Showing posts with label a stuart ross book. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a stuart ross book. Show all posts

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Yes or Nope - Meaghan Strimas (Mansfield Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Yes or Nope.  Meaghan Strimas.  A Stuart Ross Book.  Mansfield Press.  Toronto, Ontario.  2016.
Trillium Book Award Winner


Yes or Nope.  Easy question.  We say an emphatic yes.  So did the Trillium Book Award.  Meaghan Strimas made us laugh, smirk, guffaw, chortle and giggle before we finished the enchanting Yes or Nope.  She also broke our heart, kicked our shin and left some dishes in the sink.

Today's book of poetry writes these blogs by hand and when I do I jot down the page numbers of the poems I figure you, the audience/reader, can't do without.  I like to share as much as I can, all you regular readers know this.  The first poem in Yes or Nope arrives on page 11, the last poem is on page 61.  Here is today's page list of essential Strimas poems:

13, 16, 19, 20, 26, 33, 34, 36, 39, 42, 43, 54, 56.

Some of her poems stretch to two pages.  What Today's book of poetry is clumsily trying to say is that almost every poem in this collection was something we thought you should see.  Meaghan Strimas just sets 'em up and knocks 'em down with an endless succession of witty and surprising ruptures of logic until nothing else but her dark and daring sensibility makes sense.

Clean

My neighbour is the King of Clean. He wears his striped sports
socks up to his knees. I like things clean, he says. His wife
agrees: he likes things clean. It's the way he likes it. He likes to
be clean. He drags his power washer across his cement yard,
cursing at it, as if it were an obstinate poodle. But he loves it
the same as his Pekinese. Some days he runs a clean river: a
torrent of hose water streams down his lane and into the sewer.
I can hear the ants screaming, swept up by the current and
taken away. Poor souls. My grandmother, long gone, said she
married her husband because he was a clean man. Clean nails.
Clean pecker. Clean bum. There are so many things I never
wanted to know. And now you know, too. It's much better this
way: we have clarity. We are friends.

...

Yes or Nope is "a Stuart Ross Book" and you all know what we think of Mr. Ross here.  He really does have the Midas poetry touch.  Strimas and Ross are an excellent match and this book proves it. Strimas isn't exactly strange, the reader grows to know/understand/embrace Strimas logic fairly quickly, but she isn't the least bit shy about being playful.

Today's book of poetry applauds Meaghen Strimas for her rambunctious heart and hard as nails Geiger counter of truth.

You regular readers of Today's book of poetry will remember that we are particularly fond of list poems.  Strimas gives us a list poem, a rhymer, thrown into the mix as though she knew we were coming.

Nonsense Poem, or I Like

I like the fact that the light just turned green,
and I like the expression "creamin' in her jeans."

I like the seagull who just shit on my head,
and I like the mongrel who's only playing dead.

I like the secretary who says vanilla, not manila,
and I like the paperweight shaped like a gorilla.

I like the coarseness, the smell of a horse's mane,
I like the careerist who desires a little fame.

I like living, but I don't like feeling lost, and I like
the daffodils--insistent, resilient in the frost.

...

Yes or Nope went over better than the ice-cream truck at this morning's read.  Strimas hits just the right temperature to get the engines running.  

Strimas has a killer sense of humour but she never lets it intrude on the plot.  

Butterfly Unit Two: Goodbye

The mother
brought
a crate
of small
white cartons
to the celebration
of what
should have
been
his first
birthday.
Inside each,
a live butterfly
waiting to be
freed.
We were
to release
each,
but got
talking. Maybe
we forgot,
for a spell,
why we
were there
at all.
Perhaps,
it was
just easier
to pretend
that we
were happy.
When 
she finally
opened
the cardboard
flaps,
the monarchs
did not 
move.
I poked 
one with my
index finger:
it was stiff.
So 
we took
each
and lay
then,
one by one,
beneath
the base
of the oldest
tree, where,
from a distance
they looked 
like fallen leaves.

...

Today's book of poetry admires Meaghan Strimas's grit.  She doesn't seem to have any trouble at all waiting until she sees the whites of our eyes.

Image result for Meaghan strimas photo
Meaghan Strimas

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Meaghan Strimas is the author of two previous collections of poetry and the editor of The Selected Gwendolyn MacEwen. She teaches writing at Humber College and is a managing editor at The Hunter Literary Review. She lives in Toronto with her family.

