ISSUE 30
Fall 2005

Anne Gorrick

 

Anne Gorrick’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in: American Letters and Commentary, The Cortland Review, Dislocate, Fence, Goodfoot, Gutcult, Hunger, The Seneca Review, Sulfur and word for/word. Collaborating with artist Cynthia Winika, she recently produced a limited edition artists’ book called "Swans, the ice," she said, through the Women’s Studio Workshop in Rosendale, NY. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley.
Inventing Constellations For The Mouth   Click to hear in real audio

           for MRL


          A world blue on snow, rest and grass
          We nurse frozen stars
          The river returns to me an iodine sky
          but the Seine or skin won't contain it
          River and twilight cut open the state called New York
          where the sky is a blue dress drying on the line

Bear Mountain roads inked my mouth
When the sky is iodine and the night is bitten and short on kisses
wear blue dresses to remember certain words

          The stars are pieces of ice cutting my mouth
          The glacier cuts out my mouth
          Where the sky is a blue dress drying on the line
          its hem absorbs the Hudson

I invent constellations for your mouth
We attempt to stop the glaciers
This condition called sky, the coarse thread that is New York
The world on snow, feeds us chocolate and lamb liquor
For several days, ink mountain roads cut my mouth
The night in a short skirt, short on kisses
The sky is a formal blue dress soaking up river

          The remainder is grass maintained by frozen stars
          stop the traction in glaciers
          The river turns me into an iodine sky
          but calf or skin cannot contain it
          Twilight cuts into her condition called New York

Maintain cold beginnings
lead the late glaciers in exemplary red
She to our chocolate and rum drawn in
Ink mountain roads filled with days called New York
cut into my openings

          If the sky is iodine and we feast on night, there will be kisses, skirts
          Carry the blue dresses to order to remember certain words like occurrence
          The river cuts my openings
          The glacier cuts out my openings
          Edges absorbed into river

Her skull adapted to stone
a past blue world on snow and the rest is grass
Your family has become uneven
A penumbra-ed river cuts into circumstance
The stones adapt and swear on blue dresses, the delays in you

          We are extracted from chocolate and rum
          The month of June is aligned above the Hudson
          You transport blue dresses in order to remember yourself in Washington, DC
          The stars are ice in part, the river cuts them open
          Inside blue dresses, water soaked

You invent a constellation for staring
Permit the fact that your family maintains a star
which made us freeze
Me the iodine sky you reset as river
Is it not possible to include that?
As for the river, its condition is called New York

          The dryer the sky, the bluer the dress
          The rum to which her chocolate is pulled
          Bear Mountain where the day is inked in New York
          Carry blue clothes, in order to remember words like occurrence
          The river cuts into my starts
          although it is dryer where the sky is a blue line

She spreads out, out of respect, invents a constellation
A map passes over her
Iodine freighted by sky increases the river
which spreads out again in me
We sing your damage control, the possibility of eating
The night in a cotton skirt
To think an occurrence carried blue cloth and text
In fact, she keeps the star she manufactures
as if to conceal us

          A Noh sky in iodine increases the days in me
          The glacier is so cold.  How long is an ice age?
          Our initials carved in it, ruptured
          Six hours keeps for exactly that long
          Under swearing we sing last damages
          as if we became a celestial map
          The weight of iodine in a winter sky, cotton stars

To invent constellations for the mouth
nurse on congealed stars
Mouth stuck on glaciers
A river in the dark cuts the state called New York
The night eats take out

          Wear blue dresses to remember words before they happen
          The stars are shavings of ice
          in a glass of chocolate and rum
          When the sky is a blue dress
          its backstitch soaks up river

The fair stones swear by blue dresses
We nourish frozen starts
The treatment?  A world blue with snow
The river chips ice out of her mouth
The remainder is grass
I return to you a river I cannot contain

          Iodine skies, calfskin, star-splintered
          your stones adapted
          Density cuts into circumstance, the red ink mountains
          The river cannot contain the iodine skies or calfskin for too long
          The end will remember itself as a constellation of words

I to the chocolate he extracted in rum
The message of New York in me
We fed frozen stars to our families
A river cuts into a circumstantial New York
Wrap up the month of June, and paint her nails
The glacier stops just beyond my openings

 

 

 

Paris: Where All Thursdays Go To Die    Click to hear in real audio

     after "Black Stone Lying on a White Stone" by Cesar Vallejo

I will have died in Paris
more than one rainy day could remember the days already written in me
Paris, where all Thursdays go to die
Because today writes down these lines
solitary on this bone road

One rainy day could already point out the days left in me
I will look at today as if Thursday died in Paris
I will cross the street to avoid a Thursday
Recluse from rain and bone

The rain could already underline the days in me
I regard Thursday as if it died in Paris
Thursday set the bones in my arm against the river
bones inaccurate inside
Cesar Vallejo is stenciled in rain

The women are dead in Paris today
I have already emphasized the days that have cared for the I
Today is Thursday in Paris dying
Because the famous today, Thursday, exists entirely of
Vallejo's arm bones

Paris, a city in elegy
Finally there is no other side to this day
The woman, the field, the place that intersects last in work
Perhaps Thursday
Already anxiety in pleasure and work
The I against Paris
Eight of the bones in my arm make up this line
The death fact peels around the lower part of difficulty
The reign of bone, eight roads secluded in Thursday

Paris comes in bone at this moment
crossing in Cesar Vallejo, tin plated, done
in ruptured "Oh" within this river Styx, this road
The way Thursday isolates the rain from bone

 

 

Anne Gorrick: Poetry
Copyright © 2005 The Cortland Review Issue 30The Cortland Review