I have a new book of poems — Penguin's Anthology of 20th Century American Poetry, edited by Rita Dove. A treat. Dove's introduction a special, surprise treat. Feeling my way among the lines, thinking through the meaning of the words I have to look up — a more familiar surprise. The pleasure of the pleasure.
I don't usually like poems as abstract as this, but even just the definition of the title, Spare, is interesting, so I've tumbled through it a couple of times this morning.
I like single spaced lines, and go to a bit of trouble to format poems that way when transcribing them here, but this poet chose the extra height. The breathing room.
Spare
Shoulder me up. Drink careless down, for flinching
ask, break, call skimming, be slight then, be soon.
Would, wire air back to you, would. Would wind you
still, lift clear to you sitting. Sheeted around you
would care, could single you somehow, warm for floor-
weight down hurt to you, sinking. Though your arms hold:
just sun. I can't bring you. So tire to me quickly,
dumb solving cushions. Would spare wrists to you, skimming.
What sudden gives, what bent back look lifting (not my legs
here on me, nor the still sitting.) For glass bowl bent over
caring. Keeps clear to tasting but warm to me, singing.
What serves then slips (orange, cold-orange, cannot spare
breaking.) What wouldn't bend, what part offer, what fruit
sweet to flinching. Though cold cancels can sit can
reach. Does not know. But holds. But holds out, feeling.
—by Joanna Klink
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