Thursday, July 21, 2011

Window, by Adélia Prado

Is the only edition of Adélia Prado's poetry in print, and in English, really The Alphabet in the Park, which must be 20 years old by now? Can this be true? We here at Poetry Crossfire! hope we're wrong about that. Meanwhile, let's turn to our panel.

Our guests:

Adam Fell is the author of I Am Not a Pioneer (H_NGM_N Books). He currently teaches at Edgewood College in Madison, WI, where he is co-curator of the Monsters of Poetry Reading Series.



Matt Hart is the author of three books of poetry, including the recently released Light-Headed (BlazeVOX). He is the editor and co-founder of Forklift, Ohio: A Journal of Poetry, Cooking, and Light Industrial Safety. He teaches writing and aesthetics at the Art Academy of Cincinnati.


The poem:

Window
by Adélia Prado

A pretty word, window.
Window: the wingbeat of the yellow butterfly.
Two carelessly painted wooden shutters open out,
clumsy blue window.
I jump in and out of you, ride you like a horse,
my foot dragging the ground.
Window on the open world, from where I saw
Anita, expecting, get married, Pedro Cisterna’s
mother urinating in the rain, from where I saw
my love arrive on a bicycle and say to my father:
I have only the best intentions regarding your daughter.
O wooden-latched window, child’s play for thieves,
peephole on my soul,
I look into my heart.

Crossfire:

Adam Fell: What if your peephole heart looks out into a hallway? What if in this hallway two prom kids forever unzip each other for the first time? What if there is forever laughter? What if instead of laughter there is forever shattering? What if instead of shattering there is incandescing into song? I can feel it coming in the air tonight, hold on.


Matt Hart: I've been waiting for this moment all my life -- "the colors fade from red to green" -- what if I never wrote any of this? What if this is really just thinking through the glass to the sky and the birds, and beyond that, thinking through the birds and the sky to clouds and Black Flag's The Process of Weeding Out, the obliterated angles (not angels), grass growing in my pockets... One time I pissed off (both senses) a roof.

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