95 Books for 2013, Part 11, 106-116
Continuing the reading habit, mostly poetry, a little memoir/biography.
111. A Long Continual Argument: The Selected Poems of John Newlove, edited by Robert McTavish, (Chaudiere Books, 2007)
I’m pagist. At over 150 pages, I resisted reading it cover to cover but then, one doesn’t have to finish anything all at once, just start.
John Newlove is kind of unavoidable in part. He won a Some of the poems I’ve heard repeated at any circle where people read or recite their favourite poems. There is an annual poetry award for John Newlove run by Bywords with the winner receiving a chapbook made by them launched at the Ottawa Writers’ Festival. I shortlisted for that once yogs ago.
While his view is dark, his struggle with depths is foregrounded, I’m glad I read it. I don’t understand why “Progress” is called a failed long poem but it is a successful 10 page poem. Each part hooks forward with a twist to something. p. 224
[...] dreaming revenge, justification, reply,Things become other things without stopping being what they were. There’s a sort of renga pivot to how images move as the poem shifts its own weight. Identity is crystallized. A good thing. No, a cold thing. A clear purpose is the winter of the soul, a lie the soul tells itself. The snow stays that and becomes time passage, becomes the white page, becomes the blotting white of death. p. 30
victory, ad to be ourselves again.
Were we ever? There are those who will find
jobs but no comfort. Life being what it is,
we attempt to make ourselves indiscernible.
Honesty is praised and left to shiver.
The soul is crystallized. And now it is winter
again. The snow will begin to fly, white life,
another year has gone by and so few lines
written down and so many of them dreamed.
Another say closer to death, said
my father at breakfast. True enough but
a hell of a thing to say over coffee
and orange juice and eggs. But true enough
Four Small ScarsThis scar beneath my lipAs he twists and studies himself and significances, he makes a set that surprises at each turn, refutes the proof of apparent judgements. He speaks plainly and yet there’s no flat simplicity.
is a symbol of a friend’s rough love
though some would call it anger,
mistakenly. This scar
crescent on my wrist
is symbol of a woman’s delicate anger
though some would call it love,
mistakenly. my belly’s scar
is symbol of surgical precision;
no anger, no love. The small
fading mark on my hand
is token of my imprecision,
of my own carving, my anger, and my love.
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