Maxwell Gontarek
- Pamenar Press
- Jun 8, 2024
- 4 min read
Updated: Jun 9, 2024
Maxwell Gontarek has poems out or forthcoming in Lana Turner, VOLT, Noir Sauna, Works & Days, Tilted House, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. Co-translations with Léa Fougerolle into/from French can be found in verseant. His first chapbook, H Is the Letter of the Door, is forthcoming from above/ground press. He has lived in Philadelphia, Baltimore, Las Vegas, Belgrade, Langres, and Lafayette, Louisiana.
UNDER THE POPLARS THE BLOOD POPLARS HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP
I dreamt Isabel entered the horizon
And I was dust
My comets in honey thought the body honey cries
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The dream’s still there but the entrance isn’t
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Isabel you can read texturally
           as iris load
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*
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Sometimes the books are pulled from the ground like bolts
and converge simultaneously into hazard
At this point they become us
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All existence is perfect
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The end in fine
Refine
Infinite finance
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The nude clouds in the avenue
The haves
Hail
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*
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I shivered for the sinister flatness of the momentous
There’s no dawn
Isabel told me
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*
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Iris loads the lake with its scent
It’s where the silicas wake up at the cloud ends
It’s where the ground nerve superimposes its stakes
on the routs of which we all are is a part
It’s what amasses as history under the heels of our heels
rigid and coruscant
we feel ourselves stiffening with
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The passage in landscape
Who pays
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*
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The carnage in soil
and that that carnage disappoints
above below
with such height
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*
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For instants
sometimes I cry
           is the prime grammar
           of song
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*
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I is a bell
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The horizon is a showy diaphragmatic eye
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To sow something of a cry
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To ex
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True act
a cry
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Isabel
to be the rays of a central fire
which animates the future
and has already weakened
to be something that is
           that is
           is as yet to be
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Did a comet cry in the distance?
Was there a mouth and what color?
The footsteps of the bolts sound
           as if they too had been surrendered from the unspaced
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*
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To day there is nothing contingent
The hair of everyone undissolving
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We are informed the feathers of barnacles
are not the ones that made and unmade stars
Of course they will one day
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But there is no season
But we are informed
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It’s one day
It’s all affection
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*
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To inscribe a caesura in possibility
The carnage is constitutive
It makes and unmakes a public
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Apparent curve brio
the conscious limb and plane echo
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We saw it as barnacle scale
           so bound up with color
           as if it had been harm
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We saw it as closure
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*
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Here
           hide in my mouth
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Comets
are elegies
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*
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Echo on
my exile
           warm as debt
           or in debt’s midnight
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You will be heard by the body honey cries
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There’s no dawn
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*
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An iris is a contemporaneity that is not contemporaneous with itself
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*
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Speaking of the lake did the fire fall silent?
Sweeping the soil did I forget the fossil?
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The hair of everyone undissolves hazard
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*
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The carnage that inaugurates the sparse record of I
and an acuity of regard
annulated and ensiform
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I mean it’s a flower but it’s also an eye
It’s textural
What would your name be?
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Allegoresis
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Its value
attenuating to a zero point
the more unique it becomes
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*
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The wet book I eat at the lake says peoples do not live on exception
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As a person half your body is in a horizon
And someone is asking you a question
As if by tracing there can only be one response all of them
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*
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Barnacles are ankles
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*
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I dreamt has currency in a dense nodal point beyond these scenes of exchange
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*
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A tiny divorce deports each spring of silt from seasonhood
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*
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The gone do not precede but inhabit the page
Their songs do not belong to any name
Perfect inserts us
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*
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Affection is a comet charged to the bursting point with time
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*
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Ages ago
           barnacles flew here
           and their razed axes
           gave way to constitution
           in the momentous horizon
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We are therefore a species of book
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*
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A version of Pizarnik
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A look from the gutter can be a dream of entrance
Revolt consists in looking at an iris until the eyes are pulverized
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*
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Dust punctum
It draws you as in it draws your eyes outside the frame
It draws you as in it sketches your eyes outside the frame
Where are you?
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*
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Antumbra is where the shadow of where we are together stops Isabel
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*
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           A version of Vallejo
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Under the poplars the blood poplars have fallen asleep
The aria at midnight in the area of soil
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Isabel suns flock fallen on the knolls
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It’s the author and protagonist
It’s carved in orphanage
It shivers in the last martyrdoms of bolts
           as its paschal eyes catch a chance herd of stars
It has always gone down the moment with its rumors
But to day there is no dawn
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To the undulation field
To the bell
To the color of the iris undissolving into everything
and in it
a mouth
         covering its pupils
          tracing their pastoral bay
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*
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A bay is a bark
A bay is an in
           let
A bay is bark
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Affection is recessing
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*
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           A version of Pizarnik
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You leapt from you at dawn
You sang the tryst of being born
A sad tree        Â
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In the cell of time
sleep looks into its own eyes
and tendency brings the tenuous response
of the leaves
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Beyond the prohibition of zone
you arrive at a mirror of specious transparency
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When you open your mouth your mouth gags you
And you leave