BLURBS
“The poetry in Yes or Nope is whip-smart and tenderhearted, funny and alive—Strimas at her brilliant best. I didn’t want it to end.”
     —Zoe Whittall, author of The Best Kind of People
“Wry and furious, scathing and saucy, Meaghan Strimas tells the stories about us you always feared were true. Stuck through with charming moments, but make no mistake: these poems have no time for the lies we tell ourselves. Yes or Nope is bone-sharp, bang-up, revelatory—a pupil-dilating meditation on growing up and growing old female. This is a book to keep at your bedside, like a flashlight; a book that will keep you safe, and whisper: You are not alone.”
      —Elisabeth de Mariaffi, author of The Devil You Know



Meaghan Strimas performs at Words Aloud 9
Video: Words Aloud


598

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.


Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines - Jason Heroux (A Stuart Ross Book/Mansfield Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines.  Jason Heroux.  A Stuart Ross Book.  Mansfield Press.  Toronto, Ontario.  2016.


Today's book of poetry might just as well say it and get it out of the way.  Jason Heroux has become one of our favourite poets.  It's not like we didn't warn you.  

Back in September of 2013 Today's book of poetry took a look at Jason Heroux's chapbook In Defense of the Attacked Center Pawn (Puddles of Sky Press, 2013) and thought it was brilliant stuff and ripe with promise.  You can see that blog here:


Since then we've read Emergency Hallelujah (Mansfield Press, 2008) and had it scheduled for a blog, the only reason you're not reading about that now is that Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines came through the door and we simply couldn't resist.

Heroux's latest volume of poetry is a seriously strong statement of intent.  Heroux has discovered a shady planet of surreal shadows where he writes from some dark corner to illuminate everything we know. And boy, oh boy!, does he hammer out some choice humour along the way.

Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines

It's easy to breathe if you're breathing
breathe all you want the air is too cold
             and weak to run away
your life is a gift with your name on it
a word there's no word for
breathe all you want it's easy to breathe
             if you're breathing
the air is an all-you-can-breathe buffet
it's hard work cheering up sad machines
hard work cleaning a number's cage
our heartbeats are staggered staples
             holding us together
birds sing like kettles boiling song-water
your life is a gift with your name on it
and your life is a word there's no word for
breath all you want breathe all you want

...

Today's book of poetry could be easily convinced that the poet Jason Heroux is channelling the spirit and voice of the great American novelist, short story writer and cultural guru Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Heroux has a similarly morbid comic stranglehold on reality.

The dilemma for Today's book of poetry is that when it came to picking actual poems for today's blog I was stumped.  Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines is so ripe with lovely fruit that picking which little piece of wonder to share was beyond me so we resorted to the Odin resolution.  Whenever we are blocked we write down the page numbers of every poem we wish to consider, post them on a wall and then have Odin throw darts.  The poems we are using today were the first three he hit out of the dozens on offer.

Heroux's epigraph at the beginning of Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines is from the French author and anarchist Pierre Antin-Grenier (1947-2014).  Antin-Grenier was experimental and a loosely connected member of the "extrême contemporain" - a notion in continuous movement.

          It's in the hollow of the
          ordinary that the marvelous
          most often makes its nest
                                       -- Pierre Autin-Grenier

Today's book of poetry is convinced Heroux has lived up to the challenge; Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines rolls over the mundane and ordinary to punch out marvelous poetry from every unknowable landscape he encounters.

Yield

Our yield is now, this moment
is what will eventually
become of us, our only harvest
is the one we're gathering.
Water is drawn by the one
with the well. Whoever has lungs
will breathe in and out. The one
with the horse will ride into town.
Everything is nothing but horns
honking at death, and numbers
attacking numbers, apricot
jam stuck on the table knife.
Everything is nothing but almonds
divided by almonds, and grass blades
savouring our shadow's champagne,
a car without wheels crawling through mud.
Why does everyone seek refuge elsewhere?
Whoever has the orange will peel the skin.
Whoever has a thread will feed the needle.
The one with enough footsteps will walk to the store.
Our only harvest is the one we're gathering, this moment
is what will eventually become of us, our yield is now.

...

