Virginia Konchan is the author of Vox Populi (Finishing Line Press), and a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift (forthcoming, Noctuary Press). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Best New Poets, The New Republic, and her fiction in StoryQuarterly and Joyland. Co-founder of Matter, a journal of poetry and political commentary, she lives in Montreal.
BOOKS, PUBLICATIONS, PROJECTS
IT IS THE PERPETUAL TODAY
The pool is empty; no bathers stand nearby.
The beast must be glorified and so each bristle stands out
on its raised, humped back.
The pool must be glorified and so each aquamarine tile glistens, having
been scrubbed, before the photograph was taken,
It is the perpetual today, that which has historians running
through empty fields in white coats,
taking the pulse of the world . . .
The beast breathes silently, exhaling steam from its nostrils.
The crowd maintains its distance and its composure:
how like a crowd.
The beast maintains its beastliness: how like a beast. That which
is wild will remain wild.
The last doctrine is that of redistribution of matter.
The last item is a stick, and, at the end of the stick,
(First appeared in Boston Review)
THE ROSE-WAY IN GIVERNY
And in the reticulate distance
the cued inertia of Lucifer
astounds. Our feet bleed:
buoyant, the body at its task.
What you wanted was what I
wanted—slant of sun to the left,
twinkling of civilization elsewise,
and the moon (whelp of history)
to our backs, all come-hither
and dream. Motion understood
is philosophy deferred: peace,
the felt pathos of space and time.
Look, darling, at the establishing
shot. It’s downright biblical,
this thrown-together vista,
world upon world without end.
(first appeared in The New Yorker)