel, The Oregonian
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Extra info for The Lions
I remember how this constrictive chill wrapped down my ribs each time they played the clip. It snaked against an emptiness the way the bodies spiked around their rags of flapping ash. The shock of signals said to bite or burrow to protect that central core. And then was gone. • 27 • The coldness must have seeped beneath the plush of assurance. Purple leaves of the maple brushing our window. “Strawberry Fields” on the Hi Fi. John Lennon’s “Let me take you down. . ” as the tricycle zoomed me through amber halls.
As the flute notes swerve and his wooden pointer slaps his map of the Bay of Tonkin I see our harborside. The dripping honeysuckle and rosehips. It seems ethereal. As if the leaves brushing the houses against the dark shore were opening. The space they make cleaves the shadowed walls. Becomes a trembling core. A piercing stinging. Dim retinal trace of languorous curves, uncovered hips and breasts. And then it’s gone. I’m slouching on our couch watching two F-4 Phantoms swoop then strafe. • 52 • Only the sting remains.
Just mountains. Just the mist that skimmed them both and bled to silver rain lashing the condominiums. But there it sank on me. This urge to carve a life from the long expanse. To hold some ground against the surge of sheer material. It was a tense and persistent and metallic shiver. And it stayed, that tremor, small and stark as the noise of the hidden river fluming its edge against the dark. • 39 • Lilacs It used to burn, especially in spring: the sense that life was happening elsewhere. Smudged afternoons when lilacs leaked their smell past schoolyard brick, whole plotlines seemed to twist just out of reach.