The first part of Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines is made up of shorter, one or two page poems.  Later on in the collection Heroux spreads out a little and writes some longer poems and poem sequences.  This all works.

Our morning read was a Heroux buffet.  We read from Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines of course, but we also opened up Emergency Hallelujah and In Defense of the Attacked Center Pawn. Milo, our head tech, led the charge this morning which should leave him in a good mood.  His new task is to now track down and procure the other thirteen titles Heroux has listed.

Today's book of poetry is certain that in the years ahead having Jason Heroux on your shelf will help to prove your smarts.

Blue Yodel of the Broken

What more do I want how many
more feathers would make me happy
on a bird how much extra egg yolk
do I need in an eggshell.
Our death chirps like a cricket
in the quietest corner of the dollar.
Bees are kept where two bones meet
a body develops in the body
where fruit trees are grown
the cows are kept
in the same name as the place
where the hay is kept.
Our death jumps into us the way
the moon leaps into a lake to cool off
swimming in the water that isn't there.
What more of a handshake
can you hold in your hand
how much of this fork
do you need to eat dinner.
The blown-out candle
is kept where the wish is kept.
How much more walnut meat
in the walnut shell would it take
to make us feel safe in the world.
I believe in the barbecue cover
that covers the barbecue I believe
in the same name as the place
where the bird is kept
the cage is kept.
How much more
piggy bank can
the piggy bank hold.
Wherever you are
you are a little rain
that never rained you are
a little hurt that never hurt anything.
Sometimes in the bank I touch
someone else's money and wake up

...

If you read Today's book of poetry more than once you'll realize I am praising a new book of poetry almost every other day.  I fear it could all just begin to sound like rain.  But the truth is that for every book of poetry Today's book of poetry posts there are three or four that don't make it.  I DO like every book that makes it onto the blog.  If the blog sometimes lacks a completely fresh veneer or the vocabulary to do these books justice it is entirely on Today's book of poetry.

Books like Jason Heroux's Hard Work Cheering Up Sad Machines are the reason this blog exists, I try to serve up gems every time out but this one is a highly polished jewel.


Jason Heroux

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Heroux is the author of three previous books of poetry—Memoirs of an Alias, Emergency Hallelujah, and Natural Capital, which was shortlisted for the 2013 ReLit award—and two novels. His work has been published widely in chapbook form and in journals, and has been translated into several languages. Jason lives in Kingston, Ontario.

BLURBS
“Jason Heroux continues to develop his bold style through the delightful fusion of otherwise jarring images.”
     —Jonathan Ball, Winnipeg Free Press
“Natural Capital is a helluva good read. I inhaled its 47 poems in one long breath—they left me excited and wondering exactly what it is that makes them so captivating.… Great book. I’d give it several major prizes all at once.”
     —Rod Pederson,  Arc
“Jason Heroux’s skill as an image-maker recalls Tomas Tranströmer.… In an ideal world, Heroux’s poems would be doled out monthly, one at a time. They would be slotted into the mailbox, or handed to us by some peculiar stranger on the sidewalk.”
     —Nick Thran,  Event
“At its heart, Heroux’s gift—however existential or surreally humanistic—lies in the transformation of ways of seeing the world, of analyzing it and of language. The poems themselves, in their unique ways of seeing, are humbling at the same time they are refreshing.”
     —Cynthia Reeser, Prick of the Spindle

Jason Heroux
Video:  Jason Heroux


561


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.




Friday, December 2, 2016

All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together - Stephen Brockwell (Mansfield Press)

Today's book of poetry:
All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together.  Stephen Brockwell.  Mansfield Press.  A Stuart Ross Book.  Toronto, Ontario.  2016.


"Dust falls over the ocean too, as I recall."
     - The Saline Diminishments

All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together feels like a departure and an arrival for the multi-talented Stephen Brockwell.  Today's book of poetry has long admired the work of Brockwell, All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together is his fourteenth or fifteenth poetry title and we have been watching all along.

The departure, if we can call it that, is an emotional one.  Brockwell has always had a keenly expressive and fiercely intelligent voice but with All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together Brockwell draws back the curtains to reveal the inner dimensions of a complicated heart.  Brockwell has always had an ample tool box of poetic tools to draw from but with this latest book he ups the ante, the closer you get to the heart the sharper the poems become.

