I remember the first time I read some Katy Lederer poems. They were immediately intriguing, lyrical, Romantic, oracular, meditative, cool, ironic, and deeply honest all at once. I liked reading them. They asked interesting questions, like is this longing? Is the flanged brain more original? The poems cast a wide net over what one could think of as a kind of tonal range of the Romantic lyric, melancholic, passionate, erotic, devoted. In a Katy Lederer poem, one will often hear these romantic tones cast in a cold, cold music, a gesture that sets everything in a sort of relief. And yet the poems escape mere irony. The speculative quality the poems have is one of utmost seriousness.
Both intelligence and beauty are present. The subject matter is usually love; one of the central concerns is recasting the language of love. And there is humorÛa great generosity of humor at play along the edges of the poem, never fully taking it over, but balanced precariously among the many qualities the poems manage and allow. These poems are a delight to read. It is my pleasure to introduce them to these pages. 

Morning Song

You color all. Is this longing?

Or private. Is it private to speak 

in the morning, the birdsong 
like knives? We sit on this bench

while this wind swirls and billows. 
This setting is love, yet we sit on 

this bench, yet we listen to birdsong. 
This color, your brain, which is bluer 

than water. I touch it, your brain, 
which is cooler than water. I wonder, 

your brain, when it falters will it be 
so cold? We buffet one another 

with our bodies, with our slackened 
hearts. I put myself in it, your body, 

which aches. I put myself in it, your 
brain, which is cooler than water.

Morning Song

In that other place, 
in youth

a calm water 

The culprits were 

Intent on getting through
the waves,

I came upon a harbinger, 
a black 

rotted goat, floating 
in water.

In this allegory, we are here,
and here 

I saw in morning light a sex 
glow red. 

The gulls were pressed 

the waves, across the blue 

Stretched taut like this drum, 
gusted out 

like this sail, focused 
out like 

this eye of a lizard. On the 

the white, liminal edge of 
the day,

edge of the sea-squall, 
Is the flanged brain more 

I wonder when I find a line, do I 
pick it up? 

There are jumps in the mind, 
little ladders 

we use to escape these small 

But what if the fires are too big, 
and like children, 

we hide from ourselves? What if 
we put down 

our thoughts in perfect ladderings, 
but nothing 

climbs them but for dull ideas?

Morning Song

It is simply a matter of syntax. 
ÏIÓ ÏloveÓ Ïyou.Ó It is simply a matter 

of order. The simplest words work 
the best for the complex emotions: 

ÏLove.Ó ÏGone.Ó ÏLoss.Ó It is morning 
and we lie here on this clean, white, pleated 

double bed. We are waiting for the sunrise 
to unmask us of our sleep. It is lyrical 

to dream like this. We ones who climb 
like primates up through sleep at night 

to dream of light. I dream of you. Black suitor, 
gone, like sleep. Like vapid, nothing dreams.

At night these objects take on cast of shadow, 
yet we sleep. At night we feel this nothing-new, 

this tongue-loll, this exigent sinew, and 
I think we must deceive ourselves. 

The Epithet Epic

Their thoughts are entirely immersed in resolution. 
He resolves to consecrate it with a tree. 
He opens his eyes and he finds a place fitting to planting.
It is early in the morning. When he comes he is ethical. 
He will remember it. He will give it the epithet epic and leave it.

Where is he? 
In the country there are two of them. 
Standing immersed in the shadow of love. 
Of his motives, he says they are pure. 
Of the heavy silence, she thinks it is part of the trueness of their love. 
In the winter his motives are altered by a storm. 
The two of them purchase a knife. 
The blade of it is long and thin.

He commands her to speak in direct discourse. 
He indicates that he wants her to express her thoughts concisely and with precision. 
He finds this romantic. 

They are in the country and her bodice has been cut with the knife. 
Part of it hangs off her shoulder. In the distance she hears the sound of a gunshot. 
Their speech no longer serves them adequately. 

He walks toward her, feels her breast. 
He places his lips on hers. Pulls her down. Puts his hand far up her skirt and she sighs for him. 
Their skin is taut, bumpy.

He is no longer in a predicament. 
She tilts her head back and moans. She lilts her voice slightly and asks him if he loves her. 
He does love her. He feels a very true love for her.

He is then quite unable to continue. He is breathing too heavily and doesnÌt want to be speaking anymore. 
She is also breathing heavily. 
They come. They are happy. 


I think of your face and of its deepest bewilderment. 
It makes me sad as if the morning
were a tower or pair 
of themÛhaunted and pure,
degenerate, elevated, strange of view
in solitude.