As Orion Falls

American Book Award-winning poet aaron a. abeyta finds beauty in the unexpected, whether it’s the melody of a raindrop striking a tin can or the complicated and intensely personal definitions of poetry itself.

as orion falls, a spectacular and intricate narrative array of poems, exposes and magnifies the constellations of everyday life — with its memory, pain, and joy. Weaving nostalgia, mythology, and wrenching passion, abeyta crafts language with exceptional care, and his achievement is a collection that speaks the truths we know from our own experience. An accessible entry into a self-contained world of the purest loves imaginable, as orion falls is a feast that feeds our secret dreams.

“There is no other voice that conjures the sky and keeps count of stars as human migrations, moving, fading, and bursting anew as aaron abeyta’s. Here he is standing naked and alone on the abandoned snow drifts and tierras, holding them as fallen angels and stellar evidence of our birthright — the luminous lands we claimed we would honor thirty-five years ago. Abeyta speaks with the voices of Nazim Hikmet, Jim Sagel, Allison Hedge-Coke and Albert Hunter, all lovers of the small earth and its collosal heart.” — Juan Felipe Herrera author of Cinnamon Girl: Letters Found Inside a Cereal Box

Available from Amazon.com.

Excerpt

definition

where does the poem come from
some think it is god
others suffering

i believed that poem and place were the same
a map of the washboard
roads of someone’s existence

then there are those
pulling poems from
the air into their nets

i think of Pablo
how the poem is the spaces
between the mesh net

not what we bring to our hands
or ashore but
what escapes us

the water flowing back to her mother
the butterfly pushed away
by the whoosh of the net

poems
are like people
they come from everywhere

still there is no definition
that is mine
no meteorite burning red in the 3:00 a.m. sky

no brief electricity
of a first kiss
define define define

the poem is
what would have happened
if Tristan and Isolde had lived

some mad potion
that is supposed to be death
and is instead

the way we fall
and live more fully
because we have fallen

po-em  n  1: a word that is the name of something.  2: the moment when the word becomes something.  i.e. as in the moment when we should be sleeping but wait up in case she has one more beautiful thing to say.

po-em  v  1: a word that expresses an act, occurrence, or mode of being.  2: to build freely.  i.e. a roof made of words or a wall constructed of silence.

po-em  prep  1: pre + ponere, to put.  2: a form that combines with a noun or pronoun that has a relation to some other word.  i.e. to be at a state of revision or to be on the cusp of some unthought thought.

po-em  adj  1: often formed by adding endings such as -able, -ful and -ish to nouns or verbs.  2: relating to or functioning as beautiful, clear or something like sunlight on a first snow.

po-em  adv  1: form by adding -ly to an adjective, thus making it even more poetic, exceptions are lovely, brotherly, friendly.  add freely to amazing, brilliant or beautiful or any force of nature requiring one more syllable to be remembered.  i.e. the sunrise that february morning was burning brilliantly for all the souls that would leave that day.

po-em  conj  1: the act of conjoining, or the occurrence together in time or space.  2: linguistic form that joins together sentences, clauses, phrases, words, or time and space.  i.e. a red bird flying into a cloud or squinting one’s eyes at night to make all the stars one light.

po-em  interj  1: word immediately following a poem.  2: word that moves you to a better or more introspective place.  i.e. wow, yes, and oh my.

then there is still
this lack of my own definition
where it will persist

the backbeat
of a song
that is its heart

the things we wish to say and don’t
the way unsaid things try to live
even as we kill them

here is my definition
tomorrow there will be
a new river

but today at 10:03 a.m.
on a friday     the poem
is thursday and saturday

it is what burns us
makes us love what used to be
as we hope that tomorrow the poem will be

newborn again    into the sky
much like venus or our sun
in the hours before we wake

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