This book was edited for press by the omnipresent and galactic Stuart Ross and it shows.  It is tight as a drum.

And there are a couple of list poems and you know how much we like those here at Today's book of poetry.

The Location of Culture

At a truckstop counter in Paris.

Over by the Starbucks in Nagoya, I didn't understand a
word. Inside Zanzibar's Coffee Adventure, finest beans in
Iowa, I caught a word I knew.

Curbside near a Philly cheesesteak joint on a sizzling
Friday in August, Brandon insists we take it with
Cheez Whiz.

Under plane trees and palms at the San Diego Zoo, polar
bears soak on wet concrete.

Underneath the oak, a bench has been installed, site for
lapdogs, evening weed, Viola-Cesario soliloquies.

Through the ear canal, the caw of the crow on the street
lamp resonates in the ossicles.

Across Coltrane's reed.

In deer-hide drums I wish I had an ear for.

In neck, fret, and peg, braced spruce and manicured nail.
Through humbucker and valve.

At the Blackburn Arms where Jack McGuire performs
songs no one hears over the off-key accompaniment of
hammered regulars.

Through noise-cancelling Beats, Bluetooth Queen of
the Night.

Notwithstanding my mother's Sinatra, my daughter's
#queenbey.

Throughout the exhausted sleeper's veins. Between
treatment and injection site. In small-print
contraindications.

In bed, in a hammock between trees, in the bath, on moss,
in cold lakes, our bodies pair by prepositions.

On the lips of the toddler smooshing pages with jam. In
the theatre of her hands. She tilts her head to the right,
mimics her father's imitative coos.

Throughout the primary school hallways when the bell
rings on a May scorcher as the shrieks of recessing kids
are at their peak.

At the public library beside the canal, on a table behind
rare-book stacks, volumes open, spread.

Between the pages of my great-uncle Eddie's Leaves of
Grass. In the handshake of his Bajan lover, Colin.

On the handles of my grandfather's paintbrushes:
accidental abstract expressionism.

In the cellar, inside the chest with mould-dusted leather
locking straps; "Man on the Moon" newspapers, a loaded
handgun, plastic-wrapped vintage pornography, rags sharp
with turpentine.

Inside shelves installed in his dresser drawers, we found
the alphabetized complete works of Edgar Rice Burroughs,
Louis L'Amour and Zane Grey.

Toward Mont Royal's cross, the white spruce, or the fly on
the window at the Montreal General Hospital where my
father's eyes finally settled.

In Parc Jarry bleachers, hot dog in mouth as Bailey singles
Woods home. In the T-shirt's cherished mustard stain.

In Muzak accompanying the Zamboni's peculiar figures.

At Arena Robert Guertin, in locker rooms of broken sticks,
what might Guy Lafleur's poster eyes have seen?

On the court, hoops: in court, hoops.

Around the ditch where the sewer crew shovels through
effluent, hoping to find and close a valve.

Abaft the engine room, reeking of fish and fuel.

From the combine harvester's thousand-watt stereo, barley
field Marley.

Under the boardroom table of the princes of power, bless
their blue silk ties, there's gum. For all their financial
instruments, pick your prepositions; govern them by
sharp verbs.

In my mother's blueprints for Montreal trunks.

Over the copper pair, the glass fibre, between towers:
packets of everything. We like it.

Under the Cisco bridge, trolls creep.

In diodes emitting a radiant moving window of briefest
eternity.

In the palimpsest of typewriter roller and plasma screen,
PINs for accounts of the poorest and richest.

In Homer.

Between rings in birch grain, inside axe and saw cuts,
under initialled bark.

Under the throat of the slaughtered calf, along the blade of
the sakin.

At the cathedral for her funeral, in liturgy and hymn,
unexpected comfort.

In the LAV -- none of us wants to hear it -- when the RPG
renders acronyms disgusting.

@Cranium Central Station, a bat in the attic hangs itself
to sleep.

...

Stephen Brockwell's All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together feels like a clearing of the deck.  Parents and grandparents and various other ghosts are ceremoniously debunked into their eternal beds amid the cathartic tumble.  Brockwell is searching for a new kind of honesty and it is not an easy purchase, people get hurt, bruises form, seen and unseen.

