By Stephen Mcleod
Stephen McLeod's first full-length publication of poems and the winner of the could Swenson Poetry Award backed via Utah nation collage Press
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Extra info for Borgo Of The Holy Ghost (Swenson Poetry Award)
I take her advice quite seriously, she is A true diva in my book. So let this ride Its cycle for a while, but not your head That makes me whole, your words me wise.  I S AW T H E W O R L D E N D I dreamed of Schiller’s head cascading down The capitol; that he proposed this in a song. Surrounded by human cattle deceived by slogans, They took his word of universal bond And sacriﬁce as one. But it was only warning, A song for female voice. This is its text. We are all republicans. Prevent us O Lord in all our doings, etc.
51] ICI ( Joan Mitchell) The plane is on the ﬂoor. The plane is empty, numberless. The plane has teeth. It is Here, a longing with walls, Accessory before the fact, Revealer, destination. The woman above the plane is Irrelevant. She is Empty, numberless, A tunnel of revelation. What will she do? Between The woman and the plane is Void and Without Form. It Hovers for something to happen. Something happens.  APOLOGY ( Willem de Kooning) I like painting big women I am secure painting large women most men Will not say this power will not name this girth Men want each other Earth Is a big woman sunrise A big woman on the sea Flaunting revealing embracing me I wish you would sit for me my fortissima my prize The man breathes as he paints her she is truth Light catches her a memory of birth Strikes off the sea knits the composition Her bosom is full this is not a problem If he could say what he feels he might call it youth Held up by light held down by earth  G R AY A N D G R E E N ( M a r k R o t h k o ) Out of nowhere into nowhere nothing spreads, Or lies, or ﬂoats, intensest at no point Particular but this, divided by Tall screens and carved and housed For wandering outside the rectangle To what its walls cannot enclose.
Just a bunch of nuts if you want to know. What’s strange Is that everyone does know this, the night in ’57 he dragged men and boys from Their beds and quietly split their skulls. Osawatomie John. And there’s a boulder like the one at Pollock’s grave, who, incidentally, was Recently featured on a postage stamp without a cigarette—there was much Debate about the cigarette. And standing there I couldn’t help thinking about Pollock, The last person who should have occurred to me, except he too Was possessed, driven, but that’s pretty obvious so I stop thinking about Pollock’s brain sprays and his little barn outback, also preserved, and I Remember that my friend and I drove hundreds of miles upstate To lay eyes on this rough place and, of course, the famous Mountain.