Two Poems by Zach Savich
|February 27, 2013|
For All We Know
For all we know, all it takes nothing to endure
is all that will endure. I write you from the afterlife.
Behind my eyes are the long stones that keep
a field unplanted, so the fertile top’s pristine.
I say pleasure.
I say escalate.
Knowing little but faithful to the little green even dew sets off.
I keep a mirror in one palm to read the other.
The Most Again
Real astonishment not the error
for the chir of coming bikes
and we moved aside but the distance
error is the initial
understanding of In months we’ll throw
rocks to break the ice just wide enough
to set one bottle in
and wait for spring I love imagining
the well-dressed woman who spends her days
in the tapered light
beneath the overpass unstoppering
a bottle opaque from steam released
by the tempered wood peering within
to find not a message but
a minute ship inside
About the Author:
Zach Savich is the author of three collections of poetry, including The Firestorm, which won the 2010 Cleveland State University Poetry Center’s Open Competition, and a collection of prose, Events Film Cannot Withstand. His latest poetry collection, Century-Swept Brutal, is forthcoming from Black Ocean Press. Savich currently teaches at Shippensburg University and serves as an editor with The Kenyon Review.
Inherent Vice’s Two Directions
The jokes certainly strike one as sophomoric and the latter one as clichéd, further below Pynchon’s intelligence than one would like to think he would stoop, at least in print. Discounting them and moving on, or throwing the book across the room as Parker half implies we should do, however, would be to lose sight of “that high magic to low puns”.
Auden, Larkin and Love
I was prompted to revisit these ancient questions anew by a long footnote about a single line in the new Complete Poems edition of Philip Larkin’s poetry. The footnote refers to “An Arundel Tomb” contains a provocative remark about that the poem’s celebrated, controversial, closing line, the one about the true nature of immortality: “What will survive of us is love.”
Plato, Our Comrade?
Not surprisingly, there have already been critics of Badiou’s translation. The first is that his translation breaks the formal rules of translation to such a degree that the original meaning of the text has lost its significance. But this critique is inadequate at face value because Badiou’s hyper-translation is forthright in its intention of taking Plato’s concepts and modifying them into his own lexicon.
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The hour changes time into other forms of desire. A woman needs no bra in summer. A kiss after a fuck. A way to depart. She spends her entire life preparing to leave, play with verbs and nouns and syllables but there is no language for what we can’t give. Lovemaking isn’t about love; it’s about making a noise or a rhythm, arranging a life, giving an order, the way we weep on a wish to wash it away.