By Bruce Bond
The poems in BLIND RAIN remodel the recognized and usual into anything surreal and new. With spare, unadorned language, Bond complicates what it truly is to be either certain to the area and but unfastened inside of that international, the best way the mind's eye deepens our engagements and but bargains a few degree of distance whilst. the gathering opens with a number of elegies, lots of which predicament the final days and demise of his father. Later poems discover the ability of resourceful reaction as reimbursement for loss, targeting poetry, insanity, and tune, which satirically consoles, because it is a sort of loss itself. BLIND RAIN comprises "The Return," a protracted meditation that hinges at the double experience of the notice "true" as suggesting either "the genuine" and "the loyal," and so participates, frequently via own and cultural narrative, in a postmodern dialog concerning the strength of returning as a manner of grounding us ethically and emotionally to the area to hand.
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Extra info for Blind Rain: Poems
Even as her fingers knotted up with age she felt the radio waves inside them. 29 Her whole body was one big radio, first with the clarity of one song, then two, then a blizzard of the many ivories and voices, the all too sweet and adolescent growl, the news flash patter from the burning cities, the chant of the blood beneath it all thumping the floor like an angry neighbor, the song of the worried keys, the rifled wallet, the fool’s joy in rainy weather, the hymn of praise she buried in a book, here, now, the one she clings to and will not open.
Don’t go, don’t go, the echo marked time 30 as I went, thinking the river might calm the mind with its constant leaving, the cold amnesia of its shine, a flock of clouds grazing upstream as I gazed lost between a sense of solitude and the weariness of traveling, always with that one far voice, that one room she could not leave for fear of being alone. 4. No, she says, to the pill, the spoon, the prayer, the fever, no to the sun that hems a nervous curtain, no to the cries of boys in a distant yard, to the son’s cruel talk of hope and weather, no to the voice that is not there, to the thousand ears of leaves around her, no to the trip, the fly, to the hired help arriving, sleepless, worn by the call of a small gold bell, no, she says with her head like the blind musician sinking into a soft chord, the kind of no that says, yes, it’s here, stronger than expected, the bass of it opening up beneath you, the hush that takes you with it as it fades.
36 Grove The things I do to wake just shy of what I love, to keep from stepping through the day into some dead heaven of melancholia, no clouds, no wants, no crackle of flags, just the blue unmeasuring of hours to hold me like a fly in the milk of southern Texas. In time first mornings drift so far away they crest the past horizon, at the rim of what I can’t remember. Which is why I see in them such bright coins of early light scattered by the olive trees. A child kneels beneath their branches drawing shapes of women in the dirt with a stick.
Blind Rain: Poems by Bruce Bond