Showing posts with label michel de montaigne. Show all posts
Showing posts with label michel de montaigne. Show all posts

Sunday, July 21, 2019

Transaction Histories - Donna Stonecipher (University of Iowa Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Transaction Histories.  Donna Stonecipher.  Kuhl House Poets.  University of Iowa Press.  Iowa City, Iowa.  2018.


Today's book of poetry read Donna Stonecipher with our usual hopes; Today's book of poetry always wants to like the books we receive.  Stonecipher gave us no choice.  Transaction Histories is made up of several long poems, each of them made up of numerous numbered prose passages of similar length.  It's a tidy package and solid as a brick.  Stonecipher takes these microcosms and uses them to decipher the world; Willy the Shake, Normandy, history books, Greek temples, oceans of plastic, architecture, psychology.  Donna Stonecipher takes it all on and this was just a tiny, quick disassembly of the first few pages.

Today's book of  poetry has recently started taking on Michel de Montaigne's Essays.  Maybe everything will feel this way but Stonecipher's Transaction Histories is similar in its accessibility, the author's limitless and generous curiosity, and perhaps even a touch of the Socratic method.

Transaction History 5

2.

      The photograph of grains of sand magnified 200 times revealed microscopic works of art
— gold, rose, opalescent scrolls, gaskets, sugars — where we had expected only a consoling
beige monotony, the consoling beige monotony we always counted on when we came to the sea
with our troubles to be consoled. Our troubles, too, were like artworks: constructed with love over
time.

💫💫💫

The grains of sand image was a brain tease and particularly apt because Today's book of poetry recently saw an enlarged photo of sand on the internet and was astonished.

Take a look as see if you can believe such beauty:

Such unimaginable beauty hiding in plain sight.  Perhaps Today's book of poetry feels the same about Transaction Histories.  This is one contemplative read.  Transaction Histories was set down several times, not out of boredom, on the contrary, to better contemplate what Stonecipher is burning.

Stonecipher's foot never comes off of the gas, the deeper you go into Transaction Histories the more intimately things are revealed.  At times it feels as though the brilliant Stonecipher is trying to emotionally engineer some sort of new and beautiful language, a whole new template.

Found to be Borrowed From
Some Material Appearance 4

2.

     That night we saw her again: the blonde girl who shuffled through the subway cars crying
and begging, her scruffy dog clutched in a hug. Was she an actress, or truly a fellow damsel in
distress?  We were like vending machines that couldn't tell the difference between coins and
slugs. Grief is only too real to the Madonna Lachrymae weeping in paintings and statues all over
several continents, for those who know what real grief is.

💫💫💫

Our morning read was hothouse sweaty as our offices have NO air conditioning and with the humidex it was 40 C or 110 F in the Nation's Capital when we ran this puppy into the ground.  Even in those torpid moments Transaction Histories regaled us with German translations about luck and happiness and mechanical Japanese cats.  

An intellectual roller-coaster that Stonecipher seats you in when you open the cover.  This cat can burn, Transaction Histories is a totally refreshing encounter.  These poems illuminate, shine light and new thought where previously there was just the dark.

Snow Series 2

     There once was a polar bear who didn't know that he was polar bear, because he'd been
raised in a zoo by people. What would a polar bear have to know, to know that he was a polar
bear? That's what the people would never know. All that winter, as we roamed around the 
gingerbread town, we kept noticing how the snowmen's bodies were segmented like insects', and
how the new snows kept resembling other, older snows.

*

       The beautiful young woman slowly realized that her beauty was a currency, but did not
know how best to spend it. "It is difficult to be beautiful for long," wrote Max Jacob. The young
woman read this and promptly forgot it. The Swiss chalets dotting the hillside did resemble other
Swiss chalets. The polar bear who didn't know that he was a polar bear had snowy fur reflecting
those regions where only our supercooled minds can go.

*

     You were the one who wanted to ride the telepherique all day long that winter, to float up
over the Alps and then back down into the valley in an endless paternoster loop that would keep
cycling us in and out of the sweetest ether. If "architecture is frozen music," then "music" must
be "liquid architecture." the architecture itself was frozen: there were chalets trapped in aspics of
ice. There were insects trapped in aspics of icicles.

