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Read reviews from world's largest community for readers. Nostalgic shadows is a collection of Jennifer White's teenage poetry, an.
Table of contents

This is a familiar house. You knock again. Inside, the sounds are festive. Glasses clink and a band starts up. Pressing your ear to the door, you hear the sound of your own laughter. This is the house you I was nine and I stood at the top of the street for no reason except to make the descent of the gentle incline toward my house where I lived with everyone and everything in the world, my sisters and my cousins were with me, we had our bookbags and our four o'clock hunger with us and our grandmother and everything we loved in the world were waiting in the yellow washed house, there was a Dear Regret, my leaning this morning, my leather foot, want of.

In the middle of the night Matt would fly to Vancouver so he could take a walk on the sea wall the next day, then go home. Wouldnt tell anyone, no telephone call, just run a scene through his peculiar Ontario head, no snow on that beach. Skip to main content. Is there still time to reach this living body and to kiss on its mouth the birth of the voice so dear to me? I've dreamt of you so often that my arms used to embracing your shadow and only crossing on my own chest might no longer meet your body's Robert Desnos I swore to myself I would never write a nature poem.

Places have thoughts — hills have backs that Tommy Pico. Jessie Loyer. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. Your father is only your father until one of you forgets. Ocean, are you listening? The most beautiful part of your Ocean Vuong b. You knock on the door You knock on the door but nobody answers. Eve Joseph. From Verso 4 I was nine and I stood at the top of the street for no reason except to make the descent of the gentle incline toward my house where I lived with everyone and everything in the world, my sisters and my cousins were with me, we had our bookbags and our four o'clock hunger with us and our grandmother and everything we loved in the world were waiting in the yellow washed house, there was a Dionne Brand b.

Cecily Nicholson b. Dylan Thomas — Richard Harrison The Emperor of Ice-Cream Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. Take from the Wallace Stevens Alfred, Lord Tennyson Two Hours on the Train During two hours on the train I rerun the film of my life Two minutes per year on average Half an hour for childhood Another half-hour for prison Love, books, wandering take up the rest the hand of my companion gradually melts into mine and her head on my shoulder is as light as a dove When we Pierre Nepveu b.

Letters I threw away your letters. Years ago, just like that. The last items I had left. The dates. The phrases. The things you said.

Numéros en texte intégral

Snowflake patterns. Leaf diagrams. Russell Thornton b. Robert Burns We posed with our wide grins and best-friends-forever certainty. Souvankham Thammavongsa b. Nicole Brossard b. Good Day Villanelle You ran naked out the door. The neighbours laughed; I chased you down.

Nostalgic Shadows: Poetry

I hardly see you anymore. Did I tell you when you were little how you ran naked out the door? You got halfway down the street before I caught you in my arms. Damian Rogers b. Wioletta Greg b.

Sonoma He totaled his blue truck — slowly spun out on an icy bridge, rammed it into a guard rail. Climbed out unbruised. Coal Creek. Middle of nowhere. A passing couple brought him home.

Learning To Let Go

Then three years with letters from the Motor Vehicle Department before he relinquished his license. Jane Munro b. Shane Book. Milton Acorn — Five Postcards from Jericho Dear Regret, my leaning this morning, my leather foot, want of stone, age old, my burnished and bruised, hair lingering, hand caked, spongy as November, my dear Relentless, my dear Aging, Sina Queyras b. Money Coin Exhibit, British Museum. Their misshapenness strikes the table in tiny splashes, like still-cooling splatters of silver. Stater and shekel, mina and obol. Athens an owl, Messana a hare, a jar for Terone, Melos a pomegranate.

Call it museum money, written Carmine Starnino b. Portrait of Alice with Elvis Queen and King, they rule side by side in golden thrones above the clouds.

Nostalgic | Poetry In Voice

Stephanie Bolster b. Anne Carson b. From Correspondences Sometimes we are led through the doorway by a child, sometimes by a stranger, always a matter of grace changing the past, for if there is anything we must change it is the past. To look back and see another map. Anne Michaels. When the secret police woke him up and demanded to see his poems, he recalled, he had nothing to show them: he kept his manuscripts with friends, not because he felt that he had anything to hide but simply because he was incapable of maintaining his own papers.

Moon of the Returning Sun

Once he faced his interrogator, he wrote, he subverted the script by earnestly asking what he had done wrong. My cultivated sincere idiocy prevailed over his professional idiocy. He was thirty-four when he finally graduated from college. He had grown disillusioned with the revolutionary myth and the entire Soviet project.

It was only a matter of time before his poems and public statements got him forced out of the Soviet Union. Korzhavin landed in Boston in I would die without it, but this is no life.


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Should I run? These are lines from an untitled poem written in Two years later, in Boston, he wrote in another untitled poem:. Every day I wake up in a strange land. Into a strange near, Into a strange distance I look, Into a strange life I descend the stairs. That life, he wrote, had ceased to exist, as had the country in which he had lived it. They are long gone. Like a dream of the soul, They have long since sunk to the bottom Of the sea of lies. I know this: There is a sky here too. But I died back there And I will not be resurrected here.

As he described it, his life in the Soviet Union had not merely become untenable but had been lived to the most bitter of ends. Emigration was the best of all possible outcomes, which made it all the harder to swallow. In , he put together a collection of his poems for publication in the U.