Divided - Linda Frank (A Buckrider Book/Wolsak & Wynn)

Today's book of poetry:
Divided.  Linda Frank.  A Buckrider Book/Wolsak & Wynn.  Hamilton, Ontario.  2018.

Clearly Linda Frank's poetry posse includes a world class botonist and a scientist with an eidetic memory.  How does Today's book of poetry know such things?  The answer is quite simple;  no one poetry brain could pull these poems together.  These poems require multiple experts and fathoms upon fathoms of research.

Divided is that completely unexpected cornacopia of delights.  Frank's poems pass all of our poetry tests.  Linda Frank is both remarkbaly insightful and unimaginably thorough.  It isn't enough that her understanding of human nature, emotion and character is illuminating;  Frank sees the big picture so clearly, she can use the various languages of animals and insects, she is able to use their knowledge.  The resulting poems delight.

Thomas, our new Assistant Editor, found Linda Frank's Divided "an absolutely compelling read" and Today's book of poetry couldn't agree more.

Von Frisch's Ten Little Housemates

The housefly he calls a trim little creature. A man

would have to leap from the Westminister Bridge

to the top of Big Ben to compete with the flea.

All living creatures are equal in the great law

of life, he writes. Even bedbugs. Lice can carry

two thousand time their body weight with their forefeet.

Cockroaches are a community that has come down

in the world. Silverfish, entirely harmles sugar guests.

The spider's actions differ in detail according to the weaver's

character. In gnats, the organs of flight have reached a high 

level of perfection. We cannot blame the tick for her bloodthirstiness.

Anyone who has to hatch a few thousand eggs deserves a good meal.

Moths are useful scavengers. What else would happen

to all the decaying hair and feathers that disnintergrate so slowly?

Von Frisch's little housemates are extraordinary, in their own way

exceptional. At the end of each affectionate chapter

he recommends in equally good-natured tone and detail

how each could best be exterminated.

💥💥💥                                                 

Today's book of poetry had some standards blasting out of the box in our office this morning, Coltrane's A Love Supreme, Anita Baker, some Gil Scott Heron.  That sort of tone.

Divided is presented in four sections which include the closest inspections of the beetle, anthropod and arachnid worlds, accounts of women who were pioneers in their scientific fields, accounts of the first balloon flight (untethered) and an account of the first descents into our oceans.  Linda Frank even shares some elements of her own story.  

What Today's book of poetry enjoy most is the consistency of Frank's voice, she can hold a note.  Linda Frank's poems all come at the reader in the same way, as revelations.  Frank uncovers truths we previously never questioned.  All of this good.  But for you poetry monsters the most important question is "does it burn?"

Damned straight.  Today's book of poetry has never seen this particular manner of cooking before but we'd sure like to get our hands on the recipe.  Frank goes all poetry-Julia Child poetry wise and botanically bent.  Divided not only makes the reader feel smart and smarter, Divided makes the reader truly curious.

Falling Stars

CAROLINE hERSCHEL, 1750-1848

Every night up on the flat roof

            over the hayloft

the great man's sister

            with her telescope, hunting

                       for wanderers

messengers that enter the solar system.

Every night up on the flat roof

            over the hayloft

                       in thrall to the polished lens

sweeping the sky for comets.

The great man's sister

                      minded the heavens.

No longer such a lonely thing

                       to open one's eyes.

Every impulse of light exploding.

Only thirty "hairy stars" ever recorded

            and she, the Lady's Comet Hunter

alone and free up on the flat roof

                                    over the hayloft

found eight in a dozen years.

She knew those distant stars ceased to exist

           millions of years ago.

Her starry night, her stellar landscape

                        not really there at all.

Light travels long

            after the heavenly body is gone.

Her sky, so full of ghosts.

💥💥💥    

Today's book of poetry so enjoyed Linda Frank's Divided.  We've tasked Thomas, our new Assistant Editor with procurring Frank's three other poetry titles.  Poetry this exciting and enlighting is juat a full stop pleasure but it doesn't happen by accident.  Today's book of poetry would bet our fortune that Frank's other poetry titles delight as well.

