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Ice: Poems
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| In a careful examination of personal and collective histories, David Keplingerâ?¿s Ice indexes the findings from memoryâ?¿s slow meltâ?¿stories and faces weâ?¿ve forgotten, bones hidden in frost. â?oI am asking how much more / I have to learn from this,â?? Keplinger writes. â?oYou are asking that same question.â?? In these poems, he turns to our predecessors for guidance in picking apart the forces that govern modernityâ?¿masculinity, power, knowledge, conquest. Cryptic visitants arrive in the form of Gilgamesh, â?osearching for a way to stay in pain foreverâ??; a grandmother mending socks, â?oher face in the dark unchangingâ??; Emily Dickinson, lingering at her window; a lion cub, asleep in ice for millennia. With each comes a critique of the Anthropocene, our drive to possess the unpossessable. With each comes also the discovery of whatâ?¿and whoâ?¿weâ?¿ve harmed in the discovering. Ice shelves collapse. Climate change melts layers of permafrost to reveal a severed wolfâ?¿s head. A pair of grease-smudged reading glasses calls up a motherâ?¿s phantom. â?oI am sorry / for the parts you gave me / that Iâ?¿ve misshapen,â?? Keplinger writes. So is there â?oa point to all this singingâ??? Our ancestors cannot answer. The wolfâ?¿s head canâ?¿t, either. But sometimes, â?oout of the snow of confusion,â?? something answers, â?osaying gorgeous things like yes.â?? And the flowers â?oopen up / their small green trumpets anyway.â?? |
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