Geoffrey Young

January 28, 2016 Young Geoffrey



You are under the impression that my poems
Inspect the baroque business
Of being in the world (dawn light, texture
Of clothes, bare feet on stairs, hand

Skimming a railing), that they assay
What it feels like to be awake, to have sex
On the brain, to be sobered by memory, inspired
By chance, all the while feeding gossip to birds and love

To friends, etc., etc., but if you must know the truth
Inside each word (like pigeons cooing in belfries)
There is a perplexing acceptance
Of the fact that we are never free

That even this hand, this eye, this right
To die, must vanish in the end.





What a divine racket the soul’s orchestral music makes
On the tireless beat of its rounds—whose soul, what rounds,
Don’t ask. It takes a very big wheel to turn
Humanity’s eye in a new direction. But let’s do right

By today’s fast paced rivers, moving like sylphs
At dusk and like stumble-bums at dawn as the sun rises
On the dream’s last wisps, light smashing
The white barn, shadows tucked behind your ear

For mammalian warmth. Free of charge you can watch
Me paint love’s narrative a bright yellow, featuring
What’s been happening since last Tuesday when I delivered
Lamb chops to your door, and you sprinkled rosemary

On them, and we opened a bottle of Malbec and ate
Turnips and bok choi and rice and bleated in unison.

Geoffrey Young edited and published The Figures for 30 years, and now teaches a class at University at Albany in Art Criticism. For the last 15 years he has curated shows at his contemporary art gallery in Great Barrington, MA. He is the author of the following books of poetry: Pockets of Wheat, Cerulean Embankments, Lights Out, and Fickle Sonnets. Born in Los Angeles, he has lived in the east since 1982.