The Unrequited: Poems (Kathryn a. Morton Prize in Poetry)

Comer, Carrie St. George

ISBN 10: 1889330949 / ISBN 13: 9781889330945

Published by U.S.A.: Sarabande Books, 2003

About this Item

This assumed first edition has been inscribed and dated on the title page to Nall ( could that be the well know artist?) There is the slightest bit of bumping at the bottom of the spine; the book is fine minus. The dust jacket is AS NEW.

Seller Inventory # 24232

Bibliographic Details

• Title: The Unrequited: Poems (Kathryn a. Morton Prize in Poetry)
• Publisher: U.S.A.: Sarabande Books
• Publication Date: 2003
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1889330949
• ISBN 13: 9781889330945
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition: 1st Edition
• Condition: Fine
• Dust Jacket Condition: As New
• Signed: Inscribed by Author(s)
• Seller catalogs:
  • Poetry

About this title

Synopsis

"Comer’s rhythms authenticate what she asserts. Page after page, the recognizably real and the imaginative flirt with and complement one another. . . ."—From the Foreword by Stephen Dunn

In The Unrequited Comer takes up and invigorates the line of American poetry called the "lyric surreal." The late poet James Wright was master of this mode, and Comer has a peculiarly American combination of humor and wild invention.

Carrie St. George Comer received her MFA from the University of Massachusetts, where she was awarded the Academy of American Poets prize and taught at Phillips Academy in Andover. She currently lives in Miami, Florida.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Vespers

On a shoulder of interstate north of here
a man wraps a small dead wolf in newspaper.
I think he sees a movement in the eye,
some kind of reflection, a cloud swelling with snow
or a three-quarter day moon, the man's own head
when he leans to see if the wolf is still breathing.
What does the man see in the eye of the wolf?
It isn't a soul, wolves don't have those.
But he lays the body in the trunk of the car,
taking his time, and returns to the road and drives
to some other place. I suppose the man owns a few acres where the wolf may be properly laid to rest.
A stem of phlox to mark the place, a brief prayer,
then back to the house with his sons,
who keep quiet because they know how hard the day
has been on their father. In his room, the sound of wolves
in snares, not a howling sound, no, a labored breath
through the nose. He walks the corridor till the sun falls
in rectangles on the floor. Beyond the trees,
pale blue mountains. Clouds breaststroke across the field.
What did the man find there, in the still black eye?
And why did he bury the wolf so close?
And will a plum tree be standing there come spring?