Showing posts with label griffin prize. Show all posts
Showing posts with label griffin prize. Show all posts

Monday, January 14, 2019

This Wound is a World - Billy-Ray Belcourt (Frontenac House Poetry)

Today's book of poetry:
This Wound is a World.  Billy-Ray Belcourt.  Frontenac House Poetry.  Calgary, Alberta.  2017.

Griffin Poetry Prize 2017
CBC Best Canadian Poetry Book
2018 Robert Kroetsch City of Edmonton Book Prize Winner

Billy-Ray Belcourt's stunning This Wound is a World deserved every prize it won and more.  There might be other poets who hammered at these walls but there has yet to be one, as far as Today's book of poetry is concerned, who might actually bring them down.  Billy-Ray Belcourt is such a poet.

It doesn't matter what you think you know about being gay or straight, Indigenous or not, these poems are going to change some of your perceptions.  In Today's book of poetry world we know that only the very best poems can pull off this sort of magic, this sort of medicine.

Billy-Ray Belcourt pulls the rabbit out his hat like some sort of Trickster.  The reader just has to sit back and watch the show.

The Cree Word For a Body Like Mine
Is Weesageechak

the cree word for a body like mine is weesageechak, the old ones know
of this kind of shape-shifting: sometimes i sweat and sweat until my 
bones puddles on the carpet in my living room and i am like the water
that comes before new life.

i was born during a falling leaves moon; which is to say that i have
always been good at sacrifice. it is believed that women are most
powerful during their moontime and because of this do not take part
in ceremonies in order to let the body cleanse itself. there are
weesageechak days when gender is a magic trick i forgot how to 
perform and my groin floods and floods trying to cleanse itself like
the women and i too become toxic for men who have built cages out
of broken boys.

maybe if i surrendered myself to grandmother moon she would know
what to do with these pickaxe wounds. there is so much i need to tell
her about how my rivers and lakes are crowded and narrowing. how i
managed to piece together a sweat lodge out of mud and fish and
bacteria. she gives me the cree name weesageechak and translates it to
"sadness is a carcass his tears leave behind."

and the crows and flies who don't care about gender will one day
make away with my jet-black finger nails and scraggly armpit hairs.
they will lay tobacco at my grave and tell their crow and fly kin that i
was once a broad-shouldered trickster who long ago fell from the
moon wearing make-up and skinny jeans.

💫💫💫

Belcourt will be in a unique poetic position, everyone who reads poetry is going to be anxious to see what he does next.  Today's book of poetry is already convinced This Wound is a World is a Canadian classic, we will be looking at this marvel for a long time.

True, hard-nosed blood letting is a dangerous game to play.  But it is clear Belcourt has big shoulders.  In this case it means the poet has put it all up for grabs, Billy-Ray doesn't hesitate for one second, he is full in, all in.  Billy-Ray Belcourt is a straight up gunslinger poet with dead-eye aim.

And dear readers, there is so much happening in This Wound is a World that I simply won't be able to tell you.  For example, you all know how much Today's book of poetry loves "list" poems.  We are a sucker for them.  Billy-Ray Belcourt has several excellent, I repeat, excellent, list poems in This Wound is a World.  Today's book of poetry loves those list poems - but, but, but, this is a book brimming over with the necessary.

If I Have A Body, Let It Be a Book of Sad Poems

i keep listening to a song by tom odell called grow old with me, i am
hung up on the enormity of that kind of project, of asking someone
to architect a livable world with you, what a blessing and a curse!

i hooked up with a man who insisted he was 42, but i suspect he was
older given the soft and reckless way he met my body with his. it was
9pm and we were making small talk and he told me a story about
how a relationship of his had started and ended at the same ski resort
in france. recently, he returned to that resort, and was caught
unawares by a wave of memories about his ex-boyfriend. today,he
lives alone in a houseboat, unwilling to be beside himself with desire.
how could he have expected anything but what christina sharpe calls
"the past that is not past" to haunt him? maybe that is why he wanted
to sleep with me last night. maybe that is why i invited him over in
the first place. i should have said: i don't have it in me to transform you.

if i have a body, let it be a book of sad poems. i mean it. indigeneity
troubles the idea of "having" a body, so if i am somehow,
miraculously, bodied then my skin is a collage of meditations on love
and shattered selves.

ok yes, i have been reading a bit of psychoanalysis lately. forgive me.
i am desperate. desperate to figure out how someone like me is still
here.

if i know anything, it is that "here" is a trick of the light, that it is a
way of schematizing time and space that is not the only one available
to some of us. maybe i am not here in the objectivist sense. maybe i
am here in the way that a memory is here. now, ain't that fucking sad
and beautiful?

