The Sound of Your Voice
Hey there, and thank you for doing this for me. I for a long time have known that my poems lie there, inert things, until a reader comes along and breathes life into them.So I am interested in hearing some of that breath. I want, with your permission, to publish the sound files of your reading alongside the text. To do this FIRST, choose which of these three poems you want to record (you can record as many as you want if you wish).
SECOND read it aloud to yourself a few times and when you are ready, record yourself reading it (I'd recommend the voice memo app on iOS) and email it to me at email@example.com.
For clarity sake let me suggest a pattern for the recording:
"Hi my name is __________. I am reading from ________( location).Then simply read the title and the poem. PLEASE don't worry about trying to read it the way I would read it. It is YOUR poem now.
Thank you for being you.
There are bowls on ourwindowsills. Bowls of clearbroth, never boiled or broken—insoluble domes of oil, a wholecarcass in the pot, slices ofunpeeled ginger, a lemon maybe—
some moments we want tounzip our hot stomachs onto thesubway floor, or tumble.hands outstretched, for the thirdrail which will allow us to regainlight speed—
steam lifts off the surface ofthe broth. Deep in the bowl,the heat is churning the liquidinvisibly, fields of oil coil andseparate. The spoon is coatedwith it, lively and brightgoing in, coated like plasmacoming out.
Elsewhere, the man might have felt the sun track warm radiance across his face, with the divine eye’s approving judgement reckoning up his material worth alongside the force of his will. Elsewhere, the girl just beginning her loud adjustment, the coyote having learnt the arroyos with the sweetest airs, the jogger in his tunnels of thought passes without notice, and questionsof beauty stain the sky. Elsewhere no one watches. Here,he bends to the bending light, she waits on a voice, the coyotelicks his salty wrist and the jogger is doused with noise.
And after pulling through the dark green troughof the mountain road, a dim carpark behinda bar. The lake below. The blackened faceis smooth enough for us to see the stars.But one of us prefers the girls who liftheavy glasses of beer again, againto touch their mouths with a galaxy of foam,and the other one prefers the girls themselves.If movement were a form of grace, the lakea kind of pillow, not to find tonighta darker bar, a further station, wouldthe moon that is and is not the sun still riseabove the hills directly across the lakefrom us? Its watery twin so much requiresour diving in. A bat twivers from treeto tree and says Go in, below is wherethe action is. The moon that is and is not.