Mass of the Forgotten

James Tolan

• Éditeur: Autumn House Press
• Année: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781637680186
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: Poetry

James Tolan's debut full-length collection exhibits eloquent and direct language to explore family trauma and personal memory. Tolan has a truly unique voice and his poems offer readers something they won't find elsewhere.

1

Red Walls

Where I come from

we take bricks

one by one.

We take them red

and muddied

from the earth.

Where I come from

we take bricks

from the earth.

We take them

one by one.

Where I come from

masons worked.

Ground grew up,

ate what

they left behind.

Where I come from

bricks got swallowed.

And it’s our job

to loose them

from the soil.

Where I come from

each takes his bricks

and builds a wall

to protect

what we’ve been given,

to make special

those we invite in.

Where I come from

the odor of one city

mixes with others

on the wind

that finds its way.

Where I come from

a wolf blows hot

against the walls all day

and bricks are how

we build a home.

Where I come from

hunches grow

from safe places

in the soil, and a soul

builds walls to protect

what must not die.

Where I come from walls

are a kind of flesh

and it’s a blessing

to be invited in.

Where I come from

is red bricks from here.

Genius Loci

You are cold and must choose

among shelter, wool, and fire.

Choose the wool. There is much

you do not know. The wind

is strong and cold and there are

those among us waiting

for habits to emerge,

drawing lots as to the nature

of your comfort. We are many,

our patience long. What is it

you truly desire? How long

are you willing to wait? Choose

the wool. Fire burns all night

and you have yet to learn

much of what it means to dwell.

How Far

Among the pines in summer,

a fragrance before the rain.

At nightfall, a silence

between the boughs.

Even the insects of the high

branches are without a sound.

We are only partly dressed

as wind begins to stir

the grass around our knees.

Where is my left shoe?

How far are we from home?

Western Civilization

I think it would be a good idea.

–Mahatma Gandhi

Water runs seaward.

Wind roils and keens.

Home is lifted up

wherever the sky

is long. A child calls.

Fire offers. Flame

gathers fat and ash.

The old grieve what

does not return. Men

hunt wolves wherever

fields green, rain falls,

and oak grow wide.

The land, hollow now.

Nothing left to howl.

The city like

a gleaming cancer

covers what once

was only life.

Green leaves grow

so warily. The dog

no longer bays.

The moon a kind

of memory. His pack

no longer his.

The Forest of My Hair

Twenty-eight in the flesh

but in a mirror all I can see

is a boy after his first crew cut,

five years old and wondering

what happened to his hair,

disbelieving it would ever

grow back, as the barber

and his grandfather promised,

while he wept, silently,

trembling air through his lips,

pointing at his hair

strewn across a tiled floor.

My grandfather unwrapped

sour balls for both of us

and, leaving his Falcon behind,

walked with me to the woods.

These woods, he said, are yours.

The...

Table des matières

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• The Wind Will Undo Us
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• Acknowledgments