💫💫💫

Reading Billy-Ray Belcourt's This Wound is a World the first time is like watching/hearing Stevie Ray Vaughan's all consuming attack on Jimi Hendrix's "Voodoo Child" for the first time.  It is hard to take it all in, quite, because the artist is so far ahead of the curve that the reader has to lean into it.  But make no mistake, Belcourt is:

     "Standing next to a mountain"

and will

     "chop it down with the edge of my hand."

It's exciting to read and instantly rewarding poetry.  Milo, our head tech, said that he had to get copies of This Wound is a World into the hands of a few of his friends, pronto.  Kathryn, our Jr. Editor, asked:  "Do you think he knows what he's done?"

To which Today's book of poetry replied, "Damned right he knows!"

Wapekeka

in january 2017
two girls, 12, carried out a suicide pact
on the wapekeka first nation.
what is suicide
but the act of opening up
to the sky?
but wanting to live
more than once?
yesterday
a cloud fell onto me
and i never felt more at home.
sometimes i cry
in indian
and it sounds like
i am speaking
in english.
don't open your eyes.
pretend that
everything is a bird
and no one is hungry
for what they can't have.

...

Today's book of poetry is certain that poetry this necessary will find an audience.  This Wound is a World is going to be remembered as a landmark book.

Today's book of poetry is thrilled to back on the job and excited to be starting the year with Billy-Ray Belcourt's amazing and brave This Wound is a World.

Image result for billy-ray belcourt photo

Billy-Ray Belcourt
Image from CBC Books

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Billy-Ray Belcourt is from the Driftpile Cree Nation. He is a PhD student in the Dept. of English & Film Studies at the University of Alberta. He is also a 2016 Rhodes Scholar and holds an M.St. in Women’s Studies from the University of Oxford. Billy-Ray was named one of six Indigenous writers to watch by CBC Books in 2016, one of ten Indigenous writers to read right now by VICE in 2017, and he was the recipient of the 2017 P.K. Page Founder’s Award for Poetry. This Wound is a World is his first book.



Billy-Ray Belcourt
recites one of his poems
Video: Edmonton Journal


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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.



Monday, June 26, 2017

Angular Unconformity, Collected Poems 1970-2014 - Don McKay (Icehouse Poetry/Goose Lane Editions)

Today's book of poetry:
Angular Unconformity, Collected Poems 1970-2014.  Don McKay.  Icehouse Poetry/Goose Lane Editions.  Fredericton, New Brunswick.  2014.


Angular Unconformity means a particular gap between two known strata of rock in a geological formation, at least that's what Milo, our head tech, came back with.  It is the space that occurs between what we know for certain and what we want to believe is true.

Today's book of poetry's personal adventure with the excellent poetry of Don McKay began over thirty years ago in a class on the "long-poem" taught by that Black Mountain/Tish poet Robert Hogg. It was in that class where I first read McKay's Long Sault.

Far more importantly, Robert Hogg's class on the long-poem was where I met the joy of my life, my wife, K.

It doesn't stop there.

It was only a few short years ago that K and I were invited to an elaborate garden party/dinner/BBQ for an old friend who now lives in Newfoundland and Labrador.  Turns out she brought Don McKay with her and I got a chance to meet him.  More accurately, I wouldn't leave him alone until he talked to me.

Since that time I have been lucky enough to share a couple of more meals with the esteemed Mr. McKay courtesy of my Scrabble friend Nurse Rachet.  Don, one of the more humble people on the planet pretends that he is amused by me and I follow him around like a I'm a puppy and he has bacon in his pocket.

We're not exactly buddies but he certainly is a friend.  Long before I met him I wrote my undergraduate paper for the long-poem class on his Long Sault and I have admired his poetry ever since.  In person he is nicer than you can imagine.

From Long Sault

A Feeling Of If, A Feeling Of But, A Field Of Fire Hydrants

For a time, we were
amazement--
     they got
     this house-moving machine with tires so big I can
     show you the picture my brother standing up
     inside the hub he is ten years old that can move
     a house so gentle they just leave the pictures on the walls--

unfettered, soaring in suspension of feeling.

