Andrew Singer is a poet, editor and visual artist. He directs Trafika Europe (https://trafikaeurope.org), showcasing new literature in English translation from the 47 countries of Council of Europe. He has an MA in Writing Poetry from Boston University, where he mentored with Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott. His writing has appeared in such publications as World Literature Today, Fulcrum, Levure littéraire, Emanations, and Open Letters Monthly. He believes all things begin and end in wonder.
Bookshop in late afternoon
Hot sidewalk faces, done chewing gum,
shelter in the book emporium:
under long halogen parallels
converging at far showroom edges
afternoon’s familiar rituals
slow near teak book-pyramid ledges,
perusing the written world’s titles
enshrining our bright, naked and dead
writers’ part-fictional requitals
in tombs of paper that will be read,
reviewed, discussed, given recitals
to couples seated in artful pairs
(for whom good readings are like jazz riffs)
fingering tabletop hieroglyphs
over coconut and almond cakes.
Please bring purchases to front counters
where prelates tally the daily takes.
Bookshop, temple to the printed age
will soon close — liberating language.
River of Hair
river of hair
overflowing turquoise blood of restless stars
– • –
river of hair in cold dawn
overflowing orange blood of restless stars
spilling over bone-white pillows
pooling in the soft bone cleft between
twin fire-studded cadenzas
an aspen run to ride against
an aspen run to ride up
rafting up swelling, vine-wet lips
unpacking lunch on wide, unblinking
picnictable eyes
– • –
river of hair in afternoon
in powder-damp side-pools
gripped
of river musk
staunched and pinioned for the coming flood
and a fire shooting up
from nape to wounded knee
river of hair
capillating the bed vaingloriously
blood and poison locked
and dancing in a hot sun
of cello on guitar, grinding of string on string
and the thick bed green and overgrown
filled with seasonal hunting
– • –
river of hair in evening
plaited with song and fire-lily
diamonds of the milk-red underlife
which a million forest animals share
harmonizing in the night
– • –
river of hair
this river of hair, this river of hair
Bulamarin (a song)
(available in .mp3 audio with music.)
In Bulamarin there’s a stain on a window
Where Candy was sitting before she went out
Wandering through the market one midnight
Under brown broken moonlight
Living too long with the fallen faces
Every step forward recoils in a trap
Bulamarin is a hothouse in stasis
Where just surviving’s a shallow grave
Nowadays Candy recalls with a shudder
Whenever the autumn night air is too chill
Climbing that high cemetery wall
Late at night to commune with her brother
Living too long in Bulamarin
A book tastes like a voracious coat –
A simple meal, a pleated dress –
We are each of us pale in our narrative.
Candy walked down through the old broken town
Down past the stream where her brother and she
Once played at pirates and swore that they’d be
Each others’ best friends forever
Living too long with the fallen faces
Every step forward recoils in a trap
Bulamarin’s a hothouse in stasis
Where just surviving’s a shallow grave
She climbed the moss-dank cemetery wall
Tossing up dahlias and lilies uprooted
From back behind the old fireman’s hall
Where some folks kept a small garden
Living too long in Bulamarin
A book tastes like a voracious coat
A simple meal, a pleated dress
We are each of us pale in our narrative.
Top of the wall she jumped in the darkness –
Collected her flowers & sat there a while –
In a transparent slicker against a moist wall –
With the clouded moonlight rippling
Living too long with the fallen faces
Every step forward recoils in a trap
Bulamarin is a hothouse in stasis
Where just surviving’s a shallow grave
She cleaned the old flowers and pebbles and stray dirt
And candles off of his gray-green grave –
And spread out the second-hand dahlias and lilies
In a rusted tin can with stale water
She thought about her brother then
She thought about her life
She strained to hear the moonlight
Till the cold breaths burned inside her
Living too long with the fallen faces
Every step forward recoils in a trap
Bulamarin is a hothouse in stasis
Where just surviving’s a shallow grave
And when she couldn’t stand it more
She got bored and left by the front fence door
She wandered home instinctively
Shivering through the town
Living too long in Bulamarin
A book tastes like a voracious coat
A simple meal, a pleated dress
We are each of us pale in our narrative.
As Candy passed the market square
With metal stands all folded down
There was a rasping tinkling sound –
She knew there was a boy behind her.
She pulled up her girlish 19-year frame
To full mature height and strode toward the lane
She hadn’t tried holding her breath for long
– but anyway how could she?
Living too long in Bulamarin
A book tastes like a voracious coat
A simple meal, a pleated dress
We are each of us pale in our narrative.
She made her way back to her family’s house
All the way feeling a boy was behind her
Aware of her shoes assaulting the cobbles
Feeling vulnerable – piqued and strong
She turned at last back onto the path
(She knew in the lamplight a shadow turned too)
She hurried inside with her head partway down
And she never looked behind her
She slipped upstairs like the ghost of a rose
In her bedroom she started to tremble
Pulling the coverlet over her chest
Chattering like a fandango
Candy hates living in Bulamarin
In the grave of the night she feels like she is
A lack of grace personified
Like what seeps into a family meal
When everyone grows a different way –
Like they did that night some years ago
Bulamarin is tugging around its wheelchair with its eyes
