An Algebra (Phoenix Poets) by Don Bogen

By Don Bogen

An Algebra is an interwoven number of 8 sequences and 16 person poems, the place photographs and words recur in new contexts, connecting and postponing innovations, feelings and insights. through turns, the poems bounce from the general public realm of city decay and outsourcing to the intimacies of family members existence, from a highway mime to a haunting dream, from elegy to lyric evocation. Wholeness and brokenness intertwine within the publication; glimpsed styles and startling disjunctions force its explorations.

An Algebra is a piece of adjusting equivalents, a look for stability in a global of transformation and loss. it's a brilliantly built, relocating e-book via a poet who has accomplished a brand new point of resourceful expression and talent.

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Extra info for An Algebra (Phoenix Poets)

Sample text

They came a motley multitude, a God forsaken band, With vengeance rankling in each heart, and blood upon each hand, And as they stood with glittering steel on Carolina's banks, "Vae victis 1" was the fiendish shout that sounded through their ranks. They looked across Savannah's stream with fury glaring eyes, And trembled in their eagerness to pounce upon their prize. In muttered curses mingled with "the howlings of delight," They longed to strike with bloody hand the stunning blow of might, And as they neared with dashing speed Columbia so fair, The heavy tramp, and cannon's roar that thundered on the air, 35 THE POETRY OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR Gave warning to her people that a conflict had begun, Whose deadly stroke would do its work before another sun.

Another suf'rer pale, and wan, is writhing in her pain, She craves the mercy of the fiends, but pleads, alas! in vain, With cries of murder on their lips, and glaring torch they came, And wrapt the drapery of her room in sheets of crimson flame. Upon a matrass [sic], rudely borne into the chilling air, While icy winds are sweeping by, she meekly suffers there, And bears in patient agony, while cursing lips condemn, What woman by the stern decree had suffered once for them. A widow with her "little all," a bag of meal and flour, Had sadly watched her earthly store through many a weary hour, When with a brow unknown to shame, a rascal bore away The earnings scant and pitiful, of many a toilsome day.

Tis well to do and dareBut ever may grateful prayer Follow, as aye it ought, When the good fight is fought, When the true deed is doneAloft in heaven's pure light, (Deep azure crossed on white) Our fair Church-Pennant waves O'er a thousand thankful braves, Bareheaded in God's bright sun. 20 SADLY SILENT NEAR THE DEAD Lord of mercy and frown, Ruling o'er sea and shore, Send us such scene once more! All in Line of Battle When the black ships bear down On tyrant fort and town, Mid cannon cloud and rattleAnd the great guns once more Thunder back the roar Of the traitor walls ashore, And the traitor flags come down!

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