The rhetoric was
a shepherd to us (though later
we might have said superintendent without sensing
any change) the way
we could be inside its shell but never
really know which history
was being made, and never asking
whose.

Here was a map coming out in dotted lines
to be filled in with the right answer.
Here was a rapids in the noose.
Here was a field of fire hydrants waiting for a town.
Here was a marina in the field of fire hydrants
waiting for the water to arrive
to whisper sibilant up to the waiting wharf.

The river was about to swell.
It was doing the Charles Atlas course, would be
the servile giant.
Its language was unlocked: Power & Prosperity, Development & Growth.

Look at that bicep
                              (or that
snake-bit arm we would never completely think,
or think only as far as
the feeling of if
the feeling of but, never to the fettering flag-
planting noun, as though
the making of the feeling and
the making of the dam were cognate
pregnancies
                    (or carbuncles, as we
couldn't have said until we'd seen, a feeling
of if, a feeling of but, a feeling of smelling,
even when we named our humdrum town
'City of Power and Progress,' smelling
its industries still smoking at both ends like cigars.


...

McKay's Birding, or desire came out in 1983 and hit Today's book of poetry right on the chin, we were smitten.  Tight, allegorical magic/music.

McKay has built an unassailable reputation in Canada for his poetry, wait until you read his bio, but Today's book of poetry would be remiss if we didn't tell you all how often Don's name shows up in the back of other books of poetry, when they are giving thanks.  Don's kind poetry hand has supported and encouraged an army of younger Canadian poets.

From Birding, or desire

L'Hirondelle

     To be idiomatic in a vacuum
     it is a shining thing!

Would I pass her by again, as always leave her standing with her head
bowed by her locker, looking like she'd forgotten the combination to
everything? Could I tell her now that no one, not the most depraved of
us, deserves high school? Could I explain the way we locked her in our
lust, never speaking to her but only of, and only in the locker room, how
we turned her into a statue of desire? Could I ask her about the feathers in
her locker, taped to the inside of the door? What would I say to that sad
fabulously breasted creature, now that my clumsiness has gnarled? Walking
down the corridor of metal doors to find you crying soundlessly, black hair
pouring, the weight of the combination lock heavy in your hand like --
I see this only now -- the absence of a cock you loved. In memory, I fur-
nish you with drapes, a used fridge and a bedroom suite ($299 at Zellers)
which I carefully arrange around you. On your cold fake marble floor I
lay this old braided rug I bought and lived on later in Saskatoon. Here
on your coffee table (slightly scratched, half price) I am leaving my copy
of The Birds of Canada. And listen: during the long industrial softball
double-headers of your future, be sure to look up at the lights in case the
Nighthawks may be up there

                sideslip

                                        downglide

             flashing their long barred wings they

                                               intersect with shadflies on the ad lib,

moves we never thought of, never made.

...

Today's book of poetry enters a Don McKay book with the certainty that with eyes and ears open we are about to be amazed.  Angular Unconformity, Collected Poems 1970-2014 weighs in at a hefty fill your boots 584 pages and does not disappoint.  It is a necessary treasure.  We here at Today's book of poetry believe Mr. McKay still has a library of fine poems yet to write but this tome will bring you up to date.

Today's book of poetry is always surprised by how McKay gives us access in his poems.  The topography and subject range always vary but the emotional accessibility is a constant.  The poems are always intelligent whip-quick, as though there were a built-in codex we all knew.

From Strike/Slip

Pond

Eventually water,
having been possessed by every verb--
been rush been drip been
geyser eddy fountain rapid drunk
evaporated frozen pissed
transpired -- will fall
into itself and sit.
                            Pond. Things touch
or splash down and it
takes them in -- pollen, heron, leaves, larvae, Greater
and Lesser scaup -- nothing declined,
nothing carried briskly off to form
alluvium somewhere else. Pond gazes
into sky religiously but also
gathers in its edge, reflecting cattails, alders,
reed beds and behind them, ranged
like taller children in the grade four photo,
conifers and birch. All of them inverted, carried
deeper into sepia, we might as well say
pondered. For pond is not pool,
whose clarity is edgeless and whose emptiness,
beloved by poets and the moon, permits us
to imagine life without the accident-
prone plumbing of its ecosystems. No,
the pause of pond is gravid and its wealth
a naturally occurring soup. It thickens up
with spawn and algae, while,
on its surface, stirred by every
whim of wind, it translates air as texture--
mottled, moire, pleated, shirred or
seersuckered in that momentary ecstasy from which
impressionism, like a bridesmaid, steps.  When it rains
it winks, then puckers up all over, then,
moving two more inches into metamorphosis,
shudders into pelt.
                              Suppose Narcissus
were to find a brown pond
to gaze in: would the course of self-love
run so smooth with that exquisite face
rendered in bruin undertone,
shaken, and floated in the murk
between the deep sky and the ooze?

