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Hotel
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About This Book
Hotel is a wonderful debut pamphlet from 2018 Eric Gregory award winning poet Ali Lewis. In short, intricate verse, his poems tackle the complexities of modern relationships and city living with great self-deprecation, not a little light-heartedness, and dashes of the surreal. But there is depth here too. In this connected century, with so many eyes on you, with so many opinions and agendas being made vocal, what is the best way to be, as a partner, a friend, a colleague? And what will happen if you get it wrong? The domestic lives large in these works, whether in rooms and halls offices or in the world beyond. Ali Lewi s is a fresh new voice in poetry and is here for the long haul. Read, and you'll see why.
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Gloss
A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
â from âThings Shouldnât Be So Hardâ by Kay Ryan
A life should leave
but not be gone;
should remain
in grief
and memories
and stuff,
but it doesnât.
In this, at least,
weâre reprieved.
A life should leave
deep tracks
that, old and dry
then fresher,
lead us
to familiar
sunchased backs,
but it doesnât:
nowhere, where
they are, lacks
deep tracks,
ruts where she
or he or they walked.
We should
have portraits
but instead have keys â
icons for face,
charm, character
as for church,
river, sea:
ruts where she
went out and back
(or he, or they)
as words then claggy ash.
How can we grieve
accurately?
What is the knack?
A trick
birthday
candle that
went out and back.
The Diamond Cutter
Coming home one afternoon, the diamond cutter
saw his absent loverâs hand grafted to the wrist
of a stranger in the market. It was not crudely done:
even he, trained from birth to see epiphyses
in faultless rocks could not discern the join, or say
for certain where she stopped and the miscreant began,
but the fingertips, he knew, were hers, the elbowâs
crease, he knew, was not, and that freckled wristâŚ
that freckled wrist, he studied every night for twenty
years, through a microscope balanced on their marriage
bed, until, one sweat dawn, chisel to hand, he found
the hidden octahedral plane and brought his mallet down.
Wild Fig
Sometimes I feel I grew you, tended you,
in the same way Iâve raised seeds,
kidding myself I made it all happen,
when I have seen laden fig trees
grow out of the red dust on boulders,
when all you ever needed
was light and space and the earth,
which I was not responsible for,
that was simply near me, lying around,
and that you could have got from anyone
who left you the right kind of alone.
Alone, I think there must have been
a last time I sat you at our table
and fed you. Tender sapling, tall fig.
No one ever waters a tree.
...Table of contents
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Pressure
- Carpet
- Sonnet
- Typhoon Lagoon
- Making Love to the Knife Thrower
- Test Scenario
- The Englishman
- Free Will
- Fractal Date
- The Best Thing About Falling
- The Past
- S & M
- Gloss
- The Diamond Cutter
- Wild Fig
- Putting the World Away
- Expanding Universe
- Is it, our relationship, even a thing?
- Love Poem to Your Self-Sufficiency
- Acknowledgements