Frank invites the reader into gardens of wonder, deep into the dark sea, and delightfully into an ocean of tulips that decorate an Ottoman rulers pleasure and obsession.  These are all worthy adventures, experienced through a particularly sharp lens.

Today's book of poetry can only begin to imagine what Linda Frank's reading list must look like.  These poems required both difficult magic to conger and encyclopedic dexterity to imagine.  This sort of mastery can only from a poet a the top of the game.

Dragonfly

The Devil's darning needle, ear sewer, eye poker, ear cutter,

                 eye snatcher. Horse stringer. Troll's spindle.

                                     The adder's servant, it follows

snakes around and stitches them up when they are injured.

August god, lady of the weeping willow, widow skimmer,

             water witch. The Devil's little horse sent by Satan

                         to create chaos

                                                 to steal people's souls.

💥💥💥

Here is the new deal.  Today's book of poetry will personaly vouch for any purchase of Linda Frank's Divided.  If any of you poetry monsters buy this book and are dissapointed - you have our address, send your copy to us and we'll refund your money.

That's how good Linda Frank's burn feels.

Salute.

Linda Frank

(Photo curtesy of Wolsak & Wynn)

ABOUT THE POET

Linda Frank was born in Montreal and now lives in Hamilton, Ontario. A retired professor from Mohawk College, she has written three books of poetry: Cobalt Moon Embrace, Insomnie Blues and Kahlo: The World Split Open, which was shortlisted for the Pat Lowther Award. She is a past winner of the Banff Centre's Bliss Carman Poetry Award and has been shortlisted for the National Magazine Awards.

BLURBS

Divided, we fall ... for Linda Frank’s poetry
“Wonderstruck by nature and science, [Frank] uses them beautifully in this book to draw out the most myriad and finely observed insights, on everything from sexual politics and bedroom intimacy (or the lack of it) to species extinction, the swiftness of life, religion, control, capture, the call of the wild and children."

     - Jeff Mahoney, The Hamilton Spectator

4 Women with New Books of Poems!
"This is a vital text as there is not a single piece in here that doesn’t consider other life forms than the human. […] These pieces are more than worth an embedding in your empathetic core."
     - Catherine Owen, Marrow Reviews

A Review of Amanda Jernigan's Years, Months, and Days and Linda Frank's Divided
"None of [her] interpretations are ever in conflict with one another. Rather, they enhance an already dense set of poems by offering sundry entry points. In a time where much popular poetry resembles candid notebook entries or performative tantrums, Frank's poems arrive refreshingly and consolingly classroom-ready."
     - Zachary Thompson, Hamilton Review of Books

wolsakandwynn.ca

805

DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"

and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.

the small way — Onjana Yawnghwe (Caitlin Press)

Today's book of poetry:
the small way.  Onjana Yawnghwe.  Caitlin Press.  Halfmoon Bay, British Columbia.  2018.

Many years ago, somewhere around 1984-1985, Today's book of poetry moved to Prince Edward Island and while there we had the honour of meeting a great Canadian artist named Erica Rutherford.  Erica was a former Eric, had been an artist with the original Goon Show with Peter Sellers and Dudley Moore, he had also been a filmmaker in South Africa. Eric had married, had children and then eventually Erica arrived.

When I met Erica she was with Gail, the same woman Eric had married when she was a man, all those many years ago.  When asked, and this is a badly remembered paraphrase, but when asked about the differences between being married to Eric and married to Erica, Gail replied "plumbing."

Onjana Yawnghwe's the small way tells a parallel love story of sorts and does it with a generous heart and a kindness of spirit.  Today's book of poetry applauds the story - but what we really care about is the poetry.  We care about whether or not these poems work.  Like clockwork.

Very intense emotional clockwork.  Yawnghwe has a tempered spirit that inhabits these poems, a tempered spirit that proves, once again, that tough comes in a million disguises.  These poems lead us to believe that Onjana Yawnghwe is that sort of tough.

