#patrick phillips

Patrick Phillips, Falling

Not as it was to live But as it is remembered.

It will be the past.

We'll all go back together. Everyone we ever loved,

and lost, and must remember. It will be the past.

And it will last forever."

Praised be friends. Praise enemies. Praise the dark above.

Praise hangovers. Praise cigarettes. The vulture and the dove.

Praise all music. Praise the harp. And the amplifier's buzz.

Praise the days we'd live forever. And loneliness. And love.

Praise even death, or at least the dying, who taught us how to live.

Matinee

After the biopsy,   after the bone scan,   after the consult and the crying,   for a few hours no one could find them,   not even my sister,   because it turns out   they'd gone to the movies.   Something tragic was playing,   something epic,   and so they went to the comedy   with their popcorn   and their cokes,   the old wife whispering everything twice,   the old husband   cupping a palm to his ear,   as the late sun lit up an orchard   behind the strip mall,   and they sat in the dark holding hands.

Patrick Phillips

Listen to Patrick Phillips introduce and read his poem

You can be born in Atlanta, GA, but you know you’ve become a New Yorker, @ poet Patrick Phillips, when you’re writing a poem about what we call, in this city, “a slice.”

Jubilate Civitas 

I will consider a slice of pizza.

For rare among pleasures in Gotham, it is both      exquisite and blessedly cheap.

For its warmth is embracing, its smell the      quintessence of hope.

For it can be found in all boroughs, every few blocks,      yet never two slices the same.

For its makers speak many tongues.

For dusting the counter with cornmeal and flour,      without looking down, they pummel and roll out      the dough.

For they heap out the still-steaming sauce and, with a      touch of the ladle, paint it in rings like a bull’s-eye,      or a tree-stump, or a thumb.

For they smile at each other’s jokes, grasping great      handfuls of cheese.

For wiping both hands on an apron, they nod at the      phrase “not too hot,” and start one of a hundred      little clocks in their heads.

For their corded forearms reach deep in the oven with      a long-handled paddle, giving each pie, with a flick,      its requisite spin.

For heat bubbles and blisters and browns the      miraculous crust.

For even in the tiniest shop you can find every style:      sagging with mushrooms and bacon, broccoli and      pineapple, chicken, and sausage, and onion.

For time passes slowly awaiting a slice, and reminds us      how sweet it is to be alive at this moment on earth.

For it slides to a stop in a little city of shakers, where      with pepper and oregano, garlic and parmesan, we      citizens make it our own.

For you can fold it in half like a taco and eat it while      standing or driving, or walking and working your      phone.

For I have seen the bearded young men of Brooklyn      sit upright to eat it, riding bicycles through      redlights, at midnight, in the rain.

For with each bite the paper plate grows more      translucent with grease, till it glows like stained      glass over the trash can.

For it has nourished our children and soothed many      sorrows.

For in a time of deceit it is honest and upright,      steadfast and good—beloved and modest and      known.

For its commerce makes nobody rich and nobody      poor.

For that, to us, it is home.

. .

More on this book and author: 

Learn more about Song of the Closing Doors by Patrick Phillips.

Browse other books by Patrick Phillips and follow him @patrickphillipsbooks on Instagram. 

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

I will consider a slice of pizza. For rare among the pleasures in Gotham, it is both exquisite           and blessedly cheap. For its warmth is embracing, its smell the quintessence of hope. For it can be found in all boroughs, every few blocks, yet           never two slices the same. For its makers speak many tongues. For dusting the counter with cornmeal and flower, without           looking down, they pummel and roll out the dough. For they heap out the still-steaming sauce and with a touch           of the ladle paint it in rings like a bullseye, or a tree-           stump, or a thumb. For they howl at each other’s jokes, grasping great handfuls           of cheese. For wiping both hands on an apron, they nod at the phrase           “not too hot,” and start one of a hundred little           clocks in their heads. For their corded forearms reach deep in the oven with a           long-handled paddle, giving each pie, with a flick, its           requisite spin. For heat bubbles and blisters and browns the miraculous crust. For even in the tiniest shop you can find every style: sagging           with mushrooms and bacon, broccoli and pineapple,           chicken, and sausage, and onions. For time passes slowly awaiting a slice, and reminds us how           sweet it is to be alive at this moment on earth. For it slides to a stop in a little city of shakers, where with pepper and           oregano, garlic and parmesan, we citizens           make it our own. For you can fold it in half like a taco and eat it while           standing, or driving, or walking and working your phone. For I have seen the bearded young men of Brooklyn sit           upright to eat it, riding bicycles through red lights, at           midnight, in the rain. For with each bite the paper plate glows more translucent           with grease, till it glows like stained glass over the trash can. For it has nourished our children and soothed many sorrows. For in a time of deceit it is honest and upright, steadfast and good---           beloved and modest and known. For its commerce makes nobody rich and nobody poor. For that, to us, it is home.