FutureCycle Press's Reviews > Do You Expect Your Art to Answer?

Do You Expect Your Art to Answer? by Laurel S. Peterson
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's review
Jan 11, 2017

it was amazing
bookshelves: futurecycle

We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:


What I remember are extravagant
Spanish voices cracking
off hard white walls
in the Museo de Arte Abstracto Español.
Floor-to-ceiling windows
curtained with a snowfall
of chiffon barely held back
bleached Spanish sunshine
and the gorge’s sharp visage,
cold light on cold stone.
Later at lunch,
we would watch climbers
attempt the chasm’s
crescent moon overhang
and fail.

The medieval city is piled up high,
but the modern, scattered at its base,
dusty and tawdry like the long skirts
of a flamenco dancer,
shutters against its Sunday visitors.
Its old spirit hides
in the hill, packed about by rock,
silent in the cold block of the Gothic cathedral,
absent from the abstract
black slashes, slabs of cool yellow
or agitated lines on white canvas.

We came yearning
for Muslim conquerors and St. Julian,
for textiles and monks hunched
over vellum, but they were dust
long before we arrived,
and the harsh open light revealed
only the empty mirrors of our own selves.


For Billy Collins, who once said in a reading that we could never be too grateful that inanimate things remained inanimate

The television is, of course, female.
What else could hold a man entranced for hours?
The bookshelves are male,
ponderous, heavy with abstraction,
linear, their blocky lines
cross-wording the wall.
The laptop wears a long, flowing pink dress,
has red hair. She is the daughter
of Aphrodite and Thor.
Mother Goddess nestles in the couch:
fertility of snack crumbs,
small beads and loose change;
plump, embracing arms welcome you to sleep.
The mobile above the baby’s bed
holds the spirit of the air,
a slow-motion tease.

And Maggie the Cat—little dark soul
who keeps the rest in line—patrols,
egregiously matted and unsteady,
her once beautiful tortoiseshell fur
now a used car lot of dried food and feces.
She alone stands between us and the poltergeists
winging disorder through the house,
they who would rearrange the books,
sneak silverware into the underwear drawer,
move themselves—couch, television, bookshelf—
to the other side of the room at midnight
to wound an unwary householder,
make phone calls to an old lover,
hypnotize a man so he forgets his life.


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Reading Progress

Started Reading
January 9, 2017 – Finished Reading
January 11, 2017 – Shelved
January 11, 2017 – Shelved as: futurecycle

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