The Big Bang

I thought you'd tell me you were going to die, your face was so serious.

Or you'd fallen in love with another woman, to leave me behind.

These were my greatest fears.

Your face leaked shadows, spilling little light.

When you told me, I felt relief. An ocean crossed my eyes. I thought

you were brave, knowing this dark place you had come from and the

dangerous place you would be travelling to.

I wrapped my arms around you. You wept.

You were afraid I would cut you down and reject you.

But how could I reject the only person I have ever loved?

The land you were standing on was waterlogged and sinking.

You did not know what decisions to make, how you would be in the

world, if you would be transitioning or staying tight with this secret.

I wanted you free. I was impatient for you to decide your life, and thus mine.

This ache in the background. The world on its head. We were travelling

to the edges of the known universe, where no light would return.

Somehow, our story is ancient.

We were each other's shadow, each taking turns in the moonlight.

There were things to be done.

I swallowed it all with straining mouth, the doubts, the fears, the

unknown, questions of identity, sexuality, stars, satellites, black holes,

supernovas and all the rough cosmic debris.

💫💫💫

These poems are inside of the gender politic, a woman and her husband, who is transitioning to her natural state as a woman, make for the story line.  Yawnghwe transverses all of it with a level of class this is both admirable and necessary.  Onjana Yawnghwe has deep questions about the nature of gender and desire.  Yawnghwe is a willing participant, a loving partner with her eyes on the future.  But when you start spinning out of your known universe and into the unknown uncharted territory of the future - things change.

One partner changes so much they can no longer find each other and the searing pain of that disassociation is searing.  White hot.  Yawnghwe indulges in no whining, nor much in the way of second guessing, these poems meet the events straight on, with respect and hope.  When Yawnghwe's partner moves on Onjana is left to pick up the pieces.  These are challenging and rewarding poems of crystal clear precision, haunting poignancy.

Regret

It was my choice

to end our marriage.

Something I couldn't imagine,

being attracted to women.

I saw you as a woman.

Only later did I realize

how you have fused into my heart

how by your mechanism it beats.

I thought it would always be so.

Everything was spinning, you see.

The earth was something to hold on to.

This conventional conception of self was familiar.

It had been hanging there like a dirty

dish towel, flapping in the breeze.

I took it up, raised it as flag.

It was my mistake to think I'd never lose you.

but love and time pick you up and shake

you loose into this new body.

All yours. All alone.

Reaching out.  Open arms.

💫💫💫

How tender, tender, tender our fragile hearts are.  It's remarkable we've survived as a species at all.  the small way is an emotional roller-coaster, the most stereotypical and trite descriptive for an utterly unique, or at least decidedly rare in Canadian letters, glimpse into a relationship where gender and identity actually change in front of your eyes.  What was loved has vanished in plain sight of our eyes and no amount of love can change that.

Return to Sender

You refuse to take our wedding picture,

the one with you smiling, embracing me

from behind, cherry blossoms in the distance.

Your mother had given it to us, framed.

Today you return the letters I wrote you,

the whole box of them, saying "It will help me move on."

Move from where to where, I wonder?

The day we were married

the sun lit the Japanese pond

and the trees were nearly

exhausted of pink blossoms.

It was April.

💫💫💫 

As much as the small way was a book of poetry that Today's book of poetry "poetry enjoyed", we weren't alone in being a little saddened by it all, the loss.  After our morning read our newest intern, Maggie, went and sat in the corner in one of our large reading chairs.  She surrounded herself with books from the stacks and sent out a cosmic "do not disturb" sign.  She also put Puddles Pity Party on the box.

Today's book of poetry admired Onjana Yawnghwe's honesty but it wouldn't count for scat without these precise poems and her excellent poetry chops.  And of course it wouldn't have happened without the consent of Yawnghwe's ex Hazel.  Today's book of poetry takes our hat off to both women, both brave women.

