The Nightlife

Poems

Elise Paschen

• Publisher: Red Hen Press
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN:
  9781597090278
• eBook ISBN:
  9781597095761
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

The author of Infidelities and Bestiary presents a collection poetry about what is hidden in the night.
In Elise Paschen's prize-winning poetry collection,  Infidelities, Richard Wilbur wrote that the poems "…draw upon a dream life which can deeply tincture the waking world." In her third poetry book,  The Nightlife, Paschen once again taps into dream states, creating a narrative which balances between the lived and the imagined life. Probing the tension between "The Elevated" and the "Falls," she explores troubled love and relationships, the danger of accident and emotional volatility. At the heart of the book is a dream triptych which retells the same encounter from different perspectives, the drama between the narrative described and the sexual tension created there.
The Nightlife demonstrates Paschen's versatility and formal mastery as she experiments with forms such as the pantoum, the villanelle and the tritina, as well as concrete poems and poems in free verse. Throughout this poetry collection, she interweaves lyric and narrative threads, creating a contrapuntal story-line. The book begins with a dive into deep water and ends with an opening into sky.
"In lean and supple lyrics darted with alarming rhymes and laced with skirmishing patterns, Paschen . . . achieves breathtaking perfection of craft and form. . . . As these poised, elegant, wry, and knowing poems crisply unlock and gracefully unfurl, they reveal fresh perceptions at every turn." — Booklist
"Not only a beautiful and inventive collection, it's an important contribution to this period in American poetry. . . . This is poetry that reminds us of all the power and possibilities of poetry itself." —Laura Kasischke, winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award

II

DIVISION STREET

… Prayer book and Mother, shot themselves last Sunday.

—Gwendolyn Brooks

The spire of Holy Name Cathedral rose like a prayer

above Chicago Avenue. I thumbed a leather-bound book

in catechism class, recited the Hail Mary. Fire and

devils blazed at night. The nuns told my mother

I had a calling. On Scott Street a man lay shot

dead in our alley. It was the Gold Coast. They prided themselves

on sidewalks safe as shrines. I questioned God, the last

to leave the room. Riots flared in Cabrini Green that Sunday.

LEAR’S WIFE

… if thou shouldst not be glad,

I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb,

Sepulch’ring an adult’ress.

—William Shakespeare

He faked my death,

set up this ranch

far from my three

daughters. Suburban

hell-hole. With bracelet

on ankle, house-

arrest. At noon

the bully sun

shoulders a ripe

moon. In the dark

soaps reign. The anchors

will often flash

their glitterati

weddings. Not one

daughter has birthed

the heir. In vitro—

be damned. I hose

the lawn and count

the cars like fish

slipping their shiny

chrome along asphalt.

Which sparrow missed?

Cordelia—

my gutted heart.

SEED

Upstairs in the study, watching the grey

heron steady its legs beside the pond,

I heard your message from the hospital.

You were searching for the rabbi. Outside,

beneath a magnolia tree, the children

tried to nurse a baby mouse back to life,

squeezing goat’s milk from an eye dropper

and scattering seed from the everything

bagel into the corners of the shoebox.

You said this was your greatest fear.

At the burial, we were protected

from sunlight by outstretched umbrellas.

Your son said, “Daddy now is in the wind,”

and when we each threw petals and three shovels

of dirt into the grave, a gust blew strong

the blazing day. Your umbrella collapsed.

After you had called from the funeral home,

my father-in-law barked out orders

from the back porch, and all my grief,

the loss of every father, surged, uncapped.

Downstairs, in the garage, the children shout.

A hummingbird, caught between panes

of glass, batters turquoise wings against window.

We’re trapped inside our awkwardness.

You cup a fluttering beat in your hands,

and the bird slips back to its sky.

SKEIN

He warned they would arrive,

web-stretching between

deck chairs and table,

harnessing limbs, loose hair.

But she couldn’t hear, ignoring.

Then, she saw filigree

etched in windows, shook off

traps pulled into spun collars.

She asked, how can...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Acknowledgments
• Dedication
• Contents
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• Notes
• Biographical Note