It's difficult magic to reconcile your heart with your hopes and it is almost impossible not to remember expectations as responsibilities.  Brockwell is swimming against some harsh and well established currents but his stroke is strong and true.  It's always hard to be who we want when dealing with who we are gets in the way.

Accidental Vegan

My fridge had more food than I needed.
Jane, I asked you to come to my house and cook with me:
onions, garlic, long beans, fish -- no fish!

It was never about the cooking --
you knew that --
it was our way of putting our lips on the same dish.

In the rain, face to face
at the market, we huddled by the fish tank,
watching the slow, sad carp,
gills pulsing, mouth opening, eyes wet, of course.

...

Stephen Brockwell is a disarming poet.  In the past his wit and intelligent charm always made for smart, sharp poems worth reading.  With All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together Brockwell has added a new level of emotional candor and intensity that is both jarring and exciting.

This sort of honesty, when honed by the articulate hands of an old pro like Brockwell makes for some compelling poetry and rewarding reading.

Today's book of poetry understands that Brockwell had some misgivings about All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together and it is easy to see why.  When you put that much on the table the room turns quiet and all eyes focus on the gambler.  Brockwell plays the winning hand and doesn't even crack a grin.

Biography Of Mistaken Identities

I was mistaken for Steve Martin at a bar in Montreal.
I was mistaken for someone Richard Simmons could love
by Richard Simmons on a flight to Los Angeles.
I was mistaken for Olympian Ken Read
but I've never needed skis to hurtle downhill.
I was mistaken for a gay man at Swizzles
and played it to my advantage at the slam.
I was such a flirt! Were they mistaken?
I am told I could be mistaken for Henry Rollins.
Soon my dog will mistake me for an old hound
on the porch, bark in my face, and tear my ears.
I hope to be mistaken for soil by seedling pines.

...

We had guest appearances at the Today's book of poetry offices this morning.  We had just started our morning read when the doorbell rang.  In walked Ayano Omota, Yuka Kashino and Ayaka Nishiwaki. I didn't recognize any of them at first but Ayaka had Pharoah Sanders at the end of her arm and I certainly knew who he was right away.  They'd just tumbled out of a rusted old '56 Caddy short that was sitting in the laneway.  I almost lost my mind.

But like all other guests Pharoah and the ladies had to take their turn reading a poem.  Stephen Brockwell has never sounded better.

Today's book of poetry has been a big Stephen Brockwell fan for a long time and we believe that All Of Us Reticent, Here, Together is his best book.  

Image result for stephen brockwell photo
Stephen Brockwell

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephen Brockwell cut his writing teeth in the ’80s in Montreal, appearing on French and English CBC Radio and in the anthologies Cross/cut: Contemporary English Quebec Poetry and The Insecurity of Art (both Véhicule Press, 1982). George Woodcock described Brockwell’s first book, The Wire in Fences, as having an “extraordinary range of empathies and perceptions.” Harold Bloom wrote that Brockwell’s second book, Cometology, “held rare and authentic promise.” Fruitfly Geographic won the Archibald Lampman award for best book of poetry in Ottawa in 2005. Brockwell currently operates a small IT consulting company from the 7th floor of the Chateau Laurier and lives in a house perpetually under construction.

BLURBS
“In All of Us Reticent, Here, Together, Stephen Brockwell tenders an unsettled confessional: the poet decentring himself to cast light on the shame of being human. Awkward, wry, acerbic, these poems nonetheless find intimacy in all the locations of culture.”
     —Soraya Peerbaye, author of Tell: Poems for a Girlhood

“Stephen Brockwell’s poetry, already luminous with intelligence and subtle musical energy, pulses with a new, raw, elegiac edge in his latest collection, All of Us Reticent, Here, Together. Ever curious, ever vigilant, Brockwell’s voice sorts through bruised truths and reverberant detail to deliver these poems of startling tenderness and honesty.”
     —David O’Meara, author of A Pretty Sight

Stephen Brockwell
Reading at 17 Poets
Video:  Megan Burns


531

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, March 4, 2015

Some Talk of Being Human - Laura Farina (A Stuart Ross Book/Mansfield Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Some Talk of Being Human.  Laura Farina.  A Stuart Ross Book.  Mansfield Press.  Toronto, Ontario.  2014.


Of course I like every book I post on Today's book of poetry - that's the entire point.

