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Poetry Canadian

redirection

the prime sonnets and other poems

by (author) Brian Way

Publisher
Hidden Brook Press
Initial publish date
Nov 2015
Category
Canadian
  • Paperback / softback

    ISBN
    9781927725207
    Publish Date
    Nov 2015
    List Price
    $19.95

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Recommended Age, Grade, and Reading Levels

  • Age: 15 to 18
  • Grade: 10 to 12

Description

P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">Blurbs: P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">?xml:namespace prefix = "o" ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">43 words P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">From its innovative sonnet sequence on Canada’s Prime Ministers to myriad ruminations on matters local and intimate, national and universal, Way’s redirection is a Canadian book of poetry that seeks, unceasingly, to lay bare the Canadian psyche and that of the world beyond. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">215 words P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 24.0pt">      P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">From its quirky sonnets on each of Canada’s Prime Ministers to its ruminations on the history and landscape that have helped mould this country, Way’s redirection is solidly a Canadian book. The poems are a tour-de-force that shifts in genre, tone, style and theme. Modernist interests are fused with postmodern sensibilities—anything goes as the poems slide from topic to topic, form to form. A charming “ode of sorts” on Al Purdy gives way to a sustained ode on the death of the author’s great uncle in World War I, a satire about the odd compulsion of neighbours to decorate their driveways sits next to a comic haiku eulogy about an exotic pet owner who loved baby tigers, an elegy on his mother’s death by cancer is followed by an ironic lyric recounting a child’s doomed visit to see Queen Elizabeth—the language of Way’s work is always precise and unswerving—agile, exact, arcane, blunt. This is a poetry in which imagination, translated into language as effectively as words can manage, offers us a new, often redirected view of the world as Way sees it—sometimes funny, sometimes brutal, but always honest, genuine. And always with that ineffable sense that this is a Canadian seeing himself and Canada inside and out, and the world beyond. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">441 words P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">From its quirky sonnets on the life and times of each of Canada’s Prime Ministers to its ruminations on the history and landscape that have helped mould the personality of this country, Way’s redirection is first and foremost a Canadian book. It touches on topics as diverse and unique as the nation itself, from an admiring “ode of sorts” to the voice of the land that remains Al Purdy and a sustained reflection on Private William Anson Smith, a teenager from North Hastings who died in combat in World War I, to poems that examine current and mythic aspects of his local neighbourhood as well as the relationship of politics and national identity, of imagination and experience, of art and the artist. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">The collection, overall, is a tour-de-force in genre, tone, style and theme, inexorably exploring encounters with the world in different ways with different voices. Modernist interests are fused with postmodern sensibilities—anything goes as the poems shift from topic to topic, form to form. Some reflect on highly personal incidents (the deaths of relatives and friends; intimate relationships; a life spent among students); others consider events more political or national in scope (a child’s doomed trip to see Queen Elizabeth; the impact of Canada-at-war on the living and the dead; an illumination of Canada’s history and its Prime Ministers, each envisioned through a new sonnet form that mimes the Canadian self); and yet others foreground humour, irony and satire (a haiku eulogy for an exotic pet owner who loved baby tigers; a ragtime tune about a supercilious hit man; a persona so obsessed with tea that he finally recognizes himself as a ‘tedious asshole’; the thoughts of a guillotined head shortly after execution). P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">The language of Way’s work is always precise and unswerving—agile, exact, arcane, blunt—words take shape like sculptures on the page; the gaps and spaces echo pauses in the process, the silence of ideas, images missing in thought until the lightning strikes again. (The artistic layout in this finely crafted Hidden Brook Press edition adeptly reinforces this aspect.) P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">Some of the poems robe themselves in forms of the past, traditional verse and imagism; others use the conversational style familiar in most recent work; others dress in a style all their own. Overall, though, this is a poetry in which imagination, translated through language as effectively as words can manage, offers us a new, often redirected, often complex view of the world as Way sees it—sometimes funny, sometimes brutal, but always honest, genuine.  And always with that ineffable sense that this is a Canadian seeing himself and Canada inside and out, and the world beyond. