poems by eleanor gray
(Dink Press 2016)
“(it is nothing, is nothing
…and so, where fables began)” – from [Lady’s Slipper]
I have never known how to end things. Not with person, not with place. Eleanor Gray is a poet who plucks fruit from the idea of an outside world that she might be fed by imagery alone in the aftermath of not beginning.
The outside, in this work, gives silence a safe word and it’s a word the reader can say over and over as if pretending to be a missing child.
“how do I
…love the very gnat of self” – from [Plox]
“a nameless sensation which perpetually haunts the body” – from [and then, Monsters]
The inside, in this work, separates blank from space that Gray might transcribe intuition in the wilderness of the self-imposed.
“holy, holy the black asterisk of wound
for the child I never was” – from [Languid Limbo]
“ ‘murmur’ I had forgotten the word
ash without meaning, death without purpose”
a song, an urn, a stairwell” – from [Susurrus]
I have never known how to end things. I heard on NPR this morning a story about a person who specializes in moving without harm the spacecraft that are still on earth and last night I was rereading Gray, trying to be careful on her paths of remnant and root. This seems like a good place.
“and so, what then of
colossal sleep, “ – from [Zero Beauty]
Last thing. This book, its title, to me, is very alone. The content? Intimacy.
That most distant of permissions.
review by Barton Smock