I. SOUND

We returned
                as if to the surface
                                 of the earth we raged—

slumped rockpiles' threadbare tarps

                choking the pipes

                                               & rusted upon arrival.

The infection they said
                was grounded—

                                our purple feet,
                                              torn lace.

I quiet to listen—

                a jade plant's silk thread
                                  looking to root,

                bodies of dead bees
                                           rattling the wheat—

because I want to write of it as nothing
                                recognizable

of which I survive.

                                Its meadows—
                                                sunken or dust.
                                                Carcasses of gutted cattle
                                buzzing in the dark.



II. FORM

                In this version, there is only a beach
at the end.

We walk the shifting periphery of all
                the things we'd done wrong

                or wronged.
Or didn't, couldn't, wouldn't right.

                                 We circle as if turning
                the lungs inside out.

The peeling marquee
                 of the once-marbled bathhouse

                                 captures the salt wind—
could we have memorized

                                  the shape of a hurricane
                  and bent that way?

                                  Even now
                                                 so deep into the after

                   we know we must always turn back
                                   or drown.



III. IMAGE

I muddle the word
with the world—                

                 grain
                                sound
                                                flight—

how the last thoracic flare
will get the best of us—

                blue smoke in bloom

                                               a narrow isthmus   

                                                                                ashy spring.

Or none of these things.

               To the north, the river's
slender neck.

                                 My eyes are weary machines.
from the journal KENYON REVIEW 
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While sound, form, and image are three fundaments of poetry, knowing this does not mean we can know how poetry works, how it breathes and transforms in relation to life, to language. Sound, form, image—each need one another to exist, as the panels in a triptych do, as forms of life and energy do. Even the triptych cannot hold the mystery; it is only a version, a three-sided windowing.

Jennifer Elise Foerster on "Triptych"
Headshot of A. Van Jordan
"An Interview with A. Van Jordan"

"In my poem and the film 'The Red Balloon,' there is the idea of a young child having a certain freedom to imagine and having others trying to quash that freedom to play, which is a thing that keeps coming up for me in many ways. It’s just one of those things that I keep looking at and I find that the older I get, the more I feel a desire to protect that when I see young people."

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Cover of Annulet #2
What Sparks Poetry:
Robin Myers on Other Arts


"I stopped to watch a group of people doing something odd and beautiful together on a patch of dry grass. Was it a dance improvisation workshop? An actors' warm-up? I couldn't tell, but it felt special to see them doing it. They drifted around and moved their limbs, interacting sporadically with their surroundings and each other, in a way that felt both spontaneous and coordinated, both public and private. Both practiced and unfinished, even unfinishable. They used only their bodies, no language at all."
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