By Klug, Nate
the place I-95 meets The Pike,
a ponderous thunderhead flowered
stewed a minute, then flipped
like a flash card, tattered
edges crinkling in, linings so dark
with over the top bright
that, status, ready, on the overpass edge,
the onlooker couldn’t decide
till the top, or maybe then,
what was once published and what have been hidden.
utilizing numerous kinds and attaining a variety of musical results, Nate Klug’s Anyone traces the unraveling of astonishment upon small scenesnatural and household, political and religiousacross America’s East and Midwest. The book’s identify foregrounds the anonymity it seeks via numerous capability: first, via shut statement (a concrete observed, a goshawk, a bicyclist); and, moment, through translation (satires from Horace and Catullus, and excerpts from Virgil’s Aeneid). Uniquely between modern poetry volumes, Anyone demonstrates fluency within the paradoxes of a spiritual life: To stand someday / outdoors my religion . . . or hold ready / to be claimed in it.” Engaged with theology and the classics yet by no means abstruse, all of the whereas the poems stay grounded within the exceptional, actual global of what it really is to believe: / moods, part moods, / swarming, then darting loose.”
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Additional resources for Anyone
25 In Calico Rock, Arkansas Matthew 26:73 From No Jake Brake and No Barn Burn on to Peppersauce and Greasy Slim old East Calico now a ghost town so anyone’s language shall reveal him decrepit stones once City Jail tells iron sign the words still welded kept and lost in Calico Rock 26 Novitiate for Matt (Brother Isaac) Entire Thursdays in your room. Morning’s easy, now afternoon with its sense of sand leaking from your fist: holes in prayer everywhere you’d already filled them. Breathing out, you think not of the Psalms but lazy dogs as sunlight forks and darts across the floor—ambiguous flashes of oak roots under water or, lacunae intact, a scroll from Qumran, swallowed by a bunch of passing clouds.
No wonder human praise won’t stick. No wonder anger’s more often summoned, its hum, ready-made, that steadies my head like hospital television, throwing blue rumor for hours at no one. 50 Observer Not seeing me, not even looking, K. on her silver cruiser charms her way through the last long moment of the changing light: snow boots and a Seychelles Warbler’s old blue tights, a rolled-up yoga mat in her basket wobbling like a wild tiller as she pedals. It feels illicit and somewhat right to stand across the intersection without shouting her name, or even waving.
Between his mother’s shed and the sidewalk fence lies the circle of dead grass he stalks every afternoon, gazing up and around as if freshly hurled onto the sand of Gérôme’s Colosseum. He first selects a sawed-off golf club from their wooden stand, wrapping it behind his rippling shoulders, then, as the sitar music picks up from his boom box, charms the metal stick down one arm like a rigid snake. Slow swoops towards Warrior II tame whatever rage he might have transferred onto his instrument, or it to him.
Anyone by Klug, Nate