*

     In another city, people flocked to the zoo to imagine owning a baby polar bear named
Flocke, whom they'd relinquish to her fate once she grew out of the phase in which they wished
to crush her snowy fur with bear hugs. "Flocke" means "snowflake." No two snowflakes are
alike. The wonder of uniqueness. The wonder of ownership. We opened our mouths to let unique
snowflakes explode all over our wondering tongues.

*

     Wonder upon wonder, tongue upon tongue, Alp upon Alp upon Alp. One Alp resembled
another Alp. Gliding higher and higher on the telpherique, we felt we were at last one with the
Alps: encased in a glass eye floating up over the snow, all eye ourselves, our intertwining bodies
architectonically segmented into distance, ownership, and desire. The glacier below us was beautiful, beautifully, violently expiring.

*

     But later, as we moved deeper into winter, I couldn't help noticing how your body was
starting to resemble a snowman's — it kept melting to nothing when I tried to hold it close. The 
old man wondered aloud why some valleys fill with water and become lakes, and others remain
simply valleys. Eventually the young woman would know that beauty's currency was like any
other: useless if hoarded, gone when spent.

💫💫💫

Today's book of poetry loved Donna Stonecipher's Transaction Histories and want you to love it too.  Why wouldn't we?  Emotionally engaging and accessible from the first page.  

The reader feels smarter with every page they read.  That's about the best trick in poetry.

Today's book of poetry will now have Milo, our head tech and book hunter, on the job.  There are several earlier Stonecipher poetry collections out there and Today's book of poetry needs to read them.  I suspect you do as well.

The game is on.

Image result for donna stonecipher photo

Donna Stonecipher

ABOUT THE POET
Donna Stonecipher is the author of The Reservoir, Souvenir de Constantinople, The Cosmopolitan, Model City, and Prose Poetry and the City. She lives in Berlin, Germany. 

BLURBS
“[A] highly affecting work of imagination and sensibility . . . one often feels afloat in a world concocted and dreamy, there and not there.”
     —Martha Ronk, The Constant Critic

“In the same way that architecture must abide by certain rules and regulations but can still create a thing of beauty, Stonecipher, by constraining herself to engineer within her own parameters, forms beautiful language and ideas.”
     —Hamzah M. Hussain, DURA

“How many poets are there in the world that you go looking for online, checking regularly, even impatiently, to see whether and when their new books will be out? Not many. Among the poets whose work I anxiously await, Donna Stonecipher has long been near the top of the list."
     —Michael Thurston, Massachusetts Review


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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, March 17, 2019

Linger, Still — Aislinn Hunter (Gaspereau Press)

Today's book of poetry: 
Linger, Still.  Aislinn Hunter.  Gaspereau Press.  Kentville, Nova Scotia.  2017.


Today's book of poetry sent Milo, our head tech, to the stacks yesterday before we all headed for home.  Today's book of poetry was almost certain we'd read something from Aislinn Hunter before.  And we were right.  Milo returned with a very smart looking Possible Past (Polestar Book Publishers, 2004) by Hunter.  Today's book of poetry gave it a quick perusal that turned into a full sit-down reread.  Possible Past is cherce.

Today's book of poetry liked Aislinn Hunter's poetry fifteen years ago.  Now we are ready to go stark raving mad with glee when we tell you that with Linger, Still, Hunter has entered sacred territory.  Linger, Still is Nora Gould good, Sue Goyette good, even Saint Susan of Musgrave splendid.  Today's book of poetry bloody loves it!

Aislinn Hunter has the wisdom, the knowledge, the secret, the magic - need we say more?  Hunter can burn your kitchen black and blue.  Linger, Still is vividly entertaining from the first page, the first poem.  And Aislinn Hunter has concerns that are very dear to Today's book of poetry.  Hunter's poems ask us how to be good people.  What could be more noble than that.

