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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

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). 

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

Sometimes starting with a title
Infuses the work
With an insurmountable dread
How is one to fulfill such a promise
To make good on the pact
That art in the end allows
For a kind of connectivity
Life otherwise lacks
Or lacks in those more
Contemplative ways
Since

2
poem
I'd give you another day dizzy 
in its bracket for the reluctant circumference 
of a sad sad satellite's antiquated orbital stoppage.
You can't jump with a lead foot, can't 
anthropomorphize insect anticipation, can't 
pixelate postcard nostalgia, can't 
trace a boy's tiny hand and call him
king of anything that