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Harrison, Jim

 
9781556595288: Jim Harrison: The Essential Poems

Sinopsis

Publishers Weekly called Jim Harrison "an untrammeled renegade genius," a poet who performed "absolutely brilliant and outrageous things with language."

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Acerca del autor

Jim Harrison (1937-2016) was the author of over three dozen books, including Legends of the Fall and Dalva, and served as the food columnist for the magazines Brick and Esquire. He published fourteen volumes of poetry, the final being Dead Man's Float (2016). His work has been translated into two dozen languages and produced as four feature-length films. As a young poet he co-edited Sumac magazine, with fellow poet Dan Gerber, and earned a National Endowment for the Arts grant and a Guggenheim Fellowship. In 2007, he was elected into the Academy of American Arts and Letters. Regarding his most beloved art-form, he wrote: "Poetry, at its best, is the language your soul would speak if you could teach your soul to speak." Jim Harrison certainly spoke the language.

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3I wanted to feel exalted so I picked upDr. Zhivago again. But the newspaper was therewith the horrors of the Olympics, those dead andperpetually martyred sons of David. I want to presentall Israelis with .357 magnums so that they arenever to be martyred again. I wanted to be exaltedso I picked up Dr. Zhivago again but the tv was onwith a movie about the sufferings of convicts inthe early history of Australia. But then the moviewas over and the level of the bourbon bottle was droppingand I still wanted to be exalted lying there withthe book on my chest. I recalled Moscow but I couldnot place dear Yuri, only you Yesenin, seeing the Kremlinglitter and ripple like Asia. And when drunk you appearedas some Bakst stage drawing, a slain Tartar. But that isall ballet.And what a dance you had kicking your legs fromthe rope – We all change our minds, Berryman said in Minnesotahalfway down the river.Villon said of the rope that my neckwill feel the weight of my ass. But I wanted to feel exaltedagain and read the poems at the end of Dr. Zhivago andjust barely made it. Suicide. Beauty takes my courageaway this cold autumn evening. My year-old daughter’s redrobe hangs from the doorknob shouting Stop.BridgeMost of my life was spentbuilding a bridge out over the seathough the sea was too wide.I’m proud of the bridgehanging in the pure sea air. Machadocame for a visit and we sat on theend of the bridge, which was his idea.Now that I’m old the work goes slowly.Ever nearer death, I like it out herehigh above the sea bundledup for the arctic storms of late fall,the resounding crash and moan of the sea,the hundred-foot depth of the green troughs.Sometimes the sea roars and howls likethe animal it is, a continent wide and alive.What beauty in this the darkest musicover which you can hear the lightest music of humanbehavior, the tender connection between men and galaxies.So I sit on the edge, wagging my feet abovethe abyss. Tonight the moon will be in my lap.This is my job, to study the universefrom my bridge. I have the sky, the sea, the faintgreen streak of Canadian forest on the far shore.BroomTo remember that you’re alivevisit the cemetery of your fatherat noon after you’ve made loveand are still wrapped in a mammalianodor that you are forced to cherish.Under each stone is someone’s inevitablesurprise, the unexpected deathof their biology that struggled hard as it must.Now go home without looking backat the fading cemetery, enough is enough, but stop on the way to buy the best wineyou can afford and a dozen stiff brooms.Have a few swallows then throw the furnitureout the window and then begin sweeping.Sweep until you’ve swept the wallsbare of paint and at your feet sweepthe floor until it disappears. Finish the winein this field of air, go back to the cemeteryin the dark and weave through the stonesa slow dance of your name visible only to birds.

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