Auguries of Innocence

Auguries of Innocence

Patti Smith

Language: English

Pages: 28

ISBN: 0060832673

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Auguries of Innocence is the first book of poetry from Patti Smith in more than a decade. It marks a major accomplishment from a poet and performer who has inscribed her vision of our world in powerful anthems, ballads, and lyrics. In this intimate and searing collection of poems, Smith joins in that great tradition of troubadours, journeymen, wordsmiths, and artists who respond to the world around them in fresh and original language. Her influences are eclectic and striking: Blake, Rimbaud, Picasso, Arbus, and Johnny Appleseed. Smith is an American original; her poems are oracles for our times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

here, scribbling as they are decomposing? The moon rises filled with moon blood drawn from the Italian skies. Here Byron unwound his turban and shook out his locks as gulls dropped into the sea. The moon knew her rival and hung like an ornament from the ear of a bright deity curling his lips, expelling great puffs, the clouds of San Remo. I will sit here until dawn tripping the spine of the stars, a Pythagorean traveler marveling another numerical scheme, adding to his shoulder

here, scribbling as they are decomposing? The moon rises filled with moon blood drawn from the Italian skies. Here Byron unwound his turban and shook out his locks as gulls dropped into the sea. The moon knew her rival and hung like an ornament from the ear of a bright deity curling his lips, expelling great puffs, the clouds of San Remo. I will sit here until dawn tripping the spine of the stars, a Pythagorean traveler marveling another numerical scheme, adding to his shoulder

horror cloven and drawn. She had a beautiful name: freedom. Pretty little chop. Unmarketable, light the bleating of new life. He loved her mouth, tiny feet dressed in pleats. Hearing her cry, he picked her up by the stem of her throat in his thick arms slick with dew. And he, a governed soul, broad shouldered with eyes like Blake, lamented who bred thee, nursed thee on mead and flowers, as he ripped her apart. The barn was burning an indifferent hell, engulfing little maids in

dream. It was her head hammered head. And she wonders how could I think such a violent thing? How could I think such a violent thing? And Buddha was unaware of Isaiah. And Isaiah unaware of Heraclitus. Yet all existed in the same moment. And who exists as we exist? Fingers inch by inch spread the country of her bed through the window shattered cabinet glass shams wet with tears spittle and sweat desperate eyes clasping vines counting beans the murmur of leaves a history

pages of a book? Little one, set down your hymnal, rest it upon your knee. Tears may stain the fragile leaf, let them fall, let them fall. Your father has rushed forth in a column of mist. Now you seek him in columns of words, water and stone. He is here little heart. The stag fell under the stroke and into a blackness so bright as to fold light. Here. Pressed between hymn and hymn a perfect thorn, the spear of your father’s love. The hart faltered and fell. The

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