Wayfare by Pattiann RogersWayfare by Pattiann Rogers


byPattiann Rogers

Paperback | March 25, 2008

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A lively new collection from one of America's most celebrated contemporary poets

Denise Levertov has called acclaimed poet Pattiann Rogers "a visionary of reality, perceiving the material world with such intensity of response that impulse, intention, meaning, interconnections beyond the skin of appearance are revealed." In her new collection, Rogers takes the reader on an exploration of human endeavor. Full of color and action, wonder and fear, these poems investigate, reflect upon, and create experiences relative to music, art, and theater, as well as to the universe and its creatures, large and small. They are distinguished by the penetrating vision and avid imagination that have made Rogers one of today's most outstanding poets.
Pattiann Rogers is the author of eight poetry collections. She has been the recipient of two NEA Grants, Guggenheim and Lannan Fellowships, and five Pushcart Prizes, among other awards.
Title:WayfareFormat:PaperbackDimensions:128 pages, 9 × 6 × 0.25 inPublished:March 25, 2008Publisher:Penguin Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0143113348

ISBN - 13:9780143113348

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Read from the Book

Symphony in Three Movements1. Lost in the Heart of the ConcertI thread through the assemblybetween the rows of violins,the ritual bows rising and falling.I confess to the oboes, counselwith the wisdom of the flutes,linger in the church of the momentarilystilled tambourines and timpani.All the while Satan in whitesatin tux follows me silently,his white patent leather pumpswith the soft soles keeping timealmost imperceptibly to the beatof the baton at the altar.His synchonrization is perfect.I try to avoid him, wanderingthe hallway between the intoningof the cellos, hiding amongthe statuesque faith of the bassfiddles. I draw the nearest oneto me, feel its deep strumin my belly, press against its body.He peers straight at methrough the strings of the harp.He understands, he forgives.Abiding and patient, he spieson me in the blue of his paleeyes as I kneel prayingwith the woodwinds. He seemsto pray himself; beseechingit appears. He stays so closeI can smell the ice-cold silverof his hair, his boutonniereof violets, an occasionalscent of rare whiskey.He willingly enters the cadenceOf heaven beside me. I allow him.He hums by heart, alongwith my heart, the good newsof the horns, the hallowedscore of the first and second violas.He is becoming the clean whiteseed of reverence. He takesmy hand. Neither I nor the flaringsun of the trumpets can detectany longer his black glass skeleton.He kisses my cheek. I say he isas innocent and constant as beauty.No canticle, no hymm of salvationfrom the celestial, can ever save us now.