Lisa Samuels

Four Poems


Social sculpture


Practice, practice

Political poem



Social sculpture

These appear the sun and boys and boys
their tan applications no hit but awful – these voices
so arrayed from ruination given to
a loftness or arising a blue
windmill lilting and not here
turning lot given a red way to say

‘They feed themselves with suspicions’
‘I think they are nominal and preventive’

No one dies for venture it’s all ‘duree’
she said with a dying voice the pieces of
your ideas taste stubby and sad about that
your brown hair falls swept back
your posture looks upright and lovely

They don’t actually investigate
it’s more like the serene face of the smiling
film-goddess harkening to partiality
she’s gone and here the same
vitality due to form

starter options finer than the face given to view
a domino effect – the body folds along its seams
and she is telling it increasingly rapids the bright water
falling across the fine green of her legs

she felt and the water gave a sense
we associate with men who leave dead
on the alternate wire that cuts through day
a point of view for the sake of energy procured.

a grace, hogwash, ratiocination, bodily projection,
a grey bonsai off an absent
flat small quantified.




It’s so like baby content, fired word

He stood up bordering the gull

One patient giving the sky

Oh and nervous nervous

My head is starving

Know like how sharp oh yeah how much

They pay watch for the very catch

Their own interpreting oh cause

You can get hooks oh bribe I tell you

Everything my sign my sign is stopped

To see him off and he’s like ten sunshine

With the brunes and I’m in truth like no

Like coins melted in her hair

Because it is transmission

One two three

Natch it call now eh?


Practice, practice


Victim of the sentimentalizing of jeu d’esprit, she was like a movie shot
tight against the waist. Practice, practice. Hold my pink hand as we
put it through the shade – in Louisiana, in Mexico. Playhooks holding up
the bones.

To which we must add, curious and experience, your convivial clothes drop
instantly to the floor. What is an innocent conductor doing with effluvia?
Naïveté, distinctly not a room, white flakes falling over lawns. Haven’t I
heard this

Now ethics. We’ve been I guess charging prudence her brief life domed.
No enlargement across the bow, though we ‘come about’ shock pioneers
at sail. Much as I told you, your eyes having lunch in the little town of
my face.

Your practice has arrived at the door, illumination prior to its opening. In
any case, we can always get up. Earth’s presumptuous sublimity we’re
looking for. Between the precise distinctions memory is congenital, the
nipple circles closed.



Political poem


the vocabulary one could say in subst
ituting itself as moronically sashes
a body’s rhythms give it density

painting always had its idea
a pose in the process of dissolving but
the flicker book merely replete
says the luminous in calling such

things inimical to beacon
the standard three-by-four happens
on an edge

having created a single autonomy
between passable images of magic
forth over and over two locations
inside one inter
locutor compositing no longer as
theatrical backdrop but
phantom lapse, accommodation fantasies.

we observe they occupy
two places at once and I
never did see or fetch a re prehensive finally

what I mean is detached
kindly, floating in
mention, no particular
space in mind


Working Notes

Practice, practice derives from an energetic series of lines I wrote, in long hand, while listening to a recent lecture on contemporary visual art. A great deal of the lecture was loving nonsense. The accompanying images, however, showed some interesting indulgences with space and light and repeated forms. The poem is a condensation of some of the material I wrote in those reactive pages.

Political Poem I have no real explaining for. Its conditions seem quite self-presented in terms of the relation of title and body. I wrote it several months ago, and I believe the title came first, as it often though not always does for me.


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