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At the lion’s court you cannot count
ev’ry marquess, duke, margrave, viscount that preened and purred en promenade, though certain subjects truly awed: the jocund jaguar’s jacquard dress proud puma empress did impress; its baroque brocade broke barricades of silence; roque players awoke from bored stupor to applaud—but spy sly cougar, her corseted couplet (quite compressed) caused many a suitor to feel stressed in his constraint. And behold in linen white bold snow leopard’s gown, that in light shifts to golden brown (and so you see a leopard can change spots easily). [READ FULL WORK] |
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A gentle trepidation convulses then the whole anatomy, a strange intimate vibration that displaces the fuzzy dust on the ground, the little bits of grit and sand that hurt ever so slightly the tender surface of the still-brittle thorax as one sinks softly into the warm sweetness of the deep soil, sitting on the subway, soaking in the echoes of ten million fellowships, so easy to recall what poets describe as the material forms of memory old selves cast off after each molt, dun crinkly specters scattered on every corner, rock-candy sheaths leaning casually against walls…
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Regarding Fleisher’s notorious, profligate appropriation of others’ works, I found myself fixated by this sentence in an online appreciation: “Harrison, alone among reviewers, has suggested that Fleisher’s motives were hidden even from himself, and that, similar to Irina Ustinov in the notorious episode in which she unknowingly recreated a tale she’d read in childhood, Fleisher was a naïf, suffered from the (disputed) malady known as cryptomnesia, or unconscious plagiarism--the belief that a thought is novel when in fact it is a memory.” (Emphasis mine.)
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