Ugly Duckling Presse: Sans by G. L. Ford
Can you be patient with your memories? I mean, is there time enough? You can push one away for years, only to find, when you’re ready for it, that it’s lost its presence, fading into a denatured place “in which world and flesh / pull taut against each other / enough to allow / erosion.” In this sharp, haunting sequence of poems I feel like G. L. Ford is charting memory’s insistent dwindling, “like an alphabet / shedding letters,” marked throughout by dispatches from Gilgamesh’s half-beast best friend, who might find our present world “itself a judgment / on our faltering and / bestial sympathies, or not / bestial enough.” Ford’s got a wonderful, decisive ear and a deft touch. These gorgeous poems emerge like songs from the flicker between slides in the old slideshow.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
G. L. Ford
Photo credit: Mary Catherine Ford
G. L. Ford was a founding member of the Ugly Duckling Presse collective and a founding editor of 6x6. His poems have appeared in The Brooklyn Review and LVNG, among others. Chapbooks of his work have been published by UDP and Cy Gist Press. He resides in Harlem.