I like when a poem doesn’t tell me how it is, it shows you how it rattles. And Brooklyn Copeland brings the bang, the weird feeling tambourine, in her poem “A ponderous house” in the new Thrush. This poem feels like a harp played wildly, like maybe a little drunk with all palm, and that craziness, that lack of steady, makes sounds somewhere between music and panic, and that silence at the end is asking WHAT NEXT?
Here is a particular part that really thumps me:
The egg in me and the man
have united in violent tremens,
in fluey a capella,
in a lima bean cum seahorse
whose tethering thread