Love in the Last Days: After Tristan and Iseult

Love in the Last Days: After Tristan and Iseult

by D. Nurkse
Love in the Last Days: After Tristan and Iseult

Love in the Last Days: After Tristan and Iseult

by D. Nurkse

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$14.99 

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Overview

A contemporary requiem--an earthy yet elegant reconsideration of the Tristan and Iseult story, from the former poet laureate of Brooklyn.

In D. Nurkse's wood of Morois, the Forest of Love, there's a fine line between the real and the imaginary, the archaic and the actual, poetry and news. The poems feature the voices of the lovers and all parties around them, including the servant Brangien; Tristan's horse, Beau Joueur; even the living spring that flows through the tale ("in my breathing shadow / the lovers hear their voices / confused with mine / promising a slate roof, / a gate, a child . . . "). Nurkse brings us an Iseult who has more power than she wants over Tristan's imagination, and a Tristan who understands his fate early on: "That charm was so strong, no luck could free us." For these lovers, time closes like a book, but it remains open for us as we hear both new tones and familiar voices, eerily like our own, in this age-old story made new again.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780451494818
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 09/12/2017
Sold by: Random House
Format: eBook
Pages: 104
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

D. NURKSE is the author of ten previous books of poetry. His recent prizes include a Literature Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a Guggenheim fellowship. He has also written on human rights.

Read an Excerpt

The Living Spring
 
 
In my breathing shadow
the lovers hear their voices
confused with mine,
promising a slate roof,
a gate, a child, respite
from the Absolute.
Let them sleep.
 
Doesn’t God love them
because they are like him,
too broken to obey
the rules of death?
 
In my ambit
birdsong is slurred,
nightingale’s loneliness,
famished thrush, sparrow
pining in the cold,
each charged
with rapt indifference.
 
Rest while I tremble.
Isn’t God himself
stubborn as water?
 

 
The Self
 
 
When
we
rolled
in mottled
oak leaves
I
shone,
though
the high
hawk
saw
just
two
naked
fugitives.

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