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">871 words P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">This is a book of poems. Canadian poems. Like the country, they are large. And diverse, varied  as the landscape, the weather—here, February flowers bloom; there, an afternoon cup of tea against the sound of early summer sleet on the windows, songs and stories bringing the kitchen to laughter; elsewhere, muskeg and animal bones (we think) in the spring, fierce, foreboding, the bitter wind and hard-driven snow, a relentless sou-easter in late Autumn. And those breathless lights to the north. A book of poems, Canadian poems. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">Turn each page—elegy, ode, found, haiku, concrete, prose, monologue and more—the forms themselves turn in your hands. Variety, redirection is all (as the title promises) ... in style, theme, tone, topic, voice. Language too—agile, tough, unflinching, plastic. Language, and space. And time. Like the country, large and old, small and young. Deferential. Bilingual. An apology with both tongues in its big sky cheek. Space and time—the high plains of Abraham and the low roads of the County, Agamemnon and bin Laden and Borden and Battles of the Somme, the invincibility of glaciers, and the death of butterflies. Here modernist poetics are fused with postmodern sensibilities—audacious and absurd, intimate and blunt, simple and complex, confessional images surprise, and yet, somehow, remind you of the universal found in those grand panoptic poems you read in anthologies long ago. Each of Canada’s Prime Ministers emerges as the stuff of a sonnet, an ancient prophet of the Middle East gives voice to a new vision, the ephemeral white moth reminds us of the existential human need to keep trying and, reminiscent of wistful war poems of the past, a teenaged Canadian soldier long dead in World War I reaches up to us through the mud of France and hangs on as if life itself “depends on the dance.” P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">Way’s poems contain a great deal of humour—examples include a begrudging ode “of sorts” to Al Purdy who has poetically besieged the County in which Way himself grew up and the self-deprecating “asshole poem” about an intellectualized obsession with tea. Satire and irony also abound as in a meditation on his neighbours’ curious driveway decorations and a whimsical recollection of a doomed childhood trip to see Queen Elizabeth, hours of waiting climaxed when a black limo suddenly careens past the anticipating crowd outside the airport gates. Reflections on art and writing, on the imagination and the poet in contemporary times, are frequent touchstones for Way. Recall the ironic precept of marianne moore who declared that poetry, when read with a degree of contempt, offers a place where one can discover the genuine—that is an apt signpost here. Classically, redirection interrogates poetry and art, along with the perpetrators of such acts, as objects of contemporary curiosity, unwanted felons from the midway of a county fair—“verge,” “alls right with the world,” “a prayer for my students” and the imagist epic “pieces of a butterfly” being the most extended of these. Here, for Way, in the pinball gyration of one image to another, one form to another, the poetic imagination always endures, always offers a deeper, more reliable source of understanding, of salvation, than any social or intellectual perception ever can. Here is the place to discover the genuine. A redirection from I to eye. The facebook of the soul. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">The poems, then, a neverending encounter of the poetic imagination with all aspects of the world as seen from a Canadian perspective—big and small, significant and trivial, personal and public, sad and funny, comic and tragic. Genuine. But ineluctable in transformation. In the end, whatever glimpse of the human condition one achieves, in wonder or contempt, turn the page; the attempt is ceaseless: “the butterfly flaps silently/out of the nightime/into the psyches shade/as much myth as human/trying.” P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">The variety of poetry in the first half of this collection leads to the solidarity of the second, another redirection in itself. Here a new form of sonnet is unleashed. This is the Canadian sonnet, mirroring that essential component of the Canadian psyche to be deferential, hesitant at taking sides, at making final decisions. From Sir John A. to Mr. Harper, each sonnet offers an oscillating perspective on the life and time of one of our Prime Ministers and each delivers, with wit and charm, some reflection on matters both topical and universal. The individual Prime Ministers appear, one after the other, visionaries all on their own paths driven by their own angels and demons—alcoholic, racist, messianic, megalomaniacal, sexual predator and all the rest, the portraits are lit by the lightning of Way’s adept language and fired by the quiet volatility the country’s history itself. And like the deferential nature of the Canadian spirit on which the form of these sonnets is set, resolution is teased but rarely attained. This is Canada, after all. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">In the end, a galvanic collection of innovative poetry—a very good collection of poetry—unique, its aim grand and complex, minuscule and simplistic, its language sharp as a Canadian season. Matters personal and national, styles changeable, eclectic as lightning—eclectric, perhaps, like that marvellous heal-all elixir Dr. Thomas once sold across the country—different and diverse and Canadian as ... well, as we Canadians.