These poems burn.

Onjana Yawnghwe

ABOUT THE POET

Onjana Yawnghwe was born in Thailand but is from the Shan people in Burma (Myanmar). She grew up in Vancouver and received an MA in English from UBC. Her poems have been featured in numerous anthologies and journals, including The Best Canadian Poetry in English 2011, 4 Poets, CV2, Room, and The New Quarterly. Her first poetry book, Fragments, Desire, was published by Oolichan Books in 2017.

BLUBS

“Onjana Yawnghwe’s The Small Way is a book that has never before been written: poems of love & grief for a spouse’s transitions to becoming a woman within the continued cradle of support that art and empathy creates. From acknowledging the gentleness that was at the heart of the bond to dealing with the weariness that learning how to cope with another’s transformations brings, Yawnghwe’s poetry is searingly honest, steeped in lyrical resonances that attempt to effect and honour her own transition to a different kind of relationship with the person she once married, and with her own fragile, fierce self: still singing, ‘still, it shines.’”
     —Catherine Owen, author of The Day of the Dead

“Yawnghwe rigorously examines how falling out of a lovers’ narrative is more shattering than falling out of love itself. Gender is dissected and disassembled as her spouse transitions, as is the very notion of intimacy itself. Eloquent. Startling original.”
     —Betsy Warland, author of Oscar of Between

Deftly aphoristic, startlingly vivid and affecting, The Small Way breaks open the love poem and presents us with a vital story of change, loss and persistence. Each line resonates with the fundamental mystery of other lives, other bodies, other desires, yet the book is also suffused with indelible traces of connection. This is some of the finest writing on love in recent years.
     —Warren Cariou, director of the Centre for Creative Writing and Oral Culture, University of                    Manitoba

caitlin-press.com 

774

DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"

and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.

Building On River - Jean Van Loon (Cormorant Books)

Today's book of poetry:
Building On River.  Jean Van Loon.  Cormorant Books.  Toronto, Ontario.  2018.

Building On River is a little unlike any other book of poetry Today's book of poetry has seen in quite a while.  Jean Van Loon has reinterpreted, rendered if you like, biography, extensive research, heresay and conjecture, all of it into a timeless tapestry.  This brocade plays out, almost seamlessly, in the mind's eye, as though the reader were watching a movie.

Van Loon is cinematic.

This is history that you can taste, smell and feel.

Sir Michael Ondaatje (in Today's book of poetry world we knight and honour as we see fit) pave the way for this sort of adventure with his ground breaking The Collected Works of Billy the Kid.  If you haven't read Ondaatje's Billy the Kid and you love poetry.  The very next thing you should do is to put on your coat and go to the bookstore/library and get a copy of The Collected Billy....

John Rudolphous Booth is the subject of Van Loon's expansive narrative about a self-made man on the edge of the Canadian wilderness.  Booth understood what was about to happen and took advantage of it.  His astute sense of what was needed and how to supply it made him a very rich man.  Jean Van Loon witnessed none of it but somehow brings Booth to flesh and bone you care about.

J.R., Age Nine, Builds a Bridge

Runoff bulges the creek

a muscled river

if I look at it right, churning

alongside the field

icing my feet.

Yesterday's turtle

drags again onto its rock

head and legs outstretched

shell scarred. Midday sun

warms my shoulders.

I've cleared the brush

with the hatchet Father

made me. Now I can

spade the bank, anchor

a buttress shaped from

a fireplace log Father

must not notice missing

and the stump I dug out last week.

A dab hand with an axe, Mother said

now two years dead,

who told me Blue Flag

was the flower that looked like an iris

beside the summertime creek

who sweetened my sickbed

with a mug of wild roses.

💫💫💫

As it happens Jean Van Loon and I will be doing a reading in a private home here in Ottawa a couple of weeks from now.  Ms. Van Loon and I have yet to meet.  You're just going to have to take my word for it on the coincidence of timing for Building On River.  

