With his restless intellectual curiosity tempered by a dash of witty self-deprecation, Hutchinson deftly manoeuvres through hallowed halls of academia with humour and grace.
Three stylistically distinct sections,"Imago,""A Brief History of the Short-Lived," and "Serialist" are interwoven throughout the collection, showcasing the range of Hutchinson …
Johnston skillfully follows the twentieth-century realist tradition of stripping stories down to details and everyday conversations that represent accurate snippets of life, and he explores perception - our ability to discern between conclusions and reality, between misplaced trust and mirror-pane truth. In his unique stories, Jeff and Beth clumsil …
The mother wondered out loud all day long if you weren't all going to hell. No, you would say, to the first question of the morning. You could take lessons in this house. Intricate rules abused the rough men and kept them right.
Her movement and worry could heat the kitchen on its own. Stop moving, you would say on holidays, or during a day of heavy rain in the summer. Save yourself the trouble, just this once. She sighed and the idea itself renewed her.
You heard of wars, and other things. It's terrible, she said. You knew it was. Some day, everything will change, she said, and those that keep their mouths shut will babble with such fierce power the ones that couldn't shut up will have no choice. They that are fattened and gorged on money from blood will be sickened while the starved finally swallow their own pure hearts and grow to astounding heights. And the blind will see.
She couldn't read, so she made up her own stories. She knew there would come a day.
You took a chance doing the wrong thing there. You walk in one night real quiet and that illiterate old woman is up in the light of the stove right away saying you've got liquor on your breath. You stink. But maybe you'll get some sleep, you say.
You can't swing at her but you want to. She turns shaking her head, crying, what the bottle done to your uncle.
Next morning, before she asks, you know you're going to hell.
Look, none of this is going to happen, she says, without a gesture. You are not even listening.
Cripes, we're all tired, someone says. A young one, mind you, a grandson. He's the one who finally taught her to read. She wrote a long letter to you. You were gone then, but came back for the funeral.
It's not that I'm not dead, she says. I'm not arguing that. I feel okay though. This is fine. In the ground would be too much.
The women and the men in the tiny kitchen hold napkins of food and mutter how heavy the coffin was. She walks around oblivious over the pearly floor and smiling at the young ones. You can't catch her eye.
She doesn't see the bottle on the table. The rum in her kitchen doesn't make sense and maybe that's why no one talks to you. Sometimes your wife.
The people smiling are all good. The things they say you can't hear, but the people are all good. The one your brother married is sick but looks strong. Your sister is still hurt by the accident though she can walk fine. Your boy is stronger than you ever were.
The old woman will never look at you again. She sits writing at the table across and cannot see you. You may be thin air, fine, but she doesn't even hear the sound of glass when you almost drop the bottle pouring.
You can't read upside down. My oldest boy, she says, wanting to fight the hired man after his father died.
You were twelve that time and the man was across the yard. Before the old man died he told you look out for your mother and the simple math of it never made sense. The slow-moving big man died and the slight quick woman had too great a portion to bear.
The man wasn't asking much and neither was your mother. Nobody is ever asking much, but you heard her loud through the sun and the dust and it was enough. That's the time she rescued you.
She looks at you now and may speak.
You know she's not there. Your wife is beside you with her hand on your back. It's been too long, she smiles, to your brother in his worried old suit. He nods above his short fat tie and everyone smiles.
Come out tomorrow, you say. There are things to sort out.
Across the room your boy is sick of smiling. Don't say anything, you think. Don't joke about the coffin and don't tell the boy it gets better and don't touch a thing in this house.
we abandon we abbreviate we aberrate we abet we abhor we abide we abolish we abort we abridge we absolve we absorb we abstain we abstract we abuse we accentuate we accept we acclaim we acclimatize we accommodate we accompany we accomplish we accredit we accumulate we accuse we ache we achieve we acknowledge we acquiesce we acquire we acquit we activate we actualize we add we address we adduce we adjourn we adjudicate we adjust we administer we admire we admit we admonish we adopt we adore we adorn we adulate we adulterate we advance we advertise we advise we advocate we affiliate we affirm we affix we age we aggravate we agree we aid we ail we aim we air we alarm we alibi we alienate we allege we allegorize we alleviate we alliterate we allocate we allot we allow we alphabetize we alter we amalgamate we amaze we amend we amuse we anaesthetize we analogize we analyze we anchor we angle we animate we annex we annihilate we annotate we annoy we annul we anoint we answer we antagonize we antedate we anticipate we apologize we apostatize we apostrophize we appall we appeal we appear we appease we applaud we apply we appoint we appraise we appreciate we apprehend we apprentice we approach we appropriate we approve we approximate we arbitrate we argue we arise we arm we arouse we arrange we arrest we arrive we articulate we ascertain we ask we assimilate we assist we associate we assume we assure we astonish we atomize we atone we attach we attack we attain we attempt we attend we attract we attribute we auction we audit we augment we authenticate we authorize we autograph we avenge we average we avert we avoid we avow we await we awake we award. . .