So how do I tell you when I enjoy something just a bit more than usual?  It's been a while since a book of poetry has made me smile in quite this way.

These witty poems have the dead-on timing of a stand-up comic and the genuine sincerity of a well meant sermon.

Some Talk of Being Human hints at being naive but Farina is only being coy.

Peterborough, Late Spring

The sky is the three chords
you know on the guitar.
Repetitive, rhythmic light.

Under it,
those well-written streets,
sagging like couches
on student porches.

Tangled sheets
contain our sweat.
This is known as evidence.

A record spins and spins.

The shadows we cast
on Hunter Street
lug instruments
in awkward cases.

This day is like performing
CPR with a cold.

I swear there was a shortcut,
but I can't seem to find it.
If we walk home the long way,
will you promise not to talk?

...

This book is from Mansfield Press's imprint A Stuart Ross Book - and that should come as no surprise.  These poems have some of the same perplexing and spectacular leaps of faith as those of Stuart Ross, no mean feat.

Farina has been a poet I've adored reading since meeting her back in 2007.  This Woman Alphabetical is a Pedlar Press book by Farina from that period, if you can find it you should pick it up.  It is simply marvelous.

But - not quite the gem Some Talk of Being Human turns out to be.

Poem after poem twists your maw into a different sort of smile.  Some of them will be new twists of fate for your face.

Family Reunion

The sandwiches are crustless!
The salads have layers!
Each woman knows by heart
a recipe called Heavenly or Dreamy or Delightful.
Major ingredient: marshmallows.

Uncle Ralph pulls up
in his white Lincoln Continental.
His two tanned legs
wander down from white shorts
to two white socks pulled parallel.
He opens the passenger door to reveal Aunt Barbara
already laughing.

Uncle Harry tells a joke about
a beautiful woman on the streetcar
but we don't get it.
Auntie Marilyn Todd tells us
she changed our mothers' diapers.

A stooped aunt I don't recognize
calls me by the name of my dead grandmother
and for a moment I see
the spaces in the crowd
were also invited.

And then it's darker
and their voices in the dark night
are a memory of the war,
how they saved their liquor ration--
so sure it would end--
held a victory party
on this very spot
sang these very songs
before they settled down
to invent our parents.

...

This is dead serious whimsy of the best kind.  These poems engage you in a conversation you end up responding to.  You start answering asked questions out loud.

Farina's Some Talk of Being Human is so thoroughly engaging, so sad-sack romantically human, I loved it.  Plain and simple.

Passed it around the office, now all the interns are clamoring for my copy of This Woman Alphabetical, which won the 2006 Archibald Lampman Prize for the best book of poetry by a poet from Ottawa.  It's going to the highest bidder.  They will be allowed to read it  -  in my office  -  after they finish the dishes.

The Waiter Brings Our Order of Hummus

There was good news today
about the future of bangs.

It is not as bad as we'd imagined.

My knee touches
your knee
under the table.

Our eyes meet
over grilled pita wedges.
Crumbs dandruff
from my mouth;
my fingers trace beige lines
on the table that dreams
of being rustic.

When I think of the number of times
I've wished I could draw.

When I think of the number
of sketches of you
I could have sold at craft fairs,
looking out a submarine window
or caught in a moment with a fox.

Do you remember that time we went up a mountain?
Or just after,
that time we came down a mountain?
All those miraculous days, my darling.
All those incredible journeys.

...

Today's book of poetry enjoyed Some Talk of Being Human as much or more than anything we're read this year.

If I were making a list, this book would be on it.

Laura Farina

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laura Farina's first book of poetry, This Woman Alphabetical (Pedlar Press, 2005), won the Archibald Lampman Award, given to the best poetry book published in Ottawa. She grew up in Ottawa and then gradually made her way west. She now lives in Vancouver.

BLURB
  -  On This Woman Alphabetical:
"A brisk, engaging read. ... Farina's poems are refreshingly under-done, with an innate sense of the
energy and spontaneity of lyric. ... At her best, Farina plucks the tenuous line between contemplation and irreverence. There is something of Frida Kahlo here: the obsessive image-making: the mediations on personal pain; the surrealist impetus. Or of Georgia O'Keefe, in the poems' deceptively simple clarity."
      - Triny Finlay, Arc


313

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.