Always Die Before Your Mother: Poems by Patrick Woodcock

By Patrick Woodcock

Deftly relocating from the stifling warmth and politics of the Arabian Peninsula to the darkest corners of South America's rainforest, this choice of poetry grants a searing observation on humanity's many failings. Politics, faith, societal constraints, and familial relationships are all fodder for those pointedly written poems.

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From Bookslut
"Adrienne wealthy is difficult, as a poet and as a philosopher. The poems in cell Ringing within the Labyrinth are full of traps and snares and difficulties that flow in circles. She’s so deft, in a few enigmatic method, that she manages to tug off references and turns of word that might sink the other poet’s paintings, that may appear pretentious or overwrought in different fingers. within the nine-part “Draft #2006,” that may be my favourite piece during this quantity, she fees Karl Marx’s Theses on Feuerbach partially 4, visits a farmer swallowing pesticide in Andhra Pradesh partly six, and talks in regards to the “thereness” of a specific thing partially 9 -- and but someway, via anything edgier and brainier than magic, the poem is rarely heavy-handedly political or philosophical. It’s simply thought-provoking. And round. And tough. you may sit down stewing over the 1st line -- “Suppose we got here again as ghosts asking the unasked questions” -- for hours, after which there are principles and photographs that offer natural excitement with their secret. The “border of poetry” is “dreamfaces blurring horrorlands. ” In “rooms of mahogany and leather,/ conversations open in foreign code. Thighs and buttocks to open later by way of/ association. ” there's something undying approximately this poem, although it’s approximately timeliness:

They requested me, is that this time worse than another.

I stated, for whom?

Wanted to teach them whatever. whereas I wrote at the
chalkboard they drifted out. I grew to become again to an empty room.

Maybe I couldn’t write quickly sufficient. perhaps it used to be too soon.

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These impersonae, besides the fact that we name them
won’t invade us as on motion picture screens

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we examine them or don’t from in the milky gauze

of our tilted gazing
but they don’t glance again and we can't damage them

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I am not like them. I am old, hunched, and crippled. My neighbour’s shadows are false. MUTTERS [looking down]: What will be in my soup now that my cabbage has been stolen? 36 GRANDMOTHER’S CORPSE Sarajevo is an open casket and like my grandmother’s corpse they’re dressing up the parliament building. Soon there will be pulleys, scaffolding, and men working on it like they did my grandmother’s dress and hair. Soon it will rest with its mouth sewn shut, a reflection, cold and dead, of what had been.

I’ve watched cows and mules limp by for the last half-hour. I ordered rum and cigarettes and now sit watching an old woman struggling with a flower arrangement twice as big as she is. Two hours ago, I was in that same cemetery taking photographs of graves and burnt crosses piled upon each other, like those who couldn’t find shelter in Armero. I saw the bleakest of portraits — humidity can twist any smile into a scowl. I found the rain -stained letters of the living taped to headstones. They were too faded, and my Spanish too limited, for me to read.

I’ll say to the judge . . [spits] THINKS: I can roll a cigarette out of thin air, but look into my eyes, they are not fathomless, there is no magic. No one knows the ghosts that build this volatility in me — my ability to stand up in nothing, see beyond nothing. I am not like them. I am old, hunched, and crippled. My neighbour’s shadows are false. MUTTERS [looking down]: What will be in my soup now that my cabbage has been stolen? 36 GRANDMOTHER’S CORPSE Sarajevo is an open casket and like my grandmother’s corpse they’re dressing up the parliament building.

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