Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Everyone’s a Curator

Everyone’s a Curator

Glory, glory to the holy
ordinary, black road going

white in the snow, early
flowering trees, green field

of clover adjacent to the
playground, at night,

brighter under streetlight.
Lilac-covered Rebecca,

bathtub-smudged and
crinkled, salt and pepper

shakers of Pilgrim
squirrels, buckle shoes

and bonnet and bushy
tails. The church of My

Favorite Things, of
every collection embedded

with melody and narrative,
of trinket as collection,

one memory as object
to display and shine.


  1. Like Carlson's work.

    Great details in the poem leading to this wonderful line: "The church of My / Favorite Things".

  2. The first six or seven lines are my favorites. Who thinks of clover at night, under a street light? This poem does, that's who. And that weirdly effective music in that strange threesome, "Glory, holy and ordinary" and that flowing into a "black road going white in snow." (I misread that as BACK road and like it--whaddya think? I'm a sucker for country-ness. Also "back" road is a little more surprising there, yet not out of whack with its context.

    "The church of My/Favorite Things" is a winner too, esp. with "My" capitalized at the end of a line, for emphasis.

    I guess I'm OK with the last 5 lines, but they have less punch for me. They're a bit cerebral for me, after the sensory delights and jabs of the earlier lines.

  3. Easily one of the most relevant titles I've seen.

    The assonant flow of the beginning was a fantastic way to move things along. The very mention of "narrative" really completed the piece for me, too.


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