The ham flowers have veins and are rimmed in rind, each petal a little
meat sunset. I deny all connection with the ham flowers, the
barge floating by loaded with lard, the white flagstones like platelets
in the blood-red road. I'll put the calves in the coats so the ravens can't
gore them, bandage up the cut gate &; when the wind rustles its
muscles, I'll gather the seeds and burn them. But then I see a horse
lying on the side of the road and think You are sleeping, You are sleeping,
I will make you be sleeping. But if I didn't make the ham flowers, how can
I make him get up? I made the ham flowers. Get up, dear animal.
Here is your pasture flecked with pink, your oily river, your bleeding
barn. Decide what to look at and how. If you lower your lashed,
the blood looks like mud. If you stay, I will find you fresh hay.
This week, in scouring NPR for new and interesting podcasts to listen to while working in the studio, I came across Bookworm--in which the host, Michael Silverblatt (who is sort of wonderfully zany at times, and truly these are worth listening to because of his voice...) interviews writers. I listened to a couple great ones, but this interview with Matthea Harvey has been important to my thinking this week. Silverblatt speaks to her about the above poem and through their conversation we get a fascinating dialogue about the potential unwieldiness (and wildness) of human imagination.
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