There are three poems from Linda Gregg up next in this issue of The Quarterly, none of which is overly long. The first two in particular gave off a particular sense of history that I liked:
From "Whoever We May Finally Be, Said Rilke":
Seeing the bodies at Belsen is not simple.
Bodies the shape of their bones, mouths,
and the fresh holes in the earth.
The illusion of tenderness in the arms and hands.
The people who were in charge standing in warm
coats
on the dirt ridge above watching the excavations fill
with corpses. Other soldiers carrying other dead.
Two pulling a body with its lax hand dragging
on the dirt. Worst of all is seeing
how beautiful these bodies are in their ruin.
I simply found the poem(s) putting me in these locations, creating a visual for me that I guess I expect when I read prose but am still surprised by when it happens to me when reading poetry.
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