Book of My Nights: Poems (American Poets Continuum, 68)
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Book of My Nights is the first poetry collection in ten years by one of the world's most acclaimed young poets. In Book of My Nights, Li-Young Lee once again gives us lyrical poetry that fuses memory, family, culture and history. In language as simple and powerful as the human muscle, these poems work individually and as a full-sequence meditation on the vulnerability of humanity.
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Li-Young Lee burst onto the American literary scene with the publication of Rose, winner of the 1986 Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award from The Poetry Society of America. He followed that astonishing book with The City in Which I Love You, which was The Lamont Poetry Selection of The Academy of American Poets. Mr. Lee has appeared on National Public Radio a number of times and The Power of the Word, the PBS television series with Bill Moyers. Rose and The City in Which I Love You are in the 19th and 17th printings respectively, making them two of the highest-selling contemporary poetry books in the United States. Moreover, Mr. Lee's poems have been translated into more than a dozen languages. He currently lives in Chicago.
it’s one we share with a many-windowed sea? A heart, and not the dark it moves through, not the waves it births, but, visited by blood, unoccupied, is the very wheel installing day, the well from which paired hands set out, happy to undress a terrifying and abundant yes. 18 Night Mirror Li-Young, don’t feel lonely when you look up into great night and ﬁnd yourself the far face peering hugely out from between a star and a star. All that space the nighthawk plunges through, homing, all that
Now the unequaled perfume of your dying. And time? Time is the salty wake of your stunned entrance upon no name. 20 Heir to All What I spill in a dream runs under my door, ahead of my arrival and the year’s wide round, to meet me in the color of hills at dawn, or else collected in a ﬂower’s name I trace with my ﬁnger in a book. Proving only this: Listening is the ground below my sleep, where decision is born, and whoever’s heard the title autumn knows him by is heir to all those unfurnished
sleepless child saying to yourself the name your parents gave you over and over, hear both the ringing sum of you such sound accounted for and all the rest, the dumb throng of you, that never answered to a word, that stands even now assembled where your calling brinks, the unutterable luring your voice out of its place of rocks and into a multitude of waters? But what was it I meant to say? 33 Something about our beginningless past. Maybe. Maybe our river, dreaming out loud, folds story and
mother’s eternal son, I can’t hear the rain without thinking it’s her in the next room folding our clothes to lay inside a suitcase. And now she’s counting her money on the bed, the good paper and the paper from the other country in separate heaps. If day comes soon, she could buy our passage. But if our lot is the rest of the night, we’ll have to trust unseen hands to hand us toward ever deeper sleep. Then I’ll be the crumb at the bottom of her pocket, and she can keep me or sow me on the water,
Piccione What We Carry Dorianne Laux No. 29 No. 13 Hyam Plutzik: The Collected Poems Red Suitcase Naomi Shihab Nye No. 30 No. 14 Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir 1969–1980 Lucille Clifton Song Brigit Pegeen Kelly No. 31 The Fuhrer Bunker: The Complete Cycle W.D. Snodgrass No. 32 For the Kingdom Anthony Piccione No. 33 The Quicken Tree Bill Knott No. 15 Next: New Poems Lucille Clifton No. 16 Roxa: Voices of Culver Family William B. Patrick No. 34 No. 35 No. 36 No. 37 No. 38 No.