...

This morning's office read was legendary.  The Today's book of poetry offices were over-run with poet traffic this weekend.  Poets Justin Million and Elisha Rubacha from Peterborough spent the weekend here on Dagmar.  They are the heart and soul behind bird|buried press.  They scoured the stacks and were able to find poetry to take home from our "extras" shelf.  

On Saturday Robert Hogg came by to say hello.  You might remember Robert Hogg's fine books Heat Lightning, Of Light, Standing Back and There Is No Falling.  I had Milo go back in the stacks and bring out some Robert Hogg material that wasn't signed.  It's signed now.

Today's book of poetry wouldn't want to put words in Robert Hogg's mouth but we both agreed that Michael Ondaatje might be the best Canadian poet.  We also agreed that Don McKay was Canadian poetry royalty, although I'm sure Don would never see it that way.

The visiting poet vibe was all over the office this morning and it showed in the reading.  Mr. McKay would have enjoyed it  -  we certainly all enjoyed Angular Unconformity.

Image result for don mckay photo
Don McKay

ABOUT THE POET
Don McKay has published numerous books of poetry and several books of essays. The poetry has been recognized with a number of awards, including two Governor General’s Awards and the Griffin Poetry Prize. His most recent book of essays, The Shell of the Tortoise, received the Winterset Prize for Excellence in Newfoundland and Labrador Writing for 2011. Paradoxides, his most recent book of poems, winner of the E.J. Pratt Prize for Poetry, includes meditations on geology and deep time, while pursuing ongoing obsessions with birds and tools. He lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland.

not sure why
Poet Don McKay reads the poem "Sometimes a Voice" from Another Gravity, shortlisted for the 2001 Canadian Griffin Poetry Prize.
Video: Griffin Poetry Prize


587
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.

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Tell - poems for a girlhood - Soraya Peerbaye (Pedlar Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Tell - poems for a girlhood.  Soraya Peerbaye.  Pedlar Press.  St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador.  2015.


Young men do terrible things all the time, we see it on the television news every night, we are frequently shocked by new levels of horror but ultimately we've given up the pretense of being surprised.  We know evil lurks in anticipation.

But when young women do terrible things it genuinely upsets whatever karmic balance we delicately hold on to.  It troubles our inner ear, makes us stumble, slur.

Soraya Peerbaye's Tell - poems for a girlhood reenvisions the horrible death of Reena Virk.  Virk, a young teenage girl was murdered by a gang of peers, mostly other girls, in November of 1997 in Saanich, British Columbia.

See them say

Mistrials,
overturned verdicts.
Transcripts of earlier testimony
placed before the witness,
past and present overlaid
like vellum, the defence
cross-examining each
falsehood, each fault or failure
of memory, I was tricked, said one.

On the stand they were always
thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
The boy who was Warren's friend,
diagnosed with post-traumatic stress
disorder; the girl who testified
to seeing Kelly and Warren
cross the bridge together,
dead at seventeen, heart failure.
Then she was only a recording,
a click, a lick of ribbon,
a hiss of white noise.

Voir-dire. See, say,
to see them say, say
what is true. Warren said
he and Kelly made a pact,
that he'd say he beat up a Native
for calling her a hootchie.
The year he recanted he traced
Metis lines in his cheekbones,
asked to be transferred
to Kwikwexwelhp Healing Village.

I remind you, witness,
that you are still under oath.
Offered a glass of water
when they wept. They drank
without thirst, without lowering their eyes.

Kelly shouted in the courtroom
at the prosecutor:
- You can say anything you want
but everything that comes out of your mouth
is going to be wrong.

                    - What did you say? asked the Crown.

- What is coming out of your mouth -

what you are saying -
                     everything that comes out of
                                     your mouth -

...

