Emily Liebowitz writes from a language of strange crowded joyfulness. I've returned to this selection again and again, re-reading, finding new avenues to wander through. I read her poems and feel these moments of recognition that click and snap in place. Like photographs and souvenirs, old book covers and text messages, her writing jars loose long-forgotten memories from inside me. I read these poems am reminded- "we are all just sun chasing fools", and how happy I am to be so.
The previous pace lacked any road that did not circle a monument.
But a monument circles like addiction:
carries backless beating that tugged with the taste of reigned surface – a home in which it belongs.
It is confounded in grandeur, quieter than a squeak composed when the finger pressed thrown pieces of an ancient accident asking an age for opportunity:
larger than mountain means to call, left endless in a crumble place.
On top it flies because of gold, about speed it cracked causing kicks in the space above. The startled sea circled like distraction.
YOUR FACE LIKE MOON FACE
Wrangling the bend, the coat of arms caught a
splayed sphere, swinging crackled. Just the left over
atrium of the otherwise prairie.
And it comes to its audience
and keeps company with friends.
The train yard, the territories—I am with you,
you have entered my dreams and sat with me at suppertime.
Try to explain to this crowd, barter reason,
point out that the new mood is all torn up.
It churns ruins’ river potable. It becomes
public square foresight, a big-band edict.
Just cement maneuvers contracting weaves
of wrinkled boughs, bending closer
all these friends that are so far off shore.
This mood mentioned apologies. Corn fields.
Followed forts pathway attack I should give
Nebraska a better chance. They are so sorry.
I am sorry too. We are all just sun chasing fools.
This middle country center is sad-land,
lending hauntless flat land that
wagoned death, picking up sticks to tie
forts together with twine winter.
Painted future is a Pacific fade
possibilities echoing parsed
colors to hang on before it
comes circling round again. Horizon
halts what seen can bring,
strings of highway numbering what it is
to know, to sprout already. Branching
landscape, bridges gate chaparrals’ collapse,
spun gold—spun in its weighted resting, loosens
the across. Bay-iron levels of
manmade mention Oakland.
At underneath there is there,
everywhere matters, all sides of a
hill are a mountain— a steep braided into
expanse, a city sewn to see the
sun surrendering west away.
LATE IN THE GAME
Stationed to search houses,
they found nothing
but the charm of an abandoned house.
Clever window work, I step on
everyday. Weakening locked habit.
Irrigated and addicted. Expanse
has to be more than movie’s westward dance hall.
I won’t stay here
land locked in anxiety. Let me
burrow into peaking perspective.
I will do anything. I will order
a drink and let the boys be everything.
Emily Liebowitz's work has appeared in Lana Turner,jubilat, and various other journals. Her Chapbook In Any Map was recently published by The Song Cave. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she was an Alberta Kelly Fellow, she has worked in arts communications for the Brooklyn Museum and the Academy of American Poets. She co-edits LVNG Magazine and lives in Brooklyn, NY.