The Little Mute Boy
The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice…
-Frederico Garcia Lorca
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Poem of the Day: The Little Mute Boy
03/20/2007 by Cosmographia Books
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#strawberrymoonI love talking about editing. Honored to be up here on today's panel with these fellow publishers. Great talk today at the very successful #theladderlcOur June newsletter: Interview with Elizabeth Osta + info about her Barnes & Noble event this Thursday. Plus a ton more. Link in bio.The War of Art #stephenpressfield #writing #quotesWe're so proud to have published Cosmographia's first book of poems: a chapbook collection by John Barrale. Here's a poem from the book. Melville I am her vessel. She hovers on my lips. An old hymn. A song of darkness. The book I am. Am I singing her name out loud? I am old and often can't remember whether I am awake or dreaming. Cocky, a young man, the sun behind me, and all the world's water racing beneath me, I thought I could make her my mistress. Truth is, I didn't know the exchange, what I would give and what she would take. Now, I am wracked with pain, an old sea wreck. Just look at my hands, twisted and broken. She had her moods. I learned them fast. They say she has no soul. Bullshit! She's one huge soul. She breathes and lives. Old, yes, and frightening, God's daughter's own hands in the storm's swell. Forever my lover, she mastered me long ago when, from boyhood shores, I watched her naked beauty, her every heaving, violent wave a rape. Damn you, and all, who would have me die in this bed. If I could, I'd drown, take comfort from her rough hands as she blurs the land from my face. Gladly, I'd let her restless fingers polish me, and her mouth suck the meat from my bones, until like the whale's fierce jaw, I am scoured, become scrimshaw, something rich and strange. #poetry #poem #poet #chapbook #newbook- My Tweets
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