Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again. How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses. Richard Siken - Crush (full PDF) one of my favorite books of all time. Little Beast | Crush by Richard Siken. by Yale University Press on Apr 22, • No Comments. 1 An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
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Richard Siken's Crush, selected as the winner of the Yale Younger Poets prize, is a powerful collection of poems driven by obsession and love. Siken. The paint doesn't move the way the light reflects, so what's there to be faithful to? I am faithful to you, darling. I say it to the paint—. War of the Foxes, Copper. Jul 8, I tried to get the line formatting as close to Siken's as possible. To see the poem in its original format, you may read it in medical-site.info version of Crush.
My copy is worn out from being opened, read in, then thrown onto the table or put carelessly down as I try to gather myself up from my messy emotional pile on the floor and try to deal with, well I've read many books, some of them have taught me about the world, about people, about feelings or ideas. This book taught me something monumental about myself. It changed me, and I'm not even kidding or exaggerating. I read it or devoured it might be more accurate and suddenly found a side of myself put into words.
Words I was never able to find myself, but needed more deeply than I'd realised. I'll never stop reading this book, and that's the great thing with poetry, analyzing, understanding and interpreting and simply feeling it, is a neverending process.
I carry his words with me everywhere, both in the shape of his actual book, but also in who I am. These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we'll never get used to it. View all 6 comments. Jun 28, Nick rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: I felt like I had the wind knocked out of me after I read this. There's a thread of a story here, but it's abstract and shadowed. Almost a ghost of a story.
What's left are the raw emotions of the actual experience, which is what great poetry is: Aug 13, Kenny rated it it was amazing Shelves: How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, it's more like a song on a policeman's radio, how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That "Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
That means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable. Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend.
All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room. Phone's for you, Jeff says. It's Uncle Jeff, who isn't really your uncle, but you can't talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue in your mouth.
Please let it be the right one. My favorite of the new poets I've discovered is Richard Siken. His first volume of poems Crush, was a revelation to me; Crush changed poetry for me. You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.
More than that, you can sense the desire. A kiss, blood, hunger, hidden glances, light, leather, pain You're in eighth grade. You know these things. You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn't do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore. Aug 16, anna readingpeaches rated it it was amazing Shelves: View all 15 comments.
Feb 20, C rated it it was ok Shelves: Ugh why does everyone love this book? Siken, the winner of the Yale Series, is clearly a capable poet, and there were a few moments in this collection that were beautiful and lucid.
Otherwise, though, the poems are so overblown too many words going in too many directions and drowning in imagery of bodies, knives, and death. Oh, and SO much cheesy, disembodied dialogue. The form of the poems in this collection felt like a cop-out: I also thought his endings consistently flopped: Two of the most obvious examples: You, the road.
You keep singing along to that song I hate. Stop singing. It's green. It's still green. Unless you are a brilliant, brilliant poet, I don't want to read a whole collection of your poems that are set in a forest or come out of a panic or pine endlessly after a lover. This is just one of those books that you can read all the way through and, the next day, not remember more than a handful of images or lines because there is too much junk crowding the beauty out.
View all 8 comments. We interrupt this broadcast to present you this breaking news: Your regularly scheduled programming will resume once the emotions of this reviewer have been properly boxed and tamed. Little Beast 3 History repeats itself.
Somebody says this. History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop, over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters. History is a little man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of. I know history. There are many names in history but none of them are ours. The fact of his pulse, the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked, the way we look like animals, his skin barely keeping him inside. I wanted to take him home and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this— swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles.
I wish it was mine. The Torn-Up Road 4 I want to tell you this story without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something, that he chased after me and threw me into the gravel. The prayer of going nowhere going nowhere. A Primer for the Small Weird Loves 1 The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater because he is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in this swimming pool because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway.
You try to warn him, you tell him you will want to get inside him, and ruin him, but he doesn't listen. You do this, you do. You take the things you love and tear them apart or you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours.
So, you kiss him, and he doesn't move, he doesn't pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn't moved, he's frozen, and you've kissed him, and he'll never forgive you, and maybe now he'll leave you alone. The boy in the sweatshirt, The boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge.
Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued. Straw House, Straw Dog 2 Four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row, fall down right there. Ashes to ashes.
You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel. Saying Your Names All night I stretched my arms across him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing with all my skin and bone Please keep him safe. Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces. Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.
You Are Jeff 4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench clutched in his greasy fist.
When he throws the wrench into the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench never reaches you.
It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like that. They all have perfect teeth: Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire. Blood everywhere, he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse, your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping galloping always toward you. Now look at the lights, the lights.
Hold onto your breath. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about.
We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it.
Keep talking. Snow and Dirty Rain I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon.
This is the Sun.
Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said What do you want, sweetheart? Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy.
My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back. View all 4 comments. Nov 13, Vishous rated it it was amazing Shelves: When I started reading this I couldn't believe what I got myself into.
I am not a poetry fan so some parts at the beginning cracked me up and I tried to find some sense in them and I failed. But later Some parts Most parts Literally broke my heart And for those parts I am giving this 5 stars because I can't 4.
Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands? The lawn drowned, the sky on fire, the gold light falling backward through the glass of every room.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? Mar 17, Whitney Atkinson rated it liked it Shelves: Once again, I return to rating poetry on a scale of "how much of it did I understand? Perhaps I couldn't relate to them, but for the majority of this, I wasn't impressed. My favorites from this collection: View 2 comments. Jul 12, Patrick Duggan rated it it was amazing Shelves: SIken's Crush , his first book which also won the Yale Young Poets' award in , is one of he most complete works of poetry I've come across in years.
He uses the pacing of his long line to slow time, and create a darker atmosphere within the verse, where shadows move from walls and creep along the legs of lovers. Time drags in elongated moments, or appears in flashes of memory and scenescape. His pace and image teach us fight from the first two pages how to read the work, and how to prepare yo SIken's Crush , his first book which also won the Yale Young Poets' award in , is one of he most complete works of poetry I've come across in years.
His pace and image teach us fight from the first two pages how to read the work, and how to prepare yourself for the worlds of panic, death, and love which are to come.
Siken reminisces in sadness and joy, madness and damagingly clear thought. He pairs image and notion with time and yearning. There is beauty in the voice and damage of this book.
Siken's poems are punk rock anthems, old country ballads, 60's B-movies, pulp novels, tin pail lunch boxes stuffed with old polaroids and love letters. His poems progress to a down tempo drum beat, and the skill in line break leaves the reader constantly moving forward, the combination forces us to digest and contemplate the words as they come, but never let up a moment for us to stop chewing.
It's almost dumbfounding how Siken combines the long breath of a Ginsberg with the complete, unornamental word choice of a Creeley.
Crush is a project in obsession. The repetition of pacing and break builds on the down tempo into a culminating panic under the weight of body and the gravity of obsessive love.
Siken has, within Crush , created a world of love and death, of paranoia, where voices drift in and out, where the self questions its other aloud, causing disbelief in the fact of the world even as it builds around us into existence.
This started off really well, but after a few poems I became detached, bored, confused by the metaphors were they even metaphors? View all 3 comments. May 02, 'hayat rated it it was amazing. I read this sleepless and aching. I've read parts of this book separately and reading it whole now takes me to places I thought I left, a previous lover read to me a poem by him, I've read lines of the book once so many times that some days of mine were titled by some of these verses.
By the end of the book I was just drained from the bits of me that Siken's words swallowed. The poem Saying Your Names should be read loudly, so loudly that the names and the verses will take place in your mind and I read this sleepless and aching.
The poem Saying Your Names should be read loudly, so loudly that the names and the verses will take place in your mind and between your ribs. Mar 21, Daniel rated it it was amazing Shelves: Do you remember Prometheus? That thief of fire who was bound to the rock in order for the vulture to pick at his liver, every day? That liver grew back every day for the sole purpose of being eaten again. Can you imagine what it would be like to know that your liver would be eaten from your body day after day?
This is not a book ab Do you remember Prometheus? This is not a book about Prometheus, but it may as well be. We are playing with fire here, after all. At least, love can feel like a fire. Every poem in this book is essentially the same. The poems are strong individually, but read together, they build something stronger.
Images are repeated again and again with only slight variations driving on the road, running out onto the road, lying in the road.
Moving on is not something you can just will yourself to do. In the end, the speaker believes he has escaped the cycle: It may be that moving forward requires a lot of going round in circles.
And we know where those circles are going to take us. We want to stop.
Sep 28, Frau Sorge Yuki rated it it was amazing Shelves: I think that's the most beautiful piece of poetry I've ever read. I won't convince you. Here's my fav poem. Little Beast 1 An all-night barbecue.
A dance on the courthouse lawn. The radio aches a little tune thet tells the story of what the night is thinking. It's thinking of love. It's thinking about stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone. Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating a fruit pie with a buckknife carv I think that's the most beautiful piece of poetry I've ever read.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating a fruit pie with a buckknife carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall. I like him and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought. I'm sure you remember. I was on the phone with you, sweetheart. There are many names in the history but none of them are ours.
I wanted to be wanted and he was very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good when moving. You could drown in those eyes, I said, so it's summer, so it's suicide, so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us, replete with tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes and not the doorway we had hoped for. His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before, scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.
But damn if there isn't anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun. I'd like my money's worth.
Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this-- swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots with both hands but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say Sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine. I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time. Apr 15, mwpm rated it really liked it Recommended to mwpm by: The competition is open to any American under forty years of age who has not previously published a volume of poetry.
The Thom Gunn Award is an annual literary award, presented by Publishing Triangle to honour works of gay male poetry. First presented in as the Triangle Award for Gay Poetry, the award was renamed in memory of American poet Thom Gunn, the award's first winner, following his death in Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses. I had a Coke at the bar. I had four dreams in a row where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire. I watched TV. I had four Cokes, four Names of spells and names of hexes, names cursed quietly under the breath, or called Road Music 1 The eye stretches to the horizon and then must continue up.
Anything past the horizon is invisible, it can only be imagined. You want to see the future but you only see the sky. Fluffy clouds. Look—white fluffy clouds.