By Jack B. Bedell
Through his narrative poetry, Bedell presents a correct illustration of the panorama of the zone and is sensible of its tradition and other people. His poems mirror the pictures and reviews universal to Acadiana-saltwater marshes and cypress swamps; cleansing redfish, searching teal, hearing the damaged tones in an previous oil-field employees voice-making the zone and its population obtainable to a much wider viewers and whilst bringing him in the direction of realizing himself and his heritage.
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Extra info for At the Bonehouse (Texas Review Southern and Southwestern Poetry Breakthrough Series)
Outside the train is creeping by, cars glow impatiently toward the tracks as the sky explodes above the trees. I watch the lights play against the glass and want you out there bending into the sky, connecting each line with grey clouds, tatting lace against the blue. I want you wet with rain and glowing. I think of where you are, skyscrapers and smog stealing this sky from you, stealing you from these lights webbing in all directions. Between each flash I see your eyes tilted and glistening in every corner of the room, but know you cannot be here and are somewhere dry and surrounded by tall things, know these lights will stop, this rain will stop, and I will have you in pictures.
Page 47 At the Bonehouse It all seems so tidy watching my father hand over the last check, white concrete and marble doors shining all around him. Like this it is decided. One day I'll be buried above ground. My father smiles, some adult pressure relieved, some burden of ambiguity sealed. Five Bedells choose their spots mine, upper right corner, farthest from the water that pulls at everything here until it's gone. I read my name in brass Jack B. 1966- thinking the while of playing in the rain, of warm south Louisiana water, thinking of how that water turned cold in my clothes and hair.
It wags its tail, happy to drag me through compost, to point like Buddha toward a cowbird flapping lazily through the air, to put its paws in the joint of a gorgeous oak to flush a butterfly. It leaves me with a curious wisdom at last abandon desire; move toward breakfast. Page 23 ON I-10 I Meet Hurricane Belinda I'm driving to help my brother board-up for the storm that's already stepping into the coast, but a woman in a blue Mercedes takes a different angle on the road wedging herself across the causeway, the side of her car blocking a line of drivers all plastered to their seats watching her.