Constructor : Poems

by Koethe, John

• ISBN13: 9780060956356
• ISBN10: 0060956356
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2000-05-01
• Publisher: Lightning Source Inc

Summary

"John Koethe's The Constructor is a scrupulous, elegant account of the meditative intellect as an instrument continually registering the passage of time. Exquisitely modulated and brutally honest, these poems would be harrowing were they not so seductively beautiful. No one writing in this country today sees as deeply as Koethe into the tears that lie at the heart of things, and no contemporary investigation of the life of the mind may be called complete that does not accommodate the lush intricacy of his terrifying recognitions." -- George Bradley"I prize John Koethe's intimate expanses and unsettling reveries, his tender contemplations and odd mental landscapes. He is an heir to Wallace Stevens and John Ashbery and, like them, he gives us the sensation of thinking itself, of a certain fleeting, daily, solitary consciousness rescued from oblivion and held aloft." -- Edward Hirsch

Table of Contents

Sunday Evening	1	(2)
The Saturday Matinee	3	(2)
Pining Away	5	(2)
``I Heard a Fly Buzz...''	7	(2)
The Other Condition	9	(4)
Mistral	13	(11)
The Waiting Game	24	(2)
Between the Lines	26	(3)
Threnody for two Voices	29	(4)
Un Autre Monde	33	(1)
A Perspective Box	34	(3)
The Advent of the Ordinary	37	(2)
What the Stars Meant	39	(4)
The Constructor	43	(7)
Fleeting Forms of Life	50	(2)
Au Train	52	(3)
The Lake of White Flowers	55	(1)
A Parking Lot with Trees	56	(5)
Permissions Acknowledgments	61	(2)
About the Author	63

Excerpts

The Constructor
Poems

Sunday Evening

Ideas as crystals and the logic of a violin:

The intricate evasions warming up again

For another raid on the inarticulate. And soon

The morning melody begins, the oranges and the tea,

The introspective walk about the neighborhood,

The ambient noise, the low lapping of water over stones.

The peace one finds encounters one alone,

In the memories of books, or half-remembered songs,

Or in the mild enchantments of the passive mood:

To hesitate, to brood, to linger in the library and then,

As from some green and sunny chair, arise and go.

The noons seem darker, and the adolescent

Boys who used to hang around the parking lot are gone.

More water in the eyes, more dissonant musicians in the subways,

And from the font of sense a constant, incidental drone.

It is a kind of reconfiguration, and the solitary exercise

That seeks to reaffirm its name seems hollow. The sun is lower inthe sky,

And as one turns towards what had felt like home,

The windows start to flicker with a loveless flame,

As though the chambers they concealed were empty. Is this

How heaven feels? The same perspective from a different room,

In a suspended moment-as a silver airplane silently ascends

And life., at least as one has known it, slides away?

I thought that people understood these things.

They show the gradual encroachment of a vast,

Impersonal system of exchanges on that innermost domain

In which each object meant another one, all singing each to each

In a beautiful regress of forgetting. Nature as a language

Faithful to its terms, yet with an almost human face

That took the dark, romantic movements of desire, love, and loss

And gave them flesh and brought them into view;

Replaced by emblems of a rarefied sublime,

Like Cantor's Paradise, or Edward Witten staring into space

As the leaves fell and a little dog raced through them in the park.

Was any of that mine? Was it ever anyone's?

Time makes things seem more solid than they were,

Yet these imaginary things-the dolphins and the bells, the sunny

terrace

And the bright, green wings, the distant islet on the lake-

Were never barriers, but conditions of mere being, an enchanting haze

That takes one in and like a mild surprise gives way,

As though the things that one had strained against were shards of

space.

The evening air feels sweeter. The moon,

Emerging from a maze of clouds into the open sky,

Casts a thin light on the trees. Infinitely far away,

One almost seems to hear-as though the fingers of a solitary giant

Traced the pure and abstract schema of those strings

In a private movement of delight-the soundless syllables'

Ambiguous undulations, like the murmur of bees.

The Constructor
Poems. Copyright © by John Koethe. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from The Constructor: Poems by John Koethe
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