By Peter Filkins
In the pivotal poem "Marking Time," which seems to be nearly precisely midway via Peter Filkins’s fourth choice of poetry, the speaker displays at the loss of life of a sibling and the way time is marked via our thoughts. those stories, those moments―whether spent considering a portray via Vermeer or the easy toss of a bean bag―ultimately form who we're. "Yet you're with me right here, with me the following back, / the place neither that moon nor you exist, yet reside / tethered to this reminiscence composed of words."
These are poems unafraid to be swish and fascinating. They reach an insurance and balance infrequent in modern poetry, whereas their cautious stability of disappointment and pleasure reminds the reader of the tough negotiations we make in life.
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Additional resources for The View We're Granted
Sample text
Chinatown That night over dinner when he told me about the affair that he’d been having as his wife lay dying, her lungs awash with cancer, his voice betraying a wave of guilt that would soon pull him under, I thought of Chinatown, and how Jack Nicholson can’t see the future as the past coming at him, Faye Dunaway being no more than the ravishing vehicle of his own familiar doom. The evil we do can seem so accidental, our best intentions somehow misleading us, and yet John Huston’s craggy gentility is there to remind us how very petty and self-serving great wrongs often are.
Calico and chintz, prints and palampores, mordants and madders locked up in their dyes, an evening spent stitching blocks of color was one less wasted in the lanterned dark surrounded by wind, snowdrifts rippling the rocky fields under stars as white as cotton tufting against the indigo black of a dream of wandering Delectable Mountains, their gardens and orchards, vineyards and peace. 47 II Shiloh, Shenandoah, Antietam, Bull Run— Grays and Blues soon threaded by history, trenches, like cording, wound through a landscape knotted by bodies fixed permanently in crimsons.
32 Marking Time Denise Evelyn Filkins, 1959–2001 Five years have passed, no, six since that early spring when, having heard you’d died, I stood alone beneath a full moon drifting through a cloudless sky beyond your leaving, its hard mercurial sheen now falling on the dewy fields, now glimmering yet upon the lake, augmented by the dark secluded shadows inked below its passing. And still you’re gone. The moment, like all others, sportive in its little hermit’s game of hideand-seek, as at my desk a line familiar as “The day is come when I again repose” can set me remembering that you went to bed thinking you’d wake up, but didn’t, or maybe did and found yourself tossing in that murky black where the fretful stir unprofitable.