Dancing, with Mirrors
Dancing, with Mirrors is George Amabile's `lyrical retrospective', a thoughtful fragmentation and re-arrangement of his personal history. These eleven `cantos' tumble into and over each other in a rush of passion, memory, devastation, and quiet moments that promise renewal; here, Amabile's talent for sounding the complex depths of everyday life shines like a beacon.
- Publisher: Porcupine's Quill
- Page Count: 192 pages
- Dimensions: 5.6in x 0.7in x 8.7in
`A remarkable writer, Amabile provides us with a key to a larger understanding of the male ethos, something few male writers have attempted to do with such openness and honesty.'
`What muscular lyricism! Amabile is a fearless singer who finds the right note for every human emotion. With elegance and passion, he pushes against the silence of complacency. He's both of the world and other-worldly, a vatic poet with a sharp intelligence, simply one of the country's best.'
Transit in Absentia
. . . . . .
A fuzzy half-moon hangs from the bruised night.
It looks as though it has become infected
with some as yet uncatalogued fungus, tenacious
as angelhair. It has lost its place
in the old stories -- Astarte, Nanna,
His-wang-mu, or the Mexican Trickster
Conejo -- and must be content
with its role as pock-marked veteran
of obscure plagues and wars,
the unearthly darkness packed like grease
around a bearing
that won't hold up much longer.
And all the while they were imagining
soft landings, the night sky,
the moon a pearl among diamonds,
the empty sleeves
of the sea.
Later, they abandoned each other
to ambivalent shade, breathing
shallow afternoons and closing the books
they had leafed through as a hedge against boredom.
It was enough to dream with half closed eyes,
to speak in fragments, in a vernacular
conditioned by boutiques and cafes.
Pods ripen and fall.
They gather their towels and cups,
their headbands, their unread mail,
and that is all they have time for
under cliffs with their fossil records
lying carelessly open,
a rough Braille in the decaying light.
The big boat shudders and hums.
Light sparkles under a thin haze.
As the stern
blue hills drift away. The gulls
adjust. The air-vent grills
quiver and blur, and the waves,
slate grey like the backs
of the gulls, change
stone like a primitive ax-head,
burred steel and a cross-hatch
of loosely woven linen...
The breeze dies. The sea is a mirror
filled with nothing but time.
. . . . . .