Selected books of the beloved

Orr (The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write) spent over a decade creating this sprawling celebration of the pain and pleasure of being alive and in love with the world. Broken into four sections and spanning multiple "Books," this collection is a love letter to poetry, using Orr's words to commit his "bravest deed --/ To wed the world." Teeming with awe and sensation, these pieces leverage the "occult power of the alphabet" to plumb the depths of the heart, moving skillfully from lust to loss, aging to resurrection, keeping Sappho's remark that "whatever one loves most is beautiful" in mind. In one magical section, Orr takes the reader to "a place where every poem/ Is a house, and every house a poem," revealing scenes from Blake's cottage, Baudelaire's villa, and Orr's renderings of the homes of Whitman, Li Bo, and Dickinson. From "word-ships" to "worship" and "wound" to "how/ the world gets in," Orr plays with language as he expresses his love for his craft. This unbridled pleasure makes the pages of this hefty collection glow. (Aug.)

Hold off, rain... Hold off, rain. Of course, my garden Craves water. But the peonies Are in full blossom. If you fall now, Their petals will All be scattered. Wait a day. Let them feel The pure joy Of opening. Fall tomorrow, Then you can show them Love Is also a shattering. There's no use in closing... There's no use in closing Your eyes now-- After the lightning flash. Isn't it already inside you: Both wince and blinding? To speak too soon... To speak too soon After such a wound-- What if it's only A different bleeding? Let the tongue sleep, Your heart go numb. Wait a while in silence. Don't even write. Leave the page blank As a wintry bandage-- Isn't that why snow falls-- So the field beneath it can heal? When the beloved died... When the beloved died Our world Was destroyed-- The one we made By placing Him or her at the center. If we're patient and lucky, We might enter Another-- Beyond What we knew or wanted: One of risk and feeling, One where nothing Under us Will ever again Be steady, And even to stand We'll need to learn to dance. It would have erased everything human... It would have erased everything human-- The deep snow of oblivion-- If those before us hadn't kept Poking up The huts of poems and songs. And then: small houses Huddled in a settlement. And soon it became a village, And next it was a town. And now it makes its own weather. Now the winds walk around it. Now the clouds bow. Now the snow recedes And the Book of the beloved Reveals itself as a shining city. Grief made you heavy... Grief made you heavy, So heavy you wanted Only to lie on the ground. And the Book you gripped Despite its thousands Of pages, Was light, almost Floated out of your hands. You and the Book could Easily have drifted apart-- It, rising into the clouds; You, curling up in the dark. But you held on. Something (Maybe it was a single poem) Told you not to let go. When I was just a kid... When I was just a kid I wanted to be a painter. Even then I thought If I could stop time Every moment Would be perfect: The horses bowed Over the water trough, The chickens Clustered by their shed, The lonely boy Skating on the frozen stream. My mother's joy... My mother's joy Never lasted long. Her sorrow either. She walked her path Into oblivion Long before I wrote My first poem. I see her now, Resurrected In my thoughts: One more beloved Lighting my way Into the dark, One more beloved Bringing back From the abyss Explicable gifts. I always supposed... I always supposed It was words I was after-- Those Shining fish The poem's net gets. But who knows? Maybe it was The sea Itself I was trying To haul on deck. Excerpted from Selected Books of the Beloved by Gregory Orr All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.