By Martha Collings

Martha Collins deals haunting reflections on time and different matters in Day unto Day, a spare and refined 7th assortment. The e-book comprises six sequences: in the course of one month every year, for 6 years, Collins wrote a brief poem every day. With completely distilled strains, she captures the aching, liminal great thing about at some point changing into one other — the gradual burn of time passing, the anomaly of an “old / new leaf" turning over, whilst she collages a variety of fabric that incorporates usually irritating information of the realm. Writing within the culture of poetic meditation, Collins indicates us the whole measure of her mastery — a mature voice, poems with large scope, and contours quite managed. this is the paintings of a pro poet on the top of her profession.

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Example text

If the thing in question were a block of ice, one could wonder why the surface of the world were ice. How many surfaces are there between a thing and the world? How strictly does heat determine a region? If one is standing on a road, beside a block of ice, if one begins to understand that situation, such that one begins to count surfaces, the ice is bound to melt in tempo, as if a road is not the best place to count surfaces. As though, on a road, there’s a toll one must be prepared to pay 25 when considering the number of places in which a thing and the world meet, meet but remain aloof behind that junction, maintaining their proper places in respect to each other’s place, and in respect to that.

Because it stands beyond the sea the sky is almost true and the sun leaving is a practicality for ships to understand, the quality that moves from wave to wave until there is the sense of a shared rim remaining just outside the fate of buildings. Like all complementary pairs they are unfinished, sea and sky, the fate and its building, and both have yet really to begin, but things move within things as though blue and blue fought inside them, gently the breast is torn then flooded and out of it comes a night refreshed at the base which, as if about to say its name, always brings all of itself.

Perhaps more than a little surprised, as though coming to oneself from out of sleep, it is placed there as a propagation of energy, the eye lighting up with a coarse gold 41 nearness and insuªciency of speech sent forth in rays from the delirious beak, sparks and whirring noises, the original score. It has found a way to pierce the surface of the day, to break its planes until the shadows lengthen on the harmonies of the old ways, still present as time refloods the scene then dries it, and the bird is wild in the eye, placed there as the remains of a candle, a dream of oil out from under the land, each moment of its call is one way but not the only one, there are more where the mouth continues to end in embellishments, the hole in the bag, a tenor to trace the e¤ect of ravens on Siena.

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