About this poet

Noah Eli Gordon is the author of The Word Kingdom in the Word Kingdom (Brooklyn Arts Press, 2015). He teaches at the University of Colorado-Boulder and lives in Denver, Colorado. 

An exact comprehension of the composer's intent

Noah Eli Gordon
Cloudless sky, a tendril root, a chord begun
     as unfolding duration & one’s lost words,
a red lexicon, an empty definition

gathering its discourse—the flow from content
     to perception: language is a translation of grace.
Say the body, say the heart, a composition in blue,

the passing energy, cell, motion, inevitability;
     an impact until meaning wears through
the mind’s opulence, its spindle—a white thread.

Tethered to conviction, one says moon, one, emotion
     —the recurrence of night: a door will open,
shifting from anonymity to intellection—a translation

of sight with speech, awoken not by voice
     but what precedes it: the worldliness, wordless;
a measure of sound or movement to song.

From A Fiddle Pulled from the Throat of a Sparrow by Noah Eli Gordon. Copyright © 2007 by Noah Eli Gordon. Reprinted with permission of New Issues Poetry & Prose.

From A Fiddle Pulled from the Throat of a Sparrow by Noah Eli Gordon. Copyright © 2007 by Noah Eli Gordon. Reprinted with permission of New Issues Poetry & Prose.

Noah Eli Gordon

Noah Eli Gordon

Noah Eli Gordon is the author of The Word Kingdom in the Word Kingdom (Brooklyn Arts Press, 2015). He teaches at the University of Colorado-Boulder and lives in Denver, Colorado. 

by this poet

poem

for Graham Foust

What is technology if not

a kind of built-in nostalgia

for the frantic past’s long slide

into a slower present

Put another way: a decade

bends 8-bit bells & whistles

into an oxymoron it nearly

hurts

poem
To say sleep works by accumulation is to disregard the
weather in my head.

It makes a genius of the pillow, an apt anthropomorphic
redundancy.

When the story stumbles into its fearless costume &
everyone at the edge of the woods is worried their waiting-
room bravado won't open to anything but the same
poem

The bottom teeth of summer

in winter, braided into

whomever stood on the green green bridge watching her shadow lengthen.

Sun-pocket. Sunflower. Seedling, you

brittle blossoming something the room clears of dailyness.

Daily, the bottom teeth of summer