By James Brasfield
In James Brasfield's Ledger of Crossroads, layered by way of gentle and shadow, the crossroads emerge from special but inseparable geographies. Grounded within the sensual global, the poems fuse American and jap ecu landscapes: "the char of silence and wonder, / brick foundations of what used to be the following, airborne dirt and dust roads / lower via pines, rivers and the dirt of the dead." listed here are reviews from the yank South, of these who believed Jim Crow "the means things... needed to be," and from the fallen imperiums of these "who have consistently / back to fewer bushes and a wall," whose intimate perceptions supply moments of reprieves: "beyond the faint odor / of almond within the air and heavy clouds / funneling from the earth into snowstorm, / the present calmed inside of that far away / bend of the Vistula." the following we develop into the identities of others, their time and position, from the strata in their histories. They input our lives.
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Additional resources for Ledger of Crossroads: Poems
Sample text
Hidden and apparent, your expression is dry-eyed, set as a bride who waits to marry her second husband in the Palace of Solemn Events. 6 You stare over the cotton curtain at my window. You look past me, past my kitchen, vapor rising from my coffee— your presence bright in the warmth of morning sunlight. Below the gutter rusting along the eaves, plaster falls away, widening borders of exposed brick, threatening your days mortared to the cracked facade. Remember the boy Antschel running with hoop and stick down the strasse, who, years later, holding the hand of a girl, turned and kissed her lightly under the veil of arclight— of a long time ago, of least things forgotten, turned from, but sought now, after the bombs.
It has been too long. There is nothing normal left. The smell of guns massed in this valley Hangs bitter in the air. A town burns across the ridge. I know the distance. It is late, And being out of candles, I have to quit. 36 Chernivtsi Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. —shakespeare, sonnet 5 Such weight, Little Vienna, snow falling across Europe, villages lost to avalanche. People who return say the streets are clean in Deutschland— on the walks, a mere light dusting from the newly fallen.
People who return say the streets are clean in Deutschland— on the walks, a mere light dusting from the newly fallen. Here in the crosswinds, streets and walks are buried in ice. Wherever they are, Little Vienna, shovels wait shivering. Last night, who spread the path of ashes on the walk? ” . . Oh last night with stars scattered across the blackest night— ice giving way from the balconies . . The winter potatoes I peeled were stones softening, deeply bruised. 37 Today, I’m nearly out of bread.