Thursday, February 4, 2010


Sometimes you stumble across a poet you've never heard before, like Sarah O'Brian. Here's her poem that gave me pause:


It begins as an attempt to untangle light. In some cities there were, still are, room-sized camera obscuras, the world comes in flipped and intact. In this case the pictures move. The heart of the blue whale is as big as a room. You could stand up in it suddenly; you could stay. Like in India inside the clock that is big enough to wander through. But the light there doesn't change; the guard tells you to go. Like the viewing machines on the shore that only last for a quarter, so gone and soon. The audible departure, a brief persistence of vision. One sun less, some measure, some minute. In a heart where it's dark and unwindowed, and sounds like this, and this, and this.