Northwestern Salamander Eggs Preserved in a Jar

A hundred slow curtsies
in filmy skirts
upends us, returns us,
briefly, to ourselves.
The jar held up to the window,
clutch of eggs swaying in the light.
A dance that goes back millennia,
that once saw
Simon Fraser's paddle
dip down through green
streaming chandeliers
on his way to a river
that would one day
forge his name.

Each egg a bathysphere—
a pip-sized possibility,
a helmet diver, scooped
with the stick it was moored on,
out of the wind-stirred stream.
How clear it is here
in the filigreed cloud of this
ancient bedding,
to see that being born is the rarity—
to see how the odds are stacked
against navigation—
to marvel at the possibility
of arrival, at how anything
becomes anything
at all.

👏👏👏

We've all had that one teacher that seemed to be talking directly to us, Aislinn Hunter is that poet.  Linger, Still is an intimate sharing.  Hunter has captured what we need to know and shares it with us, the other tender animals.

Aislinn Hunter is prescient.  She answers to questions you are just starting to think about.  Linger, Still is a wondrous construction.  Hunter has no problem putting the reader in Russia and making the reader feel familiar, comfortable with new knowledge.  Russia or Newfoundland, Hunter has the maps to the secret corridors of the world and shares her familiar with us.

Linger, Still is, as Hunter intones "in this rarefied air."  Today's book of poetry asserts that Hunter and her poetry are in rarefied air.  It's easy to be excessive when you like a book of poetry as much as Today's book of poetry likes Linger, Still.  It is hard to maintain any sort of objectivity.  We'll stake our reputation on Hunter's humility but these poems remind Today's book of poetry of the voice of Michel de Montaigne himself.  

Today's book of poetry just wants more of whatever Ms. Hunter is willing to put on a page.  This is marvelous poetry.

Her Husband Takes Leave of Her With His Usual Courtesy

Her neighbours finger the sleeves of family life
as if it were a well-made coat.

And yes, she has decent husband, a marvelling child,
an abacus that clicks bead after bead into place.

So what of honesty? Of what's announced
and what gets pared away?

Even the Egyptians weighed the heart against
enumerations of innocence:

I have not mistreated cattle, I have not robbed the poor
or held back water in its season.

Rules of etiquette Anna finds
in The Book of the Dead.

I have not caught fish in their ponds,
I have not snared birds in the reeds of the gods,

I have not sinned in the Place of Truth.

And once, at least, I stood there.

👏👏👏

Today's book of poetry will happily follow Aislinn Hunter to Russia or Scotland or any other place on earth her poetry map takes her.  We know ranting turns into unwelcomed noise if you let it so we will try to be reasonable.

Linger, Still is Canadian poetry of the highest order.  Our only issue with Hunter is that we need to see more of her poetry.  Reason and beauty don't have to adversaries, Aislinn Hunter's poetry says so.

Central American Squirrel Monkey, Male Skeleton,
From the Suffield Experimental Station, Alberta, 1951

How to do death better?

The squirrel monkey
has three kinds of call:
squeals, whistles, chirps.

A black cap, long red tail,
largest brain of any primate,
relative to body size.

Sprayed with sarin, one monkey
convulsed at six minutes
and died at twenty-nine.

What does that interval,
that Suffield winter,
look like to you?

This plush little bit
of history, these yellow bones
set, this morning,

against a backdrop
of a CBC radio documentary
on beheadings.

This monkey's skull
is the diameter
of an elaborate

men's wristwatch:
dial-less eyes, one of time's
teeth missing.

It's like a horror-of-war
film, except here
someone has stopped to pen

a set of numbers
in fine black ink
above his socket.

His body
flayed clean
down to his hands—

to two cuffs
of copper fur,
like those worn

by kings.

👏👏👏

Aislinn Hunter should be a name we all know.  Linger, Still should be read by each and every one of you.  You will thank Today's book of poetry.


Aislinn Hunter

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Aislinn Hunter is a poet, essayist, and novelist. She is the author of six books, including the novel The World Before Us, which won the Ethel Wilson Prize. She lives in British Columbia.


gaspereau.com

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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