By John Peck
In a rustic the place a lot of the admired poetry seeks to verify the fleeting current and its altering values, John Peck's poetry comes as a massive, if not likely, present. Peck's verse offers the playing cards of the fragmentary, ideogramic, juxtapositional, and elliptical during the deck of quite often discursive syntax. Echoing past due excessive Modernism, Peck's paintings, within the phrases of novelist Joseph McElroy, is "a method of seeing things," convinced "in the packed vividness of the referential."
Avoiding the slender identification- or group-specific point of view of a few of his contemporaries, Peck invitations us to go into the bigger humanscape and unearth with him left out connections to our shared earlier and to each other. In Contradance, his 9th assortment, Peck's ardour for inquiry and historic mirrored image hasn't ever been more advantageous or extra fantastically embodied.
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Extra info for Contradance (Phoenix Poets)
Set there below invisibly . . its heaviness past measuring . . like Ives’s Unanswered Question, all a-hang, haze and mass of anti-matter, or of anti-question. For the record says they were puzzled. And that his next act was to stand on Jordan bank extending his right hand, filling it, sower to the river. The verb for what happened next has gone downstream. Before them, though, it became present and put forth oodles of fruit whether figs, oranges, or olives a gap now hides, and whether the sudden orchard rooted, trunks browing water, or bobbed and stilted away.
Then the rathe oil of action. 54 incomings On the curve of the airfoil yet as gloss deep in that metal sun smear drags illumination firmly across wrinkles, rivers, grace of the drillers on the rigs, of jungles pressed into black pools by rock masses: over that hazed and riveted convex mirror for the sky’s face the newswoman Politkovskaya saw nausea, poison working in from tea served to her on the Rostov flight, she, called to Beslan to dicker for Chechens who had sequestered eleven hundred children, all at school.
He said Yes, Yes, to weavings climbing that blue, Ecuador, Guatemala, El Salvador in yarns orange and ochre, So many stories. Which are not mine. What we breathed together was smoke dispersed by five-hundred-pounders behind three smears slanting over my desk, the sky oily, a man in shirtsleeves crouching near a girl, it might be in Central Park after she has lost something, his arm around her. That was in the first year which by then had six replicas: the explosion inches out rallantando with a rushing sound stilled into steady quiet for that delegated abū is sober, halting on the way, great is the power of the way though the whoosh rolls over them, its hot knuckle flung by the old projectors 44 onto wobbly screens, our teachers wiggling the tripods, numbers in black rings flicking backward to cross-haired zero with hairs squirming to stay in place then ripping upward leaving arctic marzipan, the reel whirring, no one moving.