Six poems by Fred Moten from the PEN Poetry Series.
-
in the
light up close
but black is quiet parallel.
remember the
recording angel? kinda crack that
window open, sweet.
through the
sun, but way down on the tapestry.
delle bolton, elvin jones,
amalle dublon, johnny griffin
-
the absence of your letter
shines in absent distance.
taija the lonely weaver
veils wind around a spear.
the tree’s mail sounds
aspen. the chain
shines valdez. laila
the lonely colorist
is nia’s velvet découverte
of the immediately shade.
-
old women with babies and windows
show not that curving violet this dry
blue day. it’s fall
across the park.
a doll baby, in the plaid
shirttail of los angeles,
held like a breeze
down the grass, a painting
running a nail’s edge, barely
steel on a picture of forests on
a black flower, a steel bar tracing
black crossing, a violet swing.
-
blow pretty behind
joe. never be the one
in sequence. of the flew
who work off collage
lil is following. only
joe lies stone and dan
is stiffly breathing
that slight stiffening
of paolo reading. as
amelita reading too.
-
thrill the air with a
regular flash.
somebody playing
daydream looking through.
all the sun in colored
glass to play the mystical
body. come and lay your
sister come
and brush your
blues.
- grad grind, gentles, till the park is gone.
his hair was like furry lining brushed and see-through and he was pale, his pinkness had a descent
in it, like he had warmed down,
but you could tell by the way he took up space, scared somebody would get him for all that careless
bumping into people,
trained in expansion at an early age, his demands at the informational meeting were sharp and
unchecked in his mother’s
bloom, with her metal hands,
while his father explained the proper use of the materials to the principal. maria and cesare and the
theory of handcuffs,
asking for what they took because it’s hot as hell between the baguette, don’t bring your own
tamales, and the house of york.
the plan when we were surfing was to blow that school up with some extra words, urge kilombo
more than across, get us some land.
here go el durm in the window.
(Photograph by Kari Orvik published in the New Yorker)
Contributed by
Elka Krajewska + Gregor Neuerer