In this collection of poetry by Glen Sorestad, a once-comfortable world takes on a startling and dreamlike quality when removed from the usual surroundings of home. These are poems about places encountered, from the oil donkeys rocking by the runway in Calgary to the fields of France seen through a train window. They are also about people observed …
In a Montreal Bistro
We were all on verbal flights
winging on myths of our own.
She said her pen could fly
(as she served us another drink).
I liked the image, tipped to excess.
I told her only poems could fly,
quoted a colleague of mine as proof.
She doubted my sincerity. And said so.
Her proof employed no artifice.
Just a spring-loaded ballpoint pen.
And when she jammed it on the table
it flew on the wall of the fluorescent sun,
came to rest at my feet --
left me to ponder
the merits of myth-making
in a world that worships technology.
The dogs own Nice. Everywhere
the evidence lies. Dogshit grows
on sidewalks, steets and grass.
The dogs of Nice are impartial,
indiscriminate. At the entrance
of the park a sign warns owners
of penalties against this burst
of flower-turds. The dogs
scorn the sign and consequences,
pretend they do not recognize
the artist's graphic depiction
of "Dog Squatting Over Turd"
The dog Xed out in heavy black
like a victim on a Mafia hit list.
When the dogs assume control
over the rest of the world, will
they address the human problem
with similar signs?
In Paris, Texas, Christ rises above
the final rest of Willet Babcock.
The long-dead rancher is well anchored
for fierce winds. He cares little
about the three of us, drawn here
not for prayers over Babcock's bones,
but to stare, as we do now, up
at this sculpted Christ astride
Babcock's massive headstone
that derricks twenty feet against
the wintry Texas sky, His shoulder
against the cross, flowing robe
to His feet. We are poets all, two
fled south from a frozen country
to follow our Texas colleague here.
to scuff the stoney path to Babcock
though the pebbles we dislodge above
are bootless to his ears as we
assume the perfect vantage point to see
beneath the robe of Jesus -- His left foot,
His cowboy boot. Why shouldn't I believe
that in Texas even He would wear boots?
For the moment we are silent as Babcock,
gathered here around the feet of Christ.
In this unsettling collection, Vancouver singer/songwriter Rodney DeCroo delivers raw footage of a childhood marred by violence, sudden uprootings, and abuse. Allegheny, BC is a candid, gritty tour through DeCroo's troubled past in a small coal town outside of Pittsburgh, PA, the bush of northern BC, and his young adult years in Vancouver. Scenes o …
The poems in Anthropy fuse the scope of classical traditions to the disturbing agility of the moderns. Hsu artfully presents the fierce rigour of the philosophical mind engaged with the survival of histories.
Anthropy, Ray Hsu's first book-length collection, is a work of extraordinary range and precision. Excavating sites of human cruelty and endura …
We are mesmerized, enthralled. A young, armless girl, tangled in the brutal arrowhead wire of glistening ivy, stares with dead eyes. If I had arms, I would embrace my shaking body. I would lift my hands to my face, cover my eyes, hold the aching scream in my mouth.
Combining Wiccan ritual magic, Gnosticism, alchemy and of course Madeline Sonik's daz …
In As Though The Gods Love Us, Goh brings a lifetime of love, despair and passion to his work with the skill of a master craftsman. Amidst some of the world's most exotic locales, he uses graceful and lyrical language to understand his world and to bring us closer to ourselves and each other. From Vancouver neighbourhoods to the tropical darkness o …
As I Walk By
A premonition of fall already
informs this hot summer's day
although the small, small leaves
of the rows of tall,
old Chinese elms
lining Sixth Avenue
near my home,
have yet to commence their dance
which they do,
when they do it,
with such an old-fashioned
sedateness and grace,
that is so pleasing to watch
when the wind comes to woo.
Then the leaves will shed hoards
Of shadows onto the ground,
creating a growing umbrage
deep as the sea
in order to capture me
as I walk by.
The Fall Rain
Trees in our neighbourhood shiver in cold, grey rain,
last remaining foliage in a state of deshabille for late fall.
Streetwalkers working their beat on nearby Hastings and Victoria
are rain-soaked, shivering in flimsy, revealing dresses.
Each year I wonder, will they all survive the oncoming winter?