By Peter Campion
Big Avalanche Ravine
Just the caution mild on a blue crane.
Just mountains. simply the mist that skimmed
them either and bled to silver rain
lashing the condominiums.
But there it sank on me. This urge
to carve a existence from the lengthy expanse.
To carry a few flooring opposed to the surge
of sheer fabric. It was once a tense
and continual and steel shiver.
And it stayed, that tremor, small and stark
as the noise of the hidden river
fluming its aspect opposed to the dark.
In his moment choice of poems, Peter Campion writes concerning the fight of constructing a lifestyles in the US, in regards to the urge “to carve an area” for romance and relatives from out of the colossal sweep of contemporary existence. Coursing among the political and private with impressive ease, Campion writes at one second of his worrying connection to the general public political constitution, symbolized through Robert McNamara (who makes a startling visual appeal within the name poem), then within the subsequent, of a haunting reverie underneath a magnolia tree, representing his impulse to flee the tradition altogether. He strikes via a number of kinds simply as without problems, as convinced in rhymed quatrains as in narrow, tensed loose verse. In The Lions, Campion achieves a fusion of narrative constitution and lyric depth that proves him to be one of many best possible poets of his iteration.
Praise for Other People
“Campion is a poet who is familiar with that what a poet sees is not anything with out a mix of formal prowess and emotional insight.”—David Biespiel, The Oregonian
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Extra info for The Lions
27 • The coldness must have seeped beneath the plush of assurance. Purple leaves of the maple brushing our window. “Strawberry Fields” on the Hi Fi. John Lennon’s “Let me take you down. . ” as the tricycle zoomed me through amber halls. The world had amplitude. Then the sound of my parents in another room. Their battling a whip lash of operatic gush and silence. In snatches as the fabric ripped it seemed so clear: the dread that clawed me watching the fire eat the colors out of the demonstrators’ hands .
Only this suspicion ripples through our circles of lamp glow (as you sweep the faint sweat from your forehead and flip another page in your novel) this sense that all we own is the invisible web of our words and touches silence and fabulation all make believe and real as the two does out scavenging through rose hips and shattered dry wall: • 25 • their presence in the space around them liveliest just before they vanish. • 26 • 19 8 0 : I r a n At first the demonstration seemed far off: a caterpillar brushing against the buildings.
Even slapping the book down and loafing back through the Little Europe of our hotel (past marble columns, djellabas and sharp Chanel) I can almost replace the present. Fantasia of passageways. A gun barrel peeking from palm fronds. Blood leaking down the palatial staircase. And then the make believe dissolves. The elevator’s polished gold distorts my face to glops of biomorphic syrup. So many years before the words arrive. Before I pull it back as memory. I want to scream. To claw the surfaces.