in the yoke of my body...
Lynda Hull
At Thirty
Whole years I knew only nights: automats
& damp streets, the Lower East Side steep
with narrow rooms where sleepers turn beneath
alien skies. I ran when doorways spoke
rife with smoke & zippers. But it was only the heart’s
racketing flywheel stuttering I want, I want
until exhaustion, until I was a guest in the yoke
of my body by the last margin of land where the river
mingles with the sea & far off daylight whitens,
a rending & yielding I must kneel before, as
barges loose glittering mineral freight
& behind me façades gleam with pigeons
folding iridescent wings. Their voices echo
in my voice naming what is lost, what remains.
– from Ghost Money
*
The brilliance of Lynda Hull is always clear. The voice is real. The place is real. And the connections are unmistakable.
9 comments:
wow, I really like this poem, Sam. Thanks for sharing.
I love Hull, and this poem. A nice quiet, thoughtfulness for a foggy friday morning. Thanks for posting.
I love this poem. Lynda Hull is one of my touchstones.
Thank you, Sam, for introducing me to Hull's poetry, to this poem.
I'll be carrying this particular line around inside me for the rest of my life:
"But it was only the heart's racketing flywheel stuttering I want I want"
Thanks for the read & comments.
Hull is one of poetry’s immeasurable losses. Her writing is intense, direct, and mostly perfect – at least for me. She was a master writer. The Only World, the work she finished just before she died, is one of the strongest collections I’ve ever read.
i've always been obsessed with lynda hull. thanks for this.
Obsession is the perfect fit with her poetry, G. Thanks for the visit.
Thanks for this inclusion, Sam. I actually hadn't read any of her work before and picked up the Graywolf collection yesterday on the strength of this one poem.
That's great, MC. You will meet a strong voice.
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