A Woman of Property (Penguin Poets) by Robyn Schiff

By Robyn Schiff

A new ebook from a poet whose paintings is "wild with mind's eye, unafraid, formidable, inventive" (Jorie Graham)

Located in a menacing, gothic panorama, the poems that include A lady of Property draw formal and imaginitive limitations opposed to boundless mortal danger, yet as all borders are weak, this ominous assortment finally phases an pressing and deeply imperiled boundary dispute the place haunting, phantasm, the presence of the previous, and disembodied voices in simple terms additional unsettle questions of fabric and religious ownership. it is a theatrical booklet of dilapidated homes and overgrown gardens, of passageways and thresholds, edges, prosceniums, unearthings, and root platforms. The volatile estate strains the following rove from heaven to hell, troubling percentage and provoking propriety within the identify of unfathomable propagation. Are the entire gates during this publication folly? Are the partitions too simply scaled to carry something again or impose self-confinement? What won't a poem do to get to the opposite facet?

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Example text

I sort through them. I put the ones back I don't need. The machine is so bright. I put two fifty pence coins and one twenty 42 pence coin into the slot. They clatter somewhere. One comes back out. I put it back in. It clatters and comes back again. I try and push it in differently but my options are limited. Clatter. Comes back. Clatter. Comes back. My throat is tight. Too hot. I just hit something. The machine? Its brightness isn't helping me see. I put my hand back in my pocket and try another coin which works and suddenly I feel better.

Her eyes dart around a little bit, following whatever character or cursor she's controlling. Her cheek twitches. Maybe she jumped off a ledge. "No that's fine. " I could smoke something on the way if I can convince myself that it won't make me feel bad. My mother doesn't answer, so I repeat what I said. "It's ok, Mum. " Alright, so I changed what I said then. Her eyelids ascend like she's widening her eyes to take in something but her pupils stay fixed. Her head lifts a tiny bit, so small that I only notice because I happen to be watching her.

When I think of her with other people, though, it fucks me up. I get the feeling that Emma knows the sorts of things that I think about. Sometimes I wish that she didn't. I wish I could retrace the footsteps of our friendship so I could change certain things early on so that some people would look at me in a different light. People get the wrong idea. It's another way of saying they know me. My father is watching television. There was just something on about the dead actor. My mother looks up from her Gameboy, over the top of her glasses and says that it's a shame that he's dead because he was young and had a promising career ahead of him.

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