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Informationen zum Autor Virginia Adair Klappentext " Virginia Adair speaks directly and unaffectedly! in an accent stripped of mannerism and allusion. Ants on the Melon exhibits enough formal variety! freshness! and intelligence to confirm! at one stroke! that Ms. Adair is a poet of accomplishment and originality." --Brad Leithauser! The New York Times Book Review " Extraordinarily moving. Her voice is clear! assured! varied! and utterly her own." --A. Alvarez! The New York Review of Books " The rhyme is ingenious! the humor saucy and unsparing! and the author clearly takes a delight in perversity! in an inversion of the expected." --Alice Quinn! The New Yorker " How bright and unmuddled and unaffected and unswerving these poems are. There's such aplomb! no faking! such a true hard edge. They never miss." --Alice Munro " Adair writes with a thinking heart's and a feeling mind's unusual clarity. Here is a sensual! wise! precise! amazing voice." --Sharon Olds Virginia Hamilton Adair is America's most widely read and respected serious poet. Ants on the Melon has already become a landmark in the nation's literary history! and the advent of this paperback edition guarantees that her great gifts will be recognized and appreciated by an even larger audience. Now You Need Me When the rains come you remember our old closeness humping along in the wet. You grope the dark where I hang morosely by my crooked neck. You pull off my cover shake me till my ribs jingle and a moth flies out. Your hand reaches under my black skirt and up one leg thin as a cane until I open wide with a rusty squawk hovering above you like a dark and loving raven, said the old umbrella, her night full of holes. Peeling an Orange Between you and a bowl of oranges I lie nude Reading The World's Illusion through my tears. You reach across me hungry for global fruit, Your bare arm hard, furry and warm on my belly. Your fingers pry the skin of a naval orange Releasing tiny explosions of spicy oil. You place peeled disks of gold in a bizarre pattern On my white body. Rearranging, you bend and bite The disks to release further their eager scent. I say "Stop, you're tickling," my eyes still on the page. Aromas of groves arise. Through green leaves Glow the lofty snows. Through red lips Your white teeth close on a translucent segment. Your face over my face eclipses The World's Illusion . Pulp and juice pass into my mouth from your mouth. We laugh against each other's lips. I hold my book Behind your head, still reading, still weeping a little. You say "Read on, I'm just an illusion," rolling Over upon me soothingly, gently moving, Smiling greenly through long lashes. And soon I say "Don't stop. Don't disillusion me." Snows melt. The mountain silvers into many a stream. The oranges are golden worlds in a dark dream. One Ordinary Evening Lying entwined with you on the long sofa the hi-fi helping Isolde to her climax I was clipping the coarse hairs from your ears and ruby nostrils when you said, "Music for cutting nose wires" and we shook so the nailscissors nicked your gentle neck blood your blood I cleansed the place with my tongue and we clung tight pelted with Teutonic cries till the player lifted its little prick from the groove all arias over leaving us in post-Wagnerian sadness later that year you were dead by your own hand blood your blood I have never understood I will never understand. An Hour to Dance For a while we whirled over the meadows of music our sadness put away...
