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Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Poem-A-Day: At Bay by Carl Phillips

December 3, 2013
At Bay


Coral-bells purpled the fallen sycamore leaves, dead, the dead 
versus those who attempted death, versus those who effectively 
fashioned out of such attempts a style akin to electric guitar 
shimmer swelling and unswelling like starlings when they first 

lift off, or like stars when, from their fixed sway, they come 
suddenly loose, any man letting at last go of a career spent 
swallowing--trying to--catastrophe's jewel-studded tail, un- 
swallowable, because 
 
holy, in the way of fanfare, its gift for
persuasion, how it can make of what's ordinary, and therefore 
flawed of course, a thing that's holy, for a time it seemed so, 
didn't restlessness seem to be, little god of making, no less 
 
impossible in the end than any of the gods, where's the holiness, 
they sleep never, they tire infrequently, to be tired bores them, 
distraction refined by damage would be their drug of choice 
hands down, if they could choose, even they don't get to.

  

 

 

Copyright © 2013 by Carl Phillips. Used with permission of the author.

About This Poem
"For some reason, I have only thought of the phrase 'at bay' as meaning something like 'at a safe distance.' I was interested to learn that its chief meaning comes from hunting, that moment when an animal is forced to turn and face its attackers. Originally I wanted to call this poem 'Artillery,' after the George Herbert poem."

--Carl Phillips
   

 

Carl Phillips is the author of numerous books of poems, including Silverchest (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013). He is a former Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets and teaches at Washington University in St. Louis. 

 

Most Recent Book by Phillips




Silverchest
(Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013)


 


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