Jean Van Loon researched Building On River by reading tracts from the Historical Society of Gatineau, lumber baron biographies, Donald McKay and David Lee too.  Susanna Moodie and Catherine Parr Traill.  And that isn't scratching the surface.

The result is poems that sound and feel true in all respects.  These poems do bring J.R. Booth to flesh and blood, we see his diligence and imagination make an empire from wood.  

Tale from the Feed Mill

This was before he was rich.

Starting out in Hull with a small plant

for shingles. He'd hitch up and carry a load,

sell it in Ottawa, then make the rounds for supplies.

So he comes to my mill for a quantity of fodder

finds he doesn't have the cash to pay for it all.

I tell him, Go ahead, take what you need

—lord knows, he'd be good for the money.

Well sir. But a few minutes later, didn't he

wheel the horses back and return the part unpaid.

Couldn't unload fast enough. As if it would

burn through his wagon.

💫💫💫

Jean Van Loon isn't going to knock you over the head with fireworks, there is a far subtler game afoot, these poems accumulate, gather momentum, details build, until the story of J.R. Booth carries you, becomes important to you, the reader.  This is a good trick.

This morning's read was held with one sore crew.  Yesterday's deadline was not met because each and every one of us was outside shovelling snow, again, like we have almost every day since the beginning of November.  Today's book of poetry loves Ottawa and is happy to live here, but this winter was truly a kick right in the old tender parts.  Milo, our head tech, did something to his back lifting wet snow.  Kathryn, our Jr. Editor, did something to her back trying to look after Milo.  And so on.

Today's book of poetry thought Jean Van Loon found the right tension between tough and tender.  Booth was clearly a man of purpose.  And we get the sense that he did care about family and community.  He was a man dedicated to his work.  Van Loon has found the man under all that wealth, behind all that work.

The Weaver's Tale

—found poem

The saw on his left

sets the pace. If the singing blade

rips 50 rough shingles

off the block every minute

the sawyer must reach over

to its teeth

50 times in 60 seconds;

if the automatic carriage

feeds the odorous wood 60 times

into hungry teeth, 60 times

he must reach over, turn the shingle, trim its edge

on the gleaming saw in front of him

cut the narrow strip containing

the knot hole with two quick movements

and toss the completed

board down the chute

to the packers,

                          meanwhile

keeping eyes and ears open

for the sound that asks him

to feed a new block into untiring teeth.

Hour after hour the shingle weaver's

hands and arms, plain, unarmored

flesh and blood, staked against

the screeching steel that cares not

what it severs. Hour after hour the steel

sings its crescendo as it bites

into the wood, the sawdust cloud

thickens with fine particles.

Sooner or later he reaches

a little too far, the whirling blade

tosses drops of deep red

into the air, and a finger, a hand

or part of an arm comes sliding

down the slick chute.

💫💫💫

Building On River is quiet determination realized.  Jean Van Loon has done that rare feat, found the real poetry in history.

Jean Van Loon

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jean Van Loon lives with her husband in a home that is an easy walk to the Ottawa River. Since retiring from a career as a public servant and head of the steel industry's national trade association, she has published poems and stories in literary magazines across Canada. When not at her desk, she often walks through the Experimental Farm, comprised in large part of farmland bought from J.R. Booth, or along the river where he got his start. Building on River is her first book-length publication.

BLURBS
"Building on River is full of lyrical moments and metaphor."
     — Patrick Langston, Artsfile

​"Van Loon’s musical ear drew me into the narrative fast..."
     — Catherine Owen, Marrow Reviews

Jean Van Loon

reads

Video: Arc Poetry

cormorantbooks.com

743

DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"

and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration

"Building on River is full of lyrical moments and metaphor."

— Patrick Langston, Artsfile

​

"Van Loon’s musical ear drew me into the narrative fast..."

— Catherine Owen, Marrow Reviews

​

​"Building on River is full of lyrical moments and metaphor."

— Patrick Langston, Artsfile

​

"Van Loon’s musical ear drew me into the narrative fast..."

