By Katie Ford
In Katie Ford's 3rd assortment, she units her track into lyrics wrung from the world's risks. Blood Lyrics is a mother's tune, one seared with the data that her kingdom wages lengthy, aching wars during which now not all lives are equivalent. there's good looks imparted, too, however it arrives at a price: "Don't say it's the attractive / I praise," Ford writes. "I compliment the human, / gutted and rising."
"Katie Ford's is a finely-wrought lyrical attractiveness, a poetry of element and care, yet she has set it inside of an epic arc." —Poetry
"Katie Ford’s beautiful new assortment, Blood Lyrics, files the impassioned reckonings of a mom whose in advance born daughter struggles slowly towards overall healthiness and protection. those poems end up wrenching interrogations of religion because the speaker searches, frequently in useless, for any panorama of consoling wholeness or metaphysical peace. Ford additionally confronts the extra public international, the single given over to warfare, torture, and perpetual violence. The strain of prayer either drives and breaks aside those blood lyrics, which assemble web page via web page into a gorgeous tune of fierce choice and defiant praise."—David St. John
“It will be sufficient to have this one poem: ‘To bomb them / we mustn’t have heard their music’—but there’s even more within the ebook. Katie Ford is laconic, sharp, staggering. There’s poetry in those poems.”—Adam Zagajewski
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Additional info for Blood Lyrics
In the cellar there are little birds shifting from leg to leg. You burn only Roman buildings. I hurled myself onto cushions. First we hugged, then kissed, then stripped, then dressed. I wouldn’t allow it. I wouldn’t shut him in the lens. We only held hands like two little girls. He boils monkeys, he strained himself, too. Leaves had not started to fall. It’s cheaper if they move him. At the same time he’s filled with flour and sand and I don’t know how to read signals. ,” “Car,” “The Catalans, the Moors,” “Coat of Arms,” “Colombia,” “Fiery Chariot,” “Holy Science,” “The Man I Respected,” “New York-Montreal Train, 24 January, 1974,” “Persia,” “Pessoa Scolding Whitman,” “Scarlet Toga,” “Washing in Gold,” “Washington,” and “You Are at Home Here,” which were translated by Brian Henry.
Clearly Persepolis had to be burned, the Rothschilds denationalized. Vases The sold-out butter rolls are padded. Torcello burns. The khan who spat over the drop is driving. The data is where the woods shove. When we come through the woods to the corpse, fond of air, did we already see this hide? Is it borrowed? Where are its signets and crinolines and my stamps? Die Gestalt, all scratched, cracked on the fork. Or further inside. What do I know. Did he ramble as in some kind of pot? We, the types, must borrow a little stove.
Luckily the current was fast enough and in the morning, already at sunrise, at the ritual murders, only one sipped and reaped and didn’t care at all to wake up. Arm Out and Point the Way Vigorous, disfigured mice, tassels or bonbons. Latte (the name of the bitch with white fur), did the wheels overeat like the heads of memory at the ends of wood-limbs by Deacon? They were quite devoured. Stretched out, softened, given and given. Slime washes windows. Peter, as a rule, dances. Shoe shining is coming back, the white matrix of the Announcing Angel.
Blood Lyrics by Katie Ford