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Download Chameleon Hours (Phoenix Poets Series) by Elise Partridge PDF

By Elise Partridge

 From methods of Goingfor SteveWill or not it's like paragliding—gossamer takeoff, seedlike drifting downinto a sunlit, unforeseen grove?Or ski-jumping—headlong soaring,ski-tips piercing clouds,crystal revelations miraculous my goggles?. . . . Skittery flicker of a glare-weary lizardstartled into the sheltering wings of a leaf,rusting freighter with a brimming holdshimmering onto a red area. . . .Sad rower driven from shore,I'll disappear like circles summonedby an oar's dip.However I burn via to the following atmosphere,let your pricey face be the very last thing I see.  Whether writing poems approximately North American existence and panorama; or love poems; or elegies for friends and family; or poems on critical, debilitating disease and the ameliorations it may well effect—Elise Partridge bargains in Chameleon Hours phrases solid by way of discomfort and braveness. filled with wit and empathy, Partridge’s poems draw suggestion from assets as whimsical as tortoises and pontoons, as poignant as a homeless girl taking defend inside of a publish workplace on a iciness evening, and as deeply own as her personal melanoma analysis at a tender age. Chameleon Hours is a booklet in regards to the rewards of being reminded of one’s personal mortality and the lyric expression of lifestyles in all its intensity. “In their abundant, embracing, nuanced urge for food for sensory adventure, [Partridge’s] poems in attaining an ardent, compassionate and unsentimental vision.”—Robert Pinsky, Washington Post “Partridge’s remarkable poems pursue a cautious thinker’s longing for abandon, a devoted buddy and partner’s want for switch. conscious of truth, to what she sees and is familiar with, Partridge still makes area for what's wild, outdoors and inside of us—for the fears and the blanks of chemotherapy, for sharp adaptations inside of (and with out) frames of metre and rhyme, and for the welcome consistencies of married love. She has discovered detail-work, and endurance, from Elizabeth Bishop, yet she has made different virtues her personal: riffs on typical words open startling vistas or even her love poems get attractively sensible. Hers is a welcome invitation: let’s hear in.”—Stephen Burt “Reading Chameleon Hours, i locate myself marveling on the success of every heron, mosquito, box of Queen Anne’s Lace, everyone, position, factor or condition during this appealing e-book, to have Elise Partridge’s beautiful and special realization. and the way fortunate we're to get to pay attention in as she bargains every one of them her wonderful ear; the e-book is stuffed with understated sonic gemstones like ‘a kickball instantly into red lilac.’ In ‘Chemo uncomfortable side effects: Memory,’ after describing ‘groping within the thicket’ for ‘the be aware i need . . . scrabbling like a squirrel at the oak’s some distance side,’ she tells us ‘I may consistently pull the present / from the lucky-dip barrel; scoop the best jewel / from my dragon’s trove. . . .’ We in fact already be aware of this. It’s glaring in each one of these poems.”—Jacqueline Osherow Praise for Fielder’s Choice“Partridge is a technical wizard for whom considering and feeling aren't separate actions. She is a hawk-like observer of the actual . . . repeatedly ascending to pitch-perfect verse.”—Ken Babstock, Globe and Mail (Canada)       (20080210)

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Putt-putting after in a stubby tin launch, black anorak, black megaphone, our coach. We shivered under the gloom of a railroad bridge where kids lobbed chunks of coal at startled boats and swaying snakes of boxcars, dried-blood red, rattled away to their obscure horizons. Two-mile warmup; we slid to rest by the isle, riding uneasily on the shifting current. A mallard family bobbed nearby, the male off on his own, neck-sheen green changeable silk. What could we say? ” Amelia, seven-seat, leaned to pat her arm.

The former owner’s nursery—pink walls, pink floor, pink-and-white lambs floating across the door— she used for storing shoes, boxed, in rows, pink tissue wadded in old spectator toes. She kept her mansion spotless; lived alone, flashing slick selves, like mica flakes in stone, to visitors. She loomed, a French armoire; skittered, an overlooked dustmouse, behind the bar. . • 19 • At night the squirrels would jump, hearing her scream. ” she shouted in a frequent dream that vanished under the sofa’s claw-and-ball, rolled like rain off roses flocking the walls.

Tempting to scan; you can’t. The cradle is the sea. It’s very odd, original without one’s knowing why. If you want to say these things, it’s falling rhythm. The ostensible sorrow is the boy discovering death, desertion. . ) And often rhythmical musical things aren’t good, they’re padding for not feeling. What prevents that here? It’s awfully eloquent wherever you pick it up. ‘From such as now they start the scene revisiting’: this has a tender Pindaric grandeur—I don’t know if you can say that.

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