By Roseanne Carrara
In Roseanne Carrara's "A more recent Wilderness", the world's wealthy and compelling earlier buckles and swells underneath our ft, and its abiding impression rises like geothermal steam into the current. robust voices from historical past and legend factor forth and mingle with our generic, circadian atmosphere. those poems serve to remind us that our destiny needn't price us our previous, that our capability for mind don't need to lessen our simple humanity, and that civilisations don't need to be equipped on the price of the traditional setting within which they thrive.
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Extra info for A Newer Wilderness
And it wasn’t sex he’d come for or anything like it, but a fight towards a death of a sort I could barely master – his wings flashing, his punishing my side with that tail that sent cross charges circling around my stomach. And despite his blue-eyed, swollen, pitiful look, despite his eyes full of remorse, not for anything he had done, though, perhaps for what I wanted, I hid my fear and my own pity, and matched his stinging with my fists and my unbolted knees until blood censored from the holes where his feathers had stood – glistening.
I suppose we like it, too, for the musty walnuts we gather here, occasionally. As for these, there is very little getting at them. Outpace the crows and the tree rats, catch what has been dropped below before your head starts reeling, and you are still faced with drying them in the sun, and husking them, too, maybe by running over their green bodies with your car in reverse or by beating them hard and rolling over them with a pin and board. After that, you sort out the few whose shells don’t appear worm-eaten and have your go.
But you’re tops with this phenomenon. Why ask anyone else? Nothing escaped your nurse, and you can tell the wind was north when your mother died. The night of your birth, your father cried, good seamen, clung tight to the mast like a toddler to a mother’s skirts, clung to the mast with a king’s hands because that tempest had already been fed your mother’s body. You tell and even repeat to yourself how your father stood on a deck halfbursting with ocean. And it does not escape you to herald what the canvas climbers said or how they whistled down to match the water’s confusion.
A Newer Wilderness by Roseanne Carrara