{"id":158368,"date":"2022-04-06T07:20:21","date_gmt":"2022-04-06T11:20:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=158368"},"modified":"2022-04-07T15:39:43","modified_gmt":"2022-04-07T19:39:43","slug":"claire-schwartz-poetry","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/04\/06\/claire-schwartz-poetry\/","title":{"rendered":"Claire Schwartz, Poetry"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_158372\" style=\"width: 913px\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/claireschwartz_credit_beowulfsheehan-scaled.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-158372\" class=\"wp-image-158372 size-large\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/claireschwartz_credit_beowulfsheehan-903x1024.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"903\" height=\"1024\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/claireschwartz_credit_beowulfsheehan-903x1024.jpg 903w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/claireschwartz_credit_beowulfsheehan-265x300.jpg 265w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/claireschwartz_credit_beowulfsheehan-768x871.jpg 768w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/claireschwartz_credit_beowulfsheehan-1354x1536.jpg 1354w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/claireschwartz_credit_beowulfsheehan-1806x2048.jpg 1806w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-158372\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Claire Schwartz. Photograph by Beowulf Sheehan.<\/p><\/div>\n<p><em>Claire Schwartz is the author of the poetry collection\u00a0<\/em>Civil Service, <em>forthcoming from Graywolf, and the culture editor of<\/em>\u00a0Jewish Currents. <em>Claire\u2019s writing has appeared in<\/em>\u00a0The Believer, Los Angeles Review of Books, The Nation, The New Yorker<em>, <\/em>Poetry Magazine, Virginia Quarterly Review,\u00a0<em>and elsewhere.<\/em>\u00a0<em>From 2018 to 2020,\u00a0<\/em><em>she wrote a column for<\/em>\u00a0The Paris Review\u00a0<em>c<\/em><em>alled <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/columns\/poetry-rx\/\">Poetry RX<\/a>, with Kaveh Akbar and Sarah Kay.<\/em>\u00a0<em>She is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize and Yale\u2019s Sylvia Ardyn Boone Prize, and received her PhD from Yale University.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><!--more--><\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>From <em>Civil Service:<\/em><\/p>\n<p><strong>Apples<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>The townspeople paste wax apples on the trees,<br \/>\nglow shyly out their windows as the Dictator<br \/>\nstruts past the monument of his father strutting<br \/>\npast nothing at all. Yesterday, the Dictator dressed<br \/>\nthe Butcher\u2019s boy in the uniform of his own son.<br \/>\nToday, at the orders of the Dictator, guards shot the boy.<\/p>\n<p>In the town of his childhood, the Curator is a tourist.<br \/>\nHe touches his mother with the language<br \/>\nwith which he does not touch his work.<br \/>\nIn the painting, bored bored Eve chomps on an apple.<br \/>\nIn the tongue of his work, he acquires her.<\/p>\n<p>At the banquet: music wrung from the townspeople\u2019s anguish,<br \/>\npigs choked with apples.<br \/>\nThe meat in the soup is human meat.<br \/>\nThe Dictator\u2019s rings are made of gold<br \/>\nyanked from the teeth of corpses.<\/p>\n<p>The Censor bloats with what he knows.<br \/>\nHis sons bloom in neat rows.<br \/>\nAn orchard grows inside his wife.<br \/>\nHe prunes her on Sundays.<\/p>\n<p>Under the earth, the Butcher\u2019s boy, laughing,<br \/>\neats an apple. The core rises, light with rot.<br \/>\nThe Dictator admires the fruit of his land.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><strong>Letter by Letter<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>In his office in the attic, in his favorite khaki pants,<br \/>\nthe Archivist carefully sets down the glass case<br \/>\nof his body so as not to rattle the exhibit of his mind.<br \/>\nHe wears gloves to stroke the name on the envelope,<br \/>\nthe name written in a florid hand trained by long-ago<br \/>\nlove. <em>To live among the dead<\/em>, the Archivist thinks.<br \/>\nHis eyebrows do a little jig. With fingers strange<br \/>\nto his wife, the Archivist traces the name of the street<br \/>\nin the village that burned. The street wears the name of the flower<br \/>\nthe Archivist\u2019s mother tucked behind her ear in a photograph<br \/>\nlanguishing in a desk drawer. The Archivist carries his mind<br \/>\ninto each house. Here, the Cook makes love, his hand<br \/>\nbrushing flour against his boyfriend\u2019s nipple. There,<br \/>\nthe Tailor\u2019s satisfied song of scissors bisecting<br \/>\na ream of red. A girl whose mouth makes an O,<br \/>\naround which chocolate makes another mouth, runs<br \/>\nthrough the road. The road which runs through<br \/>\nthe Archivist\u2019s blood. The girl is the Archivist\u2019s grandmother<br \/>\nonly in that she is a story the Archivist tells<br \/>\nhimself about how he got here. Under an oak tree,<br \/>\ntwo dogs fucking. The girl\u2019s ice cream is melting.<br \/>\nThe Archivist\u2019s mind is sticky with history.<br \/>\nOf course, the village burns again. History is<br \/>\nthe only road that survives. Downstairs, the Archivist\u2019s daughter<br \/>\nis hungry. He restores the dead to their folders. <em>To live!<\/em><br \/>\nThe girls\u2019 wails rise through the house like smoke.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><strong>Preferential Treatment<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>The Censor uses the black crayon<br \/>\nto eradicate sex. On payday, he takes<br \/>\nhis wife and son to Shake Shack.\u00a0<em>Whatever<\/em><br \/>\n<em>you want<\/em>, the Censor says to his wife<br \/>\nwhen she asks what she should have.<br \/>\nThe Censor crosses\u00a0<em>provide for your family<\/em><br \/>\noff the list he keeps tucked in his billfold. To track<br \/>\nthe time, the Censor sings\u00a0\u201dYou Are My Sunshine<em>\u201d<\/em>\u00a0twice<br \/>\nwhile his son brushes his teeth. The boy shows the glass<br \/>\nhis shining mouthstones and growls. He is a bear. No,<br \/>\nhe is a boy. In the boy\u2019s drawings, the zebras<br \/>\nare purple and white. His mother hangs<br \/>\nthem on the fridge.\u00a0<em>What beautiful horses<\/em>,<br \/>\nthe Censor says. His wife\u2019s wit trembles, then ebbs.<br \/>\nThe children\u2019s nails are clogged with black wax.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p> \u201cThe girl\u2019s ice cream is melting. The Archivist\u2019s mind is sticky with history.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1418,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[68396],"tags":[24555,33543,1253],"class_list":["post-158368","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-whiting-awards-2022","tag-about-poetry","tag-poetry-rx","tag-whiting-awards"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Claire Schwartz, Poetry by Claire Schwartz<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"April 6, 2022 \u2013 \u201cThe girl\u2019s ice cream is melting. 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