By Vijay Seshadri
Winner of the 2014 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry
Vijay Seshadri’s new poetry is guaranteed and professional, his line as canny as ever. In an array of poetic kinds from the rhyming lyric to the philosophical meditation to the prose essay, 3 Sections confronts difficult divisions of latest life—a wayward heritage, an indeterminate destiny, and a gift of desirous to outthink time. this is often a rare e-book, witty and vivacious, by means of considered one of America’s most sensible poets.
The long-awaited 3rd poetry booklet by means of Vijay Seshadri, “one of the main revered poets operating in the USA today” - Time Out New York
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Additional info for 3 Sections: Poems
Stone sky. Stone sea. Nobody. Kneeling, she digs out the sand, digs out the stone with broken fingernails. Why unearth statues from the dust? The mouth of the dead is dead. On the carpet she joins the pieces of her endless jigsaw puzzle. And she's always missing one piece, only one, and no one knows where it is, a secret. The guests talk in the drawing room. Wind howls in the shadowy garden. Buried at the foot of the tree ... Who? The key, the word, the ring .. But now it's late, everyone has left, only her mother at the foot of the stairs is a flame that vanishes and the tide of darkness grows and erases the stairsteps one by one and the garden drifts off and she drifts off sailing through the night ...
39 POEMS [1941-1948] or the endless sentence half-hanging from the spider's thread of silence opens a corridor for him to return: we hear his footsteps, he climbs, he stops ... And someone among us gets up and closes the door shut. But he, on the other side, insists. He lies in wait in every recess and hollow, he wanders among yawns, at the edge of things. Though we shut the door, he insists. Today I remember the dead in my house. Faces forgotten in my mind, faces without eyes, staring eyes, emptied out: Am I searching in them for my secret, the god of blood my blood moves, the god of ice, the god who devours me?
She gives up trying and sits in a little chair waiting for someone to open: Lord, open the doors of your cloud, open the scars badly healed, rain on my withered breasts, rain on the bones and rocks, let your seed break through the rind, the scab of my crusted blood. Take me back to the night of the Origin, from your detached rib let me be an opaque planet your light sets aflame. F. de Sade) afin que ... 'esprit des hommes ... Testamento de Sade Note has desvanecido. Las letras de tu nombre son todavia una cicatriz que no se cierra, un tatuaje de infamia sobre ciertas frentes.
3 Sections: Poems by Vijay Seshadri