By Mark Wunderlich
During this debut assortment, Mark Wunderlich creates a primary metaphor of the physique as anchor for the soul―but it's a physique at risk, one set in movement throughout the panorama of wish. In poems situated in New York's summer time streets, within the barren snowfields of Wisconsin, and alongside stretches of Cape Cod's open coastline, the sweetheart speaks to the loved within the type of lyrical missives, arguments, and intimate monologues. The poems communicate with one another; pictures repeat and echo in an impact that's unusual and lovely. Uniting the gathering is an unique and constant voice―one that has chanced on a difficult received stance opposed to the haphazard and negotiates with what's requisite and enough. The Anchorage is a set of affection poems for the tip of the millennium and takes as its matters the dichotomies of affection and disorder, the city and the agricultural, gay hope and familial pressure. Wunderlich faces the complexities of latest existence via poems which are either gentle and striving and that depart the reader with a picture of the physique as a door during which you may go beyond the affliction of the realm.
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Additional resources for The anchorage: poems
Sample text
I could sleep lying atop that animal, all iron smell, shifting from foot to foot. All hay. What would you take? What things? L. says Fire, and I understand that, and would take that too. Architecture, fretwork for structure. The miniature tea set for delicacy. Opera for blood. Iron for fortitude and weight. Linen as a reminder of skin. Crystal for simple music. Tin. Leather for harnessing. Paper. Milk. A boat. I'll stop one short. Ron Vawter is gone, I imagine you've heard. He was on an airplane, over the ocean when he was taken.
The stars shone down, while the moon rose up out of the bay. And there was your face, come to me from the dead. The summer I turned sixteen I rode a school bus two hundred miles to an abandoned medical school on the edge of a small state college. Badger Boys Statemock government. I endured the compulsory sports, the scooping chain-link bunks, patriotic music blaring at lunch time. The state coroner came to show us slidesa cautionary taleof the worst deaths he'd witnessedmen twisted into the power take-offs of tractors, a whole family overtaken by silo gas and fallen to their deaths while attempting rescue.
I look up at this boy, at his brown face and wheat-blond head, and my heart catches and I panic. In rest stops all across America, men wait in cars for sex to happen to them, the burning cities of their radios glowing, the voices ringing out like instructions for a new route home. There is that altitude that happens after sex, a heady chime like crystal, and thumbing their vinyl steering wheels I imagine the men hear it too. I have stopped to read the graffiti on the bathroom's beetle-colored walls.