Heather Spears tackledanced through this territory in 2000, immediately after the first trial, with Required Reading/A witness in words and drawings to the Reena Virk Trials 1998-2000 (Wolsak and Wynn, 2000).  Spears' book is a serious lament and compelling read.  Soraya Peerbaye is from the same school of unadorned and emotionally controlled narrative and it makes for a riveting engagement.

Peerbaye knows a metronome of reason and persistent inquiry will bring us closer to the truth than hysterical anger and rage.

Craigflower Bridge


          Get up.

A bridge is wood trestle below, metal
above; a guardrail

of teal-green lattice. Hennaed patches of rust.
"I need help. I need help. I need help."

A bridge is a distance, measured in steps, in pools
of lamplight, the time it takes to cross.

In breaths. - How far did you watch her go?
- Halfway across, to where the light spreads out.

Headlights of passing cars, bright beads on a wire
that curves into darkness: Highway 1A, Gorge Road.

- Did you observe her gait as she crossed?
I thought of the gaits of Indian dance,

the little I learned, carrying
my clumsiness far into adulthood:

elephant, peacock, deer. - She was
staggering, light-headed.

A bridge is held up by belief that you will go
over to the other shore

to someone who wants you, to somewhere
safe.

...

The truth of a thing is never known the same way by two different people.  Several trials and the best efforts of justice have never seen one answer, one solution, one truth.  Sometimes poetry can help fill that gap and Peerbaye's intense gaze aims to do just that.

Tell - poems for a girlhood carries a quiet sense of dread, the weight of a murdered young woman and the murky dance of fractured memory.

We knew going in that Tell - poems for a girlhood was not going to have a happy ending but Peerbaye and her intelligent diligence kept us turning pages for a story we already knew.  Books of poetry don't get much sadder that this one.

Curfew

Was time important to you that night?
Yes, they said.

Did you abide by a curfew? Ten o'clock,
eleven, midnight.

Who greeted you? Mothers who kissed
their daughters goodnight, mothers who checked
their daughters' breath.

Who greeted you? No mothers; girls signed their names
in the register, and women who were not their mothers
initialed the time.

How long did it last? A moment.

How long is a moment?

How long did it last? the Crown asked Warren.
- I don't know. - How long did it feel like? - Forever.

How long does it take to walk across the bridge?

How long does it take to walk home?

I'm fucked. I'm fucked for the rest of my life. Warren,
overheard crying to his father, the night of his arrest.
The tidal chart entered as an exhibit, indicating the time lapse
between high waters and low waters.

I don't remember. It was so long ago, Kelly repeated,
a monotone. Her second trial. At her third, she fell silent.

How old the Gorge, how old the middens. All carbon-14 dates
have probability errors, as atmospheric testing of nuclear weapons
changed radiocarbon amounts in the natural world.

How long the trials. Twelve years.

How long did you look back?
I remember

being fifteen, lying on my best friend's bed, listening
to Forever Young by Alphaville.  How badly I wanted a boy
to slow dance that song with.

...

Soraya Peerbaye's Tell- poems for a girlhood won the 2016 Trillium Poetry Award and is nominated for the 2016 Griffin Poetry Prize.  That's some pretty high cotton.  

The staff here at Today's book of poetry had a rather sombre reading this morning.  Reverent and quiet.  Not all pleasures are joys.

Soraya Peerbaye
Soraya Peerbaye

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Soraya Peerbaye’s first collection of poetry, Poems for the Advisory Committee on Antarctic Names, was nominated for the Gerald Lampert Award. Her poems have appeared in Red Silk: An Anthology of South Asian Women Poets (2004), edited by Priscila Uppal and Rishma Dunlop, as well as the literary journals Other Voices, Prairie Fire and The New Quarterly; she has also contributed to the chapbook anthology Translating Horses. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Guelph. Peerbaye lives in Toronto with her husband and daughter.

BLURB
Peerbaye's new work tells a haunting story of girlhood, one we wish could be untold or exchanged for one that powerfully honours the colour of our skin. Still, these poems placate our loss with their clear-eyed intelligence and depth.
     - Natasha Bakht


Soraya Peerbaye
"Rainfall"
video: Q at CBC

pedlarpress.com

519

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.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Shouting Your Name Down The Well - David W. McFadden (A Stuart Ross Book/Mansfield Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Shouting Your Name Down The Well - Tankas and Haiku.  David W. McFadden.  A Stuart Ross Book.  Mansfield Press.  Toronto.  2014.


