Over the Anvil We Stretch
By Anis Mojgani
4/5
()
About this ebook
Anvil is a book of poetic truth, packed with humor and insight. It is a juggling act of the epic and the intimate. I read it and it echoes. Shut up so I can hear more. -David Gordon Green, filmmaker, All the Real Girls and The Pineapple Express
Anis Mojgani, Andrea Gibson, and other young poets of their talent are the future of American poetry and frankly, that fills me with joy! --Thomas Lux, Guggenheim Fellow & recipient of the Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award for his book Split Horizons
He’s probably the best poetry slammer alive. The intellect, optimism and humility with which he speaks feel like proof of the relevance of “spoken word†as a genre. He processes the world in slices of beauty, frustration and sympathy... -Willamette Week Newspaper
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Book preview
Over the Anvil We Stretch - Anis Mojgani
Title Page
Over the Anvil We Stretch
a collection of poetry
†
by Anis Mojgani
Write Bloody Publishing
America’s Independent Press
Long Beach, CA
writebloody.com
Copyright Information
Copyright © Anis Mojgani 2010
No part of this book may be used or performed without written consent from the author, if living, except for critical articles or reviews.
Mojgani, Anis.
1st digital edition.
ISBN: 978-1-935904-88-5
Interior Layout by Lea C. Deschenes
Cover Designed by Cole Nuckols
Illustrations by Anis Mojgani
Proofread by Jennifer Roach
Edited by Saadia Byram, Derrick Brown and Michael Edward Sarnowski
Special thanks to Lightning Bolt Donor, Weston Renoud
Printed in Tennessee, USA
Write Bloody Publishing
Long Beach, CA
Support Independent Presses
writebloody.com
To contact the author, send an email to [email protected]
Dedication
Dedication
for the magnolias of new orleans,
the honeysuckle on my grandparents’ walls,
and for sarah who helped find me
on days when I wanted to stay lost
Epigraph
When the rain hits the snake in the head,
he closes his eyes and wishes he were
asleep in a tire on the side of the road,
so young boys could roll him over, forever.
— Frank Stanford
Intro to Part One
A pitchfork fell from the sky. It fell like a struck crow. It hit the earth and broke into large dust. A small boy took the broken pieces, their atoms murmuring, and in the dark swallowed them. The slivers dropped like lightning into his gut, scratching his throat on the way down. The boy sat on his knees before he went to bed. Trying to sleep, he tossed like a thundercloud. His organs grinding the piecemeal pitchfork into the pieces of himself, the bits of it moving through him, eeking out the sound of metal across bone and skin. The sky came in closer to listen to the song his body was making. He curled like an armadillo, arms wrapped around himself tight as a tomb, trying to both claw the song out of his belly and to protect it. Across the sky’s shoulders he scraped his palms until he was too tired to bleed from them, his body so soft that everything hurt. On the other side of his life, the river moved like a dark instrument. A long cello wailing softly and longly, waiting for him to move his fingers through it.
One
We were horses
The black clouds and the stars
that danced between them, were a carnival.
And we were the kids born of it.
when I was sick
I bit down. Broke the thermometer in my mouth.
The mercury coated my stomach in silver. I swallowed a bird.
He pecked his songs across the metal of my silver belly.
The notes echoed through my throat and outside. He made
the beautiful things that flew out from me. But the melodies
twisted too much. They kept me up at night. So I climbed outside
and sat in a field. I watched the spiders, fat on rain water, crawl
over the wet grass, and filled a jar