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Roy Scranton's stories, essays, and reviews have been published in Rolling StoneBoston Review, the New York Times, Contemporary LiteratureThe AppendixLITTheory & Event, and elsewhere. He is one of the editors of Fire and Forget: Short Stories from the Long War (Da Capo, 2013). His book Learning How to Die in the Anthropocene is forthcoming from City Lights in 2015.

18 January 2011

January

So, I'm not so good at keeping up the blog lately, I guess. I've been writing a lot, trying to get the papers in for my first semester on the PhD. Then before that it was reading. Then more reading. Then more.

There's also a reading coming UP, at Pete's Candy Store, at 7:30pm on Feb. 3: myself, Jake Siegel, and Phil Klay. If you live in NYC, come out.

Recently saw a preview of Object Collection's Innova, which was loud and awesome. Watch for it come MAY.

Speaking of reading, I've been memorizing poems lately. It's great fun. The most recent is Hart Crane.

To Brooklyn Bridge

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
the seagull's wing shall dip and pivot him,
shedding white rings of tumult, building high
over chained bay waters Liberty.

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
as apparational as sails that cross
some page of figures to be filed away--
till elevators drop us from our day.

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
with multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
never disclosed, yet hastened to again,
foretold to other eyes on the same screen.

And thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
as if the sun took step of thee, yet left
some motion ever unspent in thy stride,
implicitly thy freedom staying thee.

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft,
a bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning.
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder to street noon leaks,
riptooth of the sky's acetylene.
All afternoon the wind-blown derricks turn.
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still!

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
thy guerdon... the accolade thou dost bestow,
anonymity time cannot raise,
vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused!
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry.

Again the traffic lights skim thy swift
unfractured idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
beading thy path--condense eternity--
and we have seen night lifted in thy arms.

Beneath thy shadows by the piers I wait,
only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The city's fiery parcels all undone.
Already snow submerges an iron year...

O, sleepless as the river under thee,
vaulting the sea, the prairie's dreaming sod,
unto us lowliest sometimes sweep, descend,
and of the curveship lend a myth to god.

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