By Jessica Fisher
Jessica Fisher’s Frail-Craft is winner of the 2006 Yale sequence of more youthful Poets festival and choose Louise Glück’s fourth choice for the sequence. The e-book and the dream are the poet’s basic gadgets of research right here. via deft, quietly authoritative lyrics, Fisher meditates at the difficulties and possibilities—the frail craft—of conception for the reader, the dreamer, retaining that “if the attention can love—and it may, it does—then I held you and used to be held.” In her foreword to the ebook, Louise Glück writes that Fisher’s poetry is “haunting, elusive, luminous, its maximum secret how plain-spoken it's. Sensory impressions, which generally function logos of or connections to emotion, look all of sudden during this paintings a language of brain, their functionality neither metonymic nor dramatic. they're just like the dye with which a scientist injects his specimen, to trace a few reaction or habit. Fisher makes use of the feel this fashion, to monitor how being is switched over into thinking.”
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Additional resources for Frail-Craft
Though the past is like a stone thrown into the lake, there but irretrievable, still, years later, stumbling in the gallery of pictures upon Souvenir de Mortefontaine, painted when we were children there, I got a chill up my spine as if, on the other side of the lake from where the boat drifts, we’re still tying ﬂies or gutting the trout we caught. And standing there, a velvet rope delineating the distance between where I was and where I had been, I felt like the ﬁsh that went for the fake, its innards, its still-beating heart, tossed into the trees where the birds waited to feed.
I resolved then and there to leave the signs he would seek, looking for a way home: a red ribbon tied to a twig might catch his eye from a distance, and would be like the voice that calls out at dusk, Over here! 40 3. Sudden rain: there was nowhere to go but into the library, where the shelves bowed with the weight of old books. I pulled one down—a story in which the mother fails to come to the gate. The rhetoric was simple and struck me as dull, like vegetables grown in an overwatered garden. Whether the story mentioned her thwarted love didn’t matter: by tuberculosis or arsenic, the end was the same.
I follow the couple to where they glimpsed her; halfway through the tunnel I see her cowering, though I don’t think she sees me. I feign exhaustion, take my foot in my hand, drop something for her to eat, she’s so thin. She takes it, takes a long time to eat it—it’s a Jolly Rancher, a watermelon one. It’s a wedding but the children are dying; I’m trying to help but I haven’t a clue, I can’t keep them merry, can’t keep them from leaping. But this girl eats my candy; she’s scared but not of me. 21 WEST 12TH STREET He’s belly-down in the nest you’ve made on the ﬂoor in the add-on that was my room when I was small; the door is open so you can keep an eye on him.