“the fog burns off/and my death is there treading like a voiceless song.” — Chris Smith in iO Poetry

21 Aug

There’s thinking and then there’s meditating, you know this, the hop-to-it contemplating, like the sky doing what it wants with the clouds, the body doing what it must with the heart, the brain doing what it can’t but do with its thoughts and feelings and memories.

That’s where I lock into Chris Smith’s poems in issue 6 of iO Poetry, where I pull my grumpy hands out of my grumpy pockets, and applaud as I must, for these poems, which have worked through some BIG things, both metaphor and hunks of skin, biopsy and heart, these poems, which have moved me, reminded me so deeply, of what life does to our bodies.

from “Biopsy”

One day I will become an elemental property,
will, like gas, assume the shape of my container.
Excuse this sadness, it will soon enough vanish
like an airplane into the unstable sky.
Excuse this intelligence, it will always be ahead of itself,
will always have a skull.

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