David W. McFadden's last book of poetry, What's the Score?, won the Griffin Prize for Poetry.

Shouting Your Name Down The Well is a completely delightful encore.  This time out he is exploring the Japanese forms of tanka and haiku.  McFadden would seem to be a bottomless well of excellent poetry.

I've met the man a few times and am always surprised.  I keep expecting to see a giant lumber gracefully into the room rubbing his knowledgeable noggin on the ceiling.  Instead, this gentle, humble man, carefully disguised genius.

Today's book of poetry is going to let other Canadian poets tell you what they think:

"David McFadden is such an essential writer for us. His wonderful poems before and after Gypsy Guitar, his great Trip Around the Lakes series, feel to me the central unofficial voice of our time. He has always kept us close to the earth with his humour and his wandering off the beaten path of literature."
MICHAEL ONDAATJE

...

          I was on one of
Those happy drugs for three months
          And liked it okay.
But soon I got nostalgic
For a little misery.

...

"David McFadden's poems come across as passages in a long, thoughtful, roaming conversation about matters no less deeply serious for sometimes being utterly frivolous. As the title of one of his books, There'll Be Another, suggests, it all seems easy--this stroll from one poem to the next, this leap between stanzas--but that's part of McFadden's art. There won't be another like him.  Let's treasure the one we've got; the conversation of his poems includes us."
STEPHANIE BOLSTER    

...
          Tanka is to me
As bicycles to Curnoe.
          His friends kept thinking
This was the end of the line
But it was merely the start.

...

"Dave McFadden's attention to writing has always been top-notch, right from when he published Mountain magazine in the early '60s through many years of a wide range of poetry, prose, teaching, editing, and just being open to the beauty of language. In my generation he's a master."
FRED WAH

...

          Give me those who aren't
Afraid to say "I don't know."
          You can have the rest.

...

"His words would rip a hole in the night."        
LILLIAN NECAKOV

...

          When you're ninety, say
Grandma, people you haven't
          Seen in fifty years
Appear so real in your dreams
You can reach out and touch them.

...

"David McFadden has won every book prize ever lodged in a secret corner of everyone's heart, his acceptance speech echoing in our heads."
GEORGE BOWERING

...

          Turns out the love in
Love songs is true. Everything
          Will last forever.
The wind blows a gust of rain
All over my desk and me.

...

"Part rascal, part rogue, David McFadden is one of Canada's chief mischief makers. He condenses essential wisdom and offers it generously. I'm made more human by reading his work."
SANDRA RIDLEY

...

          When I was a kid
I could walk so quietly
          Through the woods that once
Without any warning I
Saw a dozen dozing deer.

...

"The world is full of wonder, but this can be easily forgotten. The poetry of David W. McFadden is a manual for restoring that sense of wonder. I'm quite certain reading it has improved my life tremendously."
PAUL VERMEERSCH

...

          I'm eight years old and
I've read Peter Pan eight times.
          Now for my ice cream.

...

"David McFadden is one of the purest and most radiant poetic souls of our time."
STEVE VENRIGHT

...

          The poems we write
After the Holocaust must
          Be the type Hitler
Would have despised, that would have
Had us put in cattle cars.

...

"I feel like writing the most wild / and humble poems in the world / but David had already written them."
SUSAN MUSGRAVE

...

          I'm a subjective
Man. I never ask questions.
          I just work it out.

...

Today's book of poetry could go on forever with both David McFadden poems and the gushing voices of so many other Canadian poets,  But you get the idea.  McFadden is a poet that other poets love.

Stuart Ross continues to champion some of our best poetry with his imprint for Mansfield Press.


David W. McFadden

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David W. McFadden has been publishing poetry since the early 1960s. He is the author of about thirty books of poetry, fiction, and travel writing. Why Are You So Sad? Selected Poems of David W. McFadden (Insomniac Press) was shortlisted for the 2008 Griffin Prize for Poetry, and Be Calm, Honey (Mansfield Press) was short-listed for the 2009 Governor General's Award for Poetry (his third such nomination). In 2013, What's the Score? (Mansfield Press) won the Griffin Prize for Poetry. David lives in Toronto.

BLURB
"David McFadden's poetry is probably the poetry most often read aloud at my house...His broad talent, a unique voice and real vision."
     Elizabeth Bachinsky

The Griffin Poetry Prize - 2013
David W. McFadden
reading "It's Not Funny Anymore"
from What's the Score?


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