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Two poems by Kim Addonizio
On Opening a Book of Photographs
I look at them until I feel immune,
a pile of bodies photographed by Lee
Miller, nineteen forty-five, their strewn
limbs, at first random, now obviously
framed — four legs, like spokes, ray out
across the page. That checkered rag — a dress,
maybe, or only a piece of cloth — I doubt
it covers a woman. The others’ sex
is easy: they’re men; their faces, and
two exposed penises, nested in shadowed
groins, look tender, peaceful, like that hand
curled on a chest, as if it knows
where it rests. But it doesn’t. However I
tell this, they’re not redeemed. There they lie.
Man on a Corner
The man with the golden retriever is still sitting
Against the bank’s brick wall on his blanket, while
all along the street the store owners are quitting,
a florist carrying in bouquets, the mild
fragrance of the flowers a brief antidote
to the exhaust of a bus, just releasing
its passengers; they swirl around him, like notes
of some random music, scattering in the increasing
dusk. Now the prone dog lifts its head
and looks at him, as though a sudden thought’s
occurred to it; the man still slumps, dead
or dreaming, figure in a drama not
of the dog’s making, but all it knows
of love; it shifts, sighs, lays its head close.
Kim Addonizio is the author of two novels, two books about writing poetry, and several collections of poetry, one of which, Tell Me, was a National Book Award finalist. These two contemporary sonnets are from Kim Addonizio’s collection The Philosopher’s Club, published by BOA Editions and reprinted by permission.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Two poems by Kim Addonizio
Two poems by Kim Addonizio
On Opening a Book of Photographs
I look at them until I feel immune,
a pile of bodies photographed by Lee
Miller, nineteen forty-five, their strewn
limbs, at first random, now obviously
framed — four legs, like spokes, ray out
across the page. That checkered rag — a dress,
maybe, or only a piece of cloth — I doubt
it covers a woman. The others’ sex
is easy: they’re men; their faces, and
two exposed penises, nested in shadowed
groins, look tender, peaceful, like that hand
curled on a chest, as if it knows
where it rests. But it doesn’t. However I
tell this, they’re not redeemed. There they lie.
Man on a Corner
The man with the golden retriever is still sitting
Against the bank’s brick wall on his blanket, while
all along the street the store owners are quitting,
a florist carrying in bouquets, the mild
fragrance of the flowers a brief antidote
to the exhaust of a bus, just releasing
its passengers; they swirl around him, like notes
of some random music, scattering in the increasing
dusk. Now the prone dog lifts its head
and looks at him, as though a sudden thought’s
occurred to it; the man still slumps, dead
or dreaming, figure in a drama not
of the dog’s making, but all it knows
of love; it shifts, sighs, lays its head close.
Kim Addonizio is the author of two novels, two books about writing poetry, and several collections of poetry, one of which, Tell Me, was a National Book Award finalist. These two contemporary sonnets are from Kim Addonizio’s collection The Philosopher’s Club, published by BOA Editions and reprinted by permission.
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