About the Poems
by Trina Burke
These poems were written in the spirit of adolescent malaise stretched out on the Davenport under a rolled open window, listening to the din of bugs outside while studying illuminated bits of dust floating in the air. Lately I’ve been reading about Dorothy Wordsworth and trance-like states of inactivity in nature. Replace nature with suburbia and we’re almost there. Or watching war movies on TBS with grandpa as he balances a bowl of chocolate ice milk on his belly. The same grandpa who intoned, “‘We’re off!’ the captain shouted as he staggered down the deck!” every time he started the Granada.
On another level, they all began as blocks of text. Some of them became lineated. Others remained blocks of text. I rarely begin writing a poem with a line. Instead, I write an excess of words initially and pick the lines out later, squeezing them like fruit at the market.