The Rose of January

by Geoffrey Nutter

"Nutter is a true believer in the power of art, which is the power that produces these beautiful and vital poems."—Mark Levine In his fourth collection, Geoffrey Nutter beckons us into his lush imagination—where bygone monoliths cast shadows over new landscapes—a world of dreams, rife with unexpected encounters. We are everywhere, instantly; the electric stations crackle on full power, running
on the ghost impulses of the waterfalls. Geoffrey Nutter is the author of Christopher Sunset , Water's Leaves and Other Poems , and A Summer Evening . He currently teaches at New York University.

Genres: Poetry

144 pages, Paperback

First published June 11, 2013

About the author

Geoffrey Nutter was born in Sacramento, and attended San Francisco State University and the Iowa Writer's Workshop. He is the author of Christopher Sunset (Wave Books, 2010), Water's Leaves & Other Poems (Winner of the 2004 Verse Press Prize) and A Summer Evening, winner of the 2001 Colorado Prize (Center for Literary Publishing, 2001). His poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Best American Poetry 1997, The Iowa Anthology of New American Poetries and Isn't It Romantic: 100 Poems by Younger American Poets. Geoffrey currently teaches in New York City, where he lives with his wife, daughter and son.

For more information on this author, go to:
http://www.wavepoetry.com/authors/24-...

Reviews

[J · Rating 4 out of 5]

THE CIRCLE


Are you going to see the circle?
Some say it is a ring, some a circle, some a chain of rings, some a chain.
It will be rising over the park at nightfall.
It will rise, burning, and form a burning circle in the sky.
It will be a very precious hour.
The whole city will turn out, in the grass, in trees, on rooftops.
The very rich will watch from dragon boats along the waterfront.

Oh yes, it’s winter, the rail tops are frozen, blue, and the sun is nothing.
Tremendous flakes are drifting down from the mountains.
The sun is nothing. The sky is nothing.
The sun is going down behind the dark, motionless peaks.
People are coming out of the buildings like lovers.
Now we are watching ourselves from above.
We are watching ourselves from the buildings, then from the mountaintops,
and from the sky.
Look: we’re watching ourselves from the sun.

We’re beautiful walking on the earth, under stars, under clouds, under buildings,
under trees, hand in hand.
We can be what we were meant to be, and have known we always were, thrilled
and redesigned like by our lovers.
We are everywhere, instantly: the electric stations crackle on full power, running
on the ghost impulses of the waterfalls.
The million city lights flicker for an instant like sunlight passing over canebrake,
they crash off and plunge us into night’s sweet grape leaves.
The night is cavernous and gorgeous, endless, carnivorous.
Great pads of snow are forming in silence, ice forms in radiant darkness.
Owls and boulders and gargoyles count down slowly from one thousand
in a whisper.

And the circle is rising, as promised.
It is a ring, a chain, a V, a sphere, a burning sign.
It’s burning off the snow and firing the rails.
It’s rising over the buildings, over trees.
If it happened once in every thousand years, we would all converge
upon the tallest prospects to behold it.
It’s the sunset, it’s the night, it’s the stars, and then
it’s the beginning of another day.




*