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TWO POEMS Brendan O'Connor | REFRACTOR Out of the Rust Belt's a wrinkled backdrop static, you can make out compels hearts: Jupiter & the bright one, together, every couple of years, has been, for several thousand, more. Check your star chart: along with deep sky objects are likewise unclear. But you what to make of disappointment. the old gods never asked myth—& now, because of of perspective, you want to act
BIG MEADOWS
__ on REFRACTOR: Thinking about nights spent crouched over my tiny Edmund Astroscan in a field near my parents' house, freezing my knuckles raw to get a look at cloud bands on Jupiter (for example) it occurred to me that the planets might serve as the stuff of myth for me—as they did for the Greeks and Romans, among others. But then, the poem wants to interrogate the whole enterprise, and morality, even, of transforming the lives of people you love through myth and storytelling. on BIG MEADOWS: the poem takes its name from an area of Shenandoah National Park that has since been relocated outside of time. I meant the poem to be haiku-like, a snapshot of an instant, condensing years' worth of trajectories and negotiations and distilling the feeling, familiar to others, hopefully, that you're getting in way over your head. |