It Shouldn't Have Been Beautiful (Penguin Poets)

It Shouldn't Have Been Beautiful (Penguin Poets)

Lia Purpura

Language: English

Pages: 20

ISBN: 0143126903

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

A powerful new collection from poet, essayist, and frequent New Yorker contributor Lia Purpura
Lia Purpura has won national acclaim as both a poet and an essayist. The exquisitely rendered poems in this, her fourth collection, reach back to an early affinity for proverbs and riddles and the proto-poetry found in those forms. Taking on epic subjects—time and memory, metamorphosis and indeterminacy, the complicated nature of beauty, wordless states of being—each poem explores a bright, crisp, singular moment of awareness or shock or revelation.  Purpura reminds us that short poems, never merely brief nor fragmentary, can transcend their size, like small dogs, espresso, a drop of mercury.

Ethan Frome (Vintage Classics)

A New Life

From Moby-Dick to Finnegans Wake: Essays in Close Reading

Favorite Poems (Dover Thrift Editions)















That someone has less might make you happy with yours – or unhappy to think about portions at all. Those who have very little, studies say, are more inclined to give half away. Maybe being closer to nothing makes stuff not matter so much, (or a few things matter a lot). Maybe gratitude isn’t best measured by comparison. Ice Shelf (Larsen B) It’s not the kind of seep that puddles but over time (it should’ve been millennia) forces cracks so even a tiny thaw at the edge

how does that come to look like a week then years, and the waking each morning expected. Birthright As if under every nutshell were something. And what kind of game is that, with no chance for nothing in the end. Perspective It’s exactly when I point and say see that blue boat – that I’m no longer sure what I’m pointing to, and a gap opens fast into which falls all I expected you to say. Forces An invisible field, if hit, makes real particles exist, changing

its robe, its sash, its fire, flare, gash – it’s visiting me. Hard to think otherwise. Solitude No one home. Snow packing the morning in. Much white nothing filling up. A V of birds pulling the silence until some dog across the street barks, and breaks what I call my peace. What a luxury annoyance is. It bites off and keeps just enough of what I think I want to be endless. Lines I count on lines drawn, the air of not saying too much, even the unsaid- as-glance

that part gave up, went alone, chose to leave, and by choosing embellishment got seen. Design Here is the day, sun, gulls backlit and cresting, a jackhammer suggesting I’m here but not really in it, I’m more representative of a person in early ambient fall, near a fountain, and Thursday farmers’ market – like an architect’s model, precise, small me, stuck on a bench reading a book, lending an air of things going too fast. Uncertainty It’s not a place, but I am grateful

contingencies, freeze some frames. It was/it wasn’t intentional. So few are trained to read events from beginning to end. How clear and bright and cold the dots are. Still, we have to be so far away before they constellate. Prayer Its occasion could be a spot of sun, bar sign, label on jeans, carnation, red light where you wait and gratitude hits. Or a name the length of a subway car that only makes sense when you say it aloud in your head as it passes. Determinism

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