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    Thunderbird
    Thunderbird
    Thunderbird
    Ebook114 pages26 minutes

    Thunderbird

    By Jane Miller

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    About this ebook

  • Miller has been a mentor to hundreds of poets through her years as a teacher at University of Arizona.

  • The Boston Book Review compares Jane Miller’s “careening, associative” verse to the paintings of Jackson Pollock and Jasper Johns. All are inventive, energetic, and risky.

  • Miller was originally a painter. She sees the processes of painting and writing as much the same, but she found herself unable to paint and write poetry at the same time, so she abandoned painting in favor of writing.

  • W.S. Merwin calls her work “continuously suggestive, intimate, and beautiful.”

  • Miller was influenced by Frederico García Lorca, Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein, and Adrienne Rich


    • LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopper Canyon Press
    Release dateAug 26, 2013
    ISBN9781619320581
    Thunderbird
    Author

    Jane Miller

    David Miller is a writer living in Chicago. This is his first novel.

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    • 3/5
      In "Thunderbird," Jane Miller writes a series of poems linked by last line and title and a kind of stream of consciousness rendering of what seem to be stories she has been told as well as her own experiences. She often juxtaposes seemingly unrelated images and tries to rehabilitate stake expressions by their introduction into these juxtapositions. Overall, the book is a modest success; but sometimes the effort is strained. For this reader at least, the emotion did not always feel real or earned by the getting to it.

    Book preview

    Thunderbird - Jane Miller

    THE TREE ENTIRE

    My brain lies crushed sideways

    in a pillow of a morning

    I hear you both faintly

    deciding whose fields to empty

    to clear-cut first growth

    knowing such an odious decision

    is prompted by a greater emergency

    a fire on your watch

    where officially a firewall is called for

    I accept your predicament

    your view obstructed

    from your dark red couch

    on a nearby planet

    as two shining stones

    you think the friction between you

    is blazing hot and not just

    death’s genitals

    which are a part of nature

    NATURE

    Do we need time to vanish

    and to reappear like childhood

    religious music?

    it’s stirring isn’t it?

    but not for us

    as Fortinbras says to Hamlet when he’s dead

    to greet each other or bid farewell

    where spooked horses refuse chase

    we have only brute memory

    without a wishing well

    we are like gypsies with pink mandolins

    against oblivion

    we are gypsies with yellow wrist bells

    a melting piccolo and a melting piano

    WISHING WELL

    The next day nearly kills me

    along a frozen river or so I hear

    the chaos around an old house

    intimidating purposefully

    like a snowplow one would assume

    but it would be your human sound

    scraping the white space from this page

    has awakened me

    now that you understand power in private life

    you see my sore loser’s blanket over my head

    stemming a slow internal bleed before you leave

    like a cat loose among hounds

    that I do not think got killed by accident

    ACCIDENT

    During the ritual of dishes

    I cut my trigger finger

    breaking last night’s

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