Suzanne Buffam's first book, Past Imperfect, was published in 2005 by House of Anansi Press. The Irrationalist, her second book, was published in the U.S. by Canarium Books and in Canada by House of Anansi Press in April 2010. She's the recipient of the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award and the CBC Literary Award for Poetry, and her poems have appeared in Boston Review, A Public Space, Poetry, and many other journals. She lives in Chicago.
IF YOU SEE IT WHAT IS IT YOU SEE
I didn't look at the fire.
I looked into it.
I saw a shelf of books
Crash down and bury me
Centuries deep in red leather.
I saw a statue in a park
And a ship called Everything
Sink down on rusted wings.
Ten thousand triangles collapsed
Into a point
And the point was this.
I cannot tell you what I saw.
My catastrophe was sweet
And nothing like yours
Although we may sip
From the same
Broken cup all afternoon.
ON LOVE POEMS
A friend says relationships
Are only good for two poems:
One at the beginning
And one at the end.
Stevens says better to peddle
Pineapples than write love poems
Unless you happen to be
In love, that is.
When your lover shows up
With a basket of fruit
Thank him in advance
For the poem you are about to receive.
A PERFECT EMERGENCY
It was already aflame when I spotted it there in the parking lot.
Kids were standing around throwing sticks at it, kicking dirt in its face.
All I could do was look on in pity as it thrashed at the air like a tiny, vengeful sun.
But like a tiny, vengeful sun, the burning bush didn't want pity. When I approached with my hands in my pockets, it shook out its golden locks and sang in a language I could see.
I am the Unburnt Bush! it cried. I am Burning but Flourishing! I am Swallowed but I am not consumed!
In my head was a page from a musty old book with its useless list of Latin verbs. Before me I could see all the lives I might have lived, lined up and leaping through the same burning gate.
It was a perfect emergency. The only thing worth saving was the blaze.
Kids were standing around throwing sticks at it, kicking dirt in its face.
All I could do was look on in pity as it thrashed at the air like a tiny, vengeful sun.
But like a tiny, vengeful sun, the burning bush didn't want pity. When I approached with my hands in my pockets, it shook out its golden locks and sang in a language I could see.
I am the Unburnt Bush! it cried. I am Burning but Flourishing! I am Swallowed but I am not consumed!
In my head was a page from a musty old book with its useless list of Latin verbs. Before me I could see all the lives I might have lived, lined up and leaping through the same burning gate.
It was a perfect emergency. The only thing worth saving was the blaze.