— Catherine Owen, Marrow Reviews

​

Dear Ghost - Catherine Owen (A Buckrider Book/Wolsak & Wynn)

Today's book of poetry:
Dear Ghost.  Catherine Owen.  A Buckrider Book.  Wolsak & Wynn.  Hamilton, Ontario.  2017.

Why am I not surprised when "Caligula and his freak show" show up in the nightly dreams of a young Catherine Owen?  Ms. Owen likes to give us the impression of a bookish youth full of church going Sundays and tempered innocence - but we are fairly certain she has "burn it down if necessary" tattooed on the insides of her eyelids.

Today's book of poetry has ventured into Catherine Owen territory before.  Back in April of 2013 Today's book of poetry took a look at her chapbook Steve Kulas & Other Autopsies (Angel House, 2012) and then in August of the same year Today's book of poetry cased Owen's Trobairitz (Anvil Press 2012).  You can see both of those blogs here:

http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.ca/2013/08/trobairitz-catherine-owen.html 

http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.ca/2013/04/steve-kulash-other-autopsies-catherine.html 

Dear Ghost is a more mature voice from the irrepressible Owen.  This Owen, four years later, is more contemplative than reactive, more deliberate than spontaneous.  The resulting poems still vibrate with her tangible energy and intelligence but Owen's focus has tightened.

What I Remember About What We Weren't

Allowed in Childhood

Pop-Tarts certainly. Anything processed. The worst being hot dogs

which I gobbled once guiltily at the Stardust roller rink at thirteen

and puked, imagining entrails in my intestines. Condiments. Definitely

not on the acacia table in gauche plastic containers.

And Halloween candy was entirely out. My father shifting

through our sacks for all but the Glosette peanuts and Sun-Maid

raisins that, rationed, we were able to gobble over later weeks

to flee the dreaded sugar rush. Mostly all not carob or bean sprouts

or hard-boiled eggs were verboten. And then too there was no Happy Days,

never Knight Rider or The Monkees except when we snuck them

at Nana's by lying to her and after she would always exclaim

- "You pulled the wool right over my eyes!" So, aside from educational

programming, the small B & W stayed dark while we clicked Meccano

bits together, read the Brothers Grimm or played doctor with toothpaste.

Absolutely no Barbies or anything that would break, rot our teeth,

show us a false world in which dolls sport slip-on pink heels

and grown men in leather jackets say "Ehhhhh!" Only the dentist

could give us video games, hand-held Donkey Kong and Frogger

while he tightened our headgear, pain overwhelming the transgressive

pleasure and we couldn't say we didn't believe in God.

...

This past weekend Today's book of poetry read about a publishing record set by a Canadian poet, this article was in the Globe & Mail.  The poet's first book just pushed by 2,000,000 in sales.  Simply astounding.  I saw this young poets work in a globopulous bookstore recently.  Most of the bookstore was given over to the selling of various other products ranging from chocolate to computers to decorative rocks.  I spent a few minutes reading the poetry of the young superstar, well, she calls them poems.  In the Globe & Mail article it was made clear that this young woman, the current best selling poet in the entire English language, best selling by a factor of at least 10X, meaning that her current book has sold ten time more copies in the last year than any other book of poetry, ever, doesn't read.  She does peruse covers though.

Catherine Owen, on the other hand, is a big reader.  You can tell in every poem she writes that she has read.  Today's book of poetry has yet to meet Ms. Owen but it is easy to see, feel and hear the influence of other poets, it is a tangible thing.  Owen even gives us an "apprompted" poem which has verses that start with a line of poetry by Sharon Olds.  "Apprompted" is a term borrowed from Kimberly Gibson's paper Lines by Someone Else: The Pragmatics of Apprompted Poems written for Ms. Gibon's thesis at the University of North Texas. Owen's poems Two Stanzas on My Father Begun by Sharon Olds and The Journal of John Berryman From 1948 to 1971: A Reverse Glosa of First Lines are all the evidence we need of Owen's direction and intentions.  Owen has nothing but respect for the long line of poets who have worn down the path before her.

