By Matthew Schwartz
What you feel
for the sustenance
inclined to a source,
enamored of singularity,
quickly right here and quickly
gone, shadow from which
the body's braveness comes.
I slapped one on my leg.
Its blood glowed.
Blessings for the arms follows quite a few speakers—often disabled audio system, who by no means as soon as determine themselves as items of grievance or self-pity—through the haunted dreamscape of “normalcy.” certainly, desires are non-stop presences during this strangely sophisticated and chic debut assortment that juxtaposes actual conditions with the gigantic inside lifetime of the mind's eye. the themes of Blessings for the fingers are genuine and imagined confrontations—and reconciliations—between relatives, neighbors, strangers, and animals. Matthew Schwartz’s quasi-autobiographical verse complicates and clarifies the feelings ready simply beneath the styles and expectancies of the audio system’ sunlight lives, the place anger, pleasure, corporeality, and mortality all appear to collide. For Schwartz, poetry is a sleight of hand that retains the reader guessing via approximately imperceptible shifts among current imaginative and prescient and absent truth. Blessings for the Hands is a lyric reckoning of the stress among the lifestyles we're given and the existence we're decided to lead.
“Blessings for the Hands is emotionally robust and imaginatively wild, targeted, deeply relocating, with out an ort of self-pity, and pervaded by means of ‘compassion right down to your fingertips’ (which Chekhov acknowledged is ‘the in basic terms strategy’ either to put in writing and to live). This perspective of imaginative and prescient is sharp sufficient to unify a lot disparate material. The poems are transparent and musical and hence a excitement to learn and reread regardless of their gravity. I imagine this can be lasting work.”—Michael Ryan
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Extra info for Blessings for the hands
53 • My parents called me out and I forgot what it was I suddenly knew. I knew it would be there for me some later time. Meeting-place, holding-place, wayward angel, car window. • 54 • Both of us young, my father swung me, when I cried, to a song called “Communication Breakdown,” the singer screaming misunderstanding, screaming the crescendo of sweet, consolable grief. Years later, no words, so we screamed and muddied them, a first departure from trust, one staccato beat, one high note searing through the body, abandonment played again and again to get at the words, anger stirring in the lost thing.
55 • Body said the dream of the world is the fullness it holds within itself. What you feel reveals you. Watch for the sustenance inclined to a source, enamored of singularity, quickly here and quickly gone, shadow from which the body’s courage comes. Fireflies apparently stumbling. I slapped one on my leg. Its blood glowed.
What are my feet? Where is my name? • 29 • II Suspicions That the dream classroom is a real classroom. That I want the same frustration, that cold, cramped seat, the same chemistry formulas or history I haven’t studied because I haven’t learned not to want, or that wanting is a path or nothing. That I call it something and want it to stay so I can learn it in the good teacher’s lecture, the crux, the trick, the turn, the stop. But I’m here and there is no teacher or everything teaches, the desks, the paper, the margins, the wall, and someone I love knocks on the wall from the next room.