By Klug, Nate
the place I-95 meets The Pike,
a ponderous thunderhead flowered
stewed a minute, then flipped
like a flash card, tattered
edges crinkling in, linings so dark
with over the top bright
that, status, ready, on the overpass edge,
the onlooker couldn’t decide
till the top, or perhaps then,
what was once published and what were hidden.
utilizing various varieties and attaining more than a few musical results, Nate Klug’s Anyone traces the unraveling of astonishment upon small scenesnatural and family, political and religiousacross America’s East and Midwest. The book’s identify foregrounds the anonymity it seeks via a number of skill: first, via shut statement (a concrete observed, a goshawk, a bicyclist); and, moment, through translation (satires from Horace and Catullus, and excerpts from Virgil’s Aeneid). Uniquely between modern poetry volumes, Anyone demonstrates fluency within the paradoxes of a non secular life: To stand someday / open air my religion . . . or preserve ready / to be claimed in it.” Engaged with theology and the classics yet by no means abstruse, the entire whereas the poems stay grounded within the extra special, actual international of what it truly is to believe: / moods, part moods, / swarming, then darting loose.”
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Extra info for Anyone
As when a wheat field explodes in wind-tugged flames, or a freshet, wedged among low mountain ledges, building up speed, finally lands and in an instant the meadow vanishes, crops are crushed, a whole forest, uprooted, starts wobbling off— while the shepherd stands, frozen, picking sound from sound on a distant rock. 33 Sacred Harp Sing, Bethel Primitive Baptist Tufts of dust dislodge and make to jump among the floorboard cracks as the tenors, abetted by a redheaded clan up from San Antonio, drag their nasal, wavering line towards the chairless center of the room where the caller stands and each sung part collides, like flocks of starlings seething a wider cloud.
Streaked red by woodchips and stacked contiguous either side of the curb like model mountain ranges or near a drain grate islanded in a stubborn, clinging scarp: driveway gravel, duff, two months of doggy marks pressed together until the ridges glitter with a peeling spray-paint sheen dry as Styrofoam— too brittle now to melt they’ll wait, nearer air each day, then disappear one warm and sudden rain. 23 Shifts Bridgeport Hospital, Connecticut Glassed in behind the grill station’s steam, she chops and shovels the daily specials, calling each woman mami, each man baby.
25 In Calico Rock, Arkansas Matthew 26:73 From No Jake Brake and No Barn Burn on to Peppersauce and Greasy Slim old East Calico now a ghost town so anyone’s language shall reveal him decrepit stones once City Jail tells iron sign the words still welded kept and lost in Calico Rock 26 Novitiate for Matt (Brother Isaac) Entire Thursdays in your room. Morning’s easy, now afternoon with its sense of sand leaking from your fist: holes in prayer everywhere you’d already filled them. Breathing out, you think not of the Psalms but lazy dogs as sunlight forks and darts across the floor—ambiguous flashes of oak roots under water or, lacunae intact, a scroll from Qumran, swallowed by a bunch of passing clouds.