Just The Way Things Are (He Said)

That day at the tracks was overcast.

We cheered for a filly called Morning Coffee

and then Swagger Cat went down and had to be shot.

At the pub, the dealer wore a bandana beneath a dark fedora.

"It's the law of supply, you know," he said.

Two men played soccer in the cemetery beneath the train,

white ball pinging off the old grey of graves.

The horse went down as it graced a curve with its hooves,

and when it tried to rise, its leg was a shred of skin.

At the Met, the dealer moved a scrim in front of it

and slowly the hearse that smelled of hay drew towards us.

A ball bounced between our tables on which were placed small

shooters of blood. "I clean my asshole with Baby Wipes," the dealer

piped up, "that's the kind of pure guy I am." Graves took on the rain again

as they had for the past century. At the track, the crowd gasped,

briefly, then pretended their vision of glory hadn't

just been shattered as #5 racehorse was loaded cold

into the law of demand.

...

Another thing about Catherine Owen is that she is getting better with every book and that is an exciting poetic prospect.  If Owen is this good now, and she is, how good will her future books of poetry be?  Today's book of poetry has little in common with Owen, not gender, musical taste or propensity for excitement - but what Today's book of poetry appreciates is that Owen doesn't seem to be able to write a boring/bad poem.  

She catalogues her hopes, dreams, failures and success but never without suitable acoutremont, Owen's poems always come dressed for the dance.  It's not what Owen talks about but how.

Today's morning read was a little quieter than usual as were missing several of the usual suspects.  Our office was light on the ground for readers this morning.  Those of us who were present gave Dear Ghost the robust read it deserved.

A Few Delightful Sound Bites From A Downtown

Tragedy In Three Parts

      But since I don't understand myself, only segments

      of myself that misunderstand each other, there's no

      reason for you to want to, no way you could

      even if we both wanted it.

      JOHN ASHBERRY, "A Poem of Unrest"

1.

So I sit in my happy face socks being maudlin.

If there are still voodoo dolls in this age of Barbie Almost

Becomes President, someone bought one with my aging mug

on it and is plunging pins into its batting with glee.

"All I know is, it's Wednesday and I'm going to work." the harried

blonde barks into her phone at Starbucks. Knowledge: a severely

2.

abridged edition. Yes, I'm aware you don't love me. It's OK, says my mouth

while my psyche has issues with loneliness. Holding hands is gross; hold

hand with me in public! Multiple personalities of the somewhat-busted

heart, though few come as close to sorrow as Jerry the Boxer - 

"I'm just an old dog," he admits. "but someone should cuddle me at night anyway."

Alright, listen. Every onesie in the universe won't

3.

make us whole again and when being spat on "a compliment, girl" then there

will be fewer calls for tables d'hotes and strolls on the parapet my moonlight.

Of course gender is my obsessive topic and how people deal with death.

Not much else but sex and flowers and your final instructions on a 3 x 5 lined

recipe card that you are sorry you haven't covered all costs, we can sing

the requiescat and you want the casket closed.

...

Catherine Owen is building a reputation as one of the better young poets in Canada.  Dear Ghost  will only enhance those prospects.  This is the good work we've come to expect from Catherine Owen.  We will be expecting more.

Catherine Owen

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catherine Owen is the author of ten collections of poetry and three of prose, including her compilation of interviews on writing called The Other 23 & a Half Hours: Or Everything You Wanted to Know that Your MFA Didn’t Teach You (Wolsak & Wynn, 2015) and her short story collection, The Day of the Dead (Caitlin Press, 2016). Her work has been nominated for awards, toured Canada eight times and appeared in anthologies, as well as translations. She has been employed by both the Locations and the Props department in TV land, plays metal bass and has two cats: Solstice and Equinox.

Catherine Owen

Reading from Trobairitz

Video: P.C. Vandall

wolsakandwynn.ca 

617

DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"

and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.