About the author

Contributor Notes

P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">Author Bio:?xml:namespace prefix = "o" ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /> P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 12pt; mso-pagination: none">Brian Thomas Wesley Way (middle names, afterSPAN lang=EN-US style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"> his grandfathers) was born and raised on a small farm in the north end of Prince Edward County, just south of Belleville, Ontario, a place where Loyalist ancestors came to settle in the1790s (John B. Way, grandfather three times great, actually built the original grist mill in the village of Ameliasburgh (then called Way’s Mills), a mill long since dismantled and relocated to Black Creek Pioneer village in Toronto). Way attended S. S. # 6 Ameliasburgh Public School in the County (it, too, has been moved, at least in name, to Rednersville). He attended Belleville Collegiate (it was not moved—just demolished) and Queen’s and Western, each of which remains in place, at least at this writing. He has been involved throughout his life in education of various kinds, in secondary schools in Belleville, Tilsonburg, Ingersoll and London, in university at Western, and in college at Loyalist. Way has had scholarly articles and monographs published on a range of topics in education and literature—among those still of relevance, Passages to Literature, a series of teaching manuals, Print Preview, an undergraduate research and writing guide, and The Fiction of Fishing, a full-length critical study of the American metafictionist, Richard Brautigan, under review (a chapter was published in the recent issue of Change magazine). Way recently returned to the north shore of Prince Edward County living in a small house on the poor (aka south) side of the road which he calls Here. He has served on the Board of Trustees for the Prince Edward County Library and Archives, as a member of the Friends of the A-Frame, a group involved in the preservation of Al Purdy’s famed residence, and has recently been appointed to membership on the Board of Governors of the Royal Military Colleges of Canada. Currently, Way is in the process of translating his literary novel, The Prince of Leroy, into a screenplay and an adventure tale, and Orchard of the Gods, a play about rural settlement, cultural displacement and mythic unrest, is under consideration by Persephone Theatre. Throughout his life, he has written and published poetry in a variety of magazines including blackfish, The Canadian Forum, escorial, quarry, the pom seed, preserved thoughts, tamarack, sweven, waves, white pelican. A memoir entitled Hickory Tunes and a collection of short fiction are also in the works. As to the more personal and provocative aspects of Way’s life, his wild romances, exotic global escapades and spiritual conversions, the details are intriguing, breathtaking, in fact, full of wonder…You know… as I write this, it is a dreary winter’s day, heavy rain and thick fog rolling over the bay and settling against my Sunday morning window. And as usual, this outside weather is bringing on an inner change of climate, coaxing me to other, perhaps deeper, surely more useful pursuits than this solipsistic, self-serving bio. And besides, it’s lunch time and there’s a game on. Enough.

Excerpt: redirection: the prime sonnets and other poems (by (author) Brian Way)

redirection

 

is the transforming       of i       into eye
a slow turning
toward seeing in the forensics of autumn       every absence
and finding in the metaphor that remains       a galaxy
autumn       the honestest season
       where the pure tree stands naked
a sacred second between past and future       living or other
and any moment       any moment
the dead snow can bury the land
like an eyelash bowing to a fleck of dust

 

even more than this       perceiving the pendular
the precise willability to move back and forth
       in space time form mood
to return to seed & emerge       return & emerge
       again & again
the still motion       the ineffable trick
       soul becoming root       tree       zygote
              autumn held in every pulse
a price                     a human price surely
but alive
       in the only way to be scavenged in this mortal season
engraving on a profane canvas
       the invisible image of the visible thing
ode of sorts to purdy
(after first hearing al purdy read)

 

‘keep your ass out of my beer’
he leaned across the podium
running freight car fingers through straight grey hair
attacking the audience as if they were all new romans
then he hesitated in his loping stance
retreating in memory to rummage out his solemn lines
‘go ahead strike go ahead’

 

god damn it purdy move over
im from massassaga
thats only a couple miles from ameliasburg
       and wild grapes grow in plenty there too
and more important, i was born there
not in that damn dilapidated queens hotel
mired in the ghettoes of trenton
       where you gained breath
and my ancestor didnt just inherit roblins mill       he built it
agreed my village doesnt have some sort of freudian store
       with old women complaining about dirty poetry books
       the ones you tried to sell there a few years back
theres no lake either
but theres a marsh that the sun tries to glimmer across
       and where tall blue herons stand
so ive got my walden too
and experience with trains and hauling mattresses will come
but youve got books and canada council grants
and some pretty good poetry
more every time i turn around
       so i guess for now you bastard
       ill listen to you talk about
       the gold hairs on your wifes belly
       and your mice and your huskies and your pontiac
       your burning buildings your rhododendrons
       and the country of your defeat
but watch out       one of these days soon
im going to grow long straight grey hair
and drink beer all the time and
wear wrinkled white shirts with the sleeves rolled up
and believe me
       i can smoke those cheap white owls too

 

P.S.: Spring, 2000

 

silent now
your voice still resounds across the land it found
as for me, well cigars have gone quite out of public fashion
and long since ive been resigned never to catch up to you
but somehow in that defeat i find myself quite satisfied

 

pillars along the road

 

theyre building pillars along the road
obelisks of stone and brick and concrete
flanking the long rich driveways
       with a kind of magnanimous certitude
short or tall       thin or rotund
some little more than fat fence posts
but here and there extravagance roars up—
a set of serious lions obediently guards one drive
although as i travel by
they always seem a bit perplexed in tooth and claw
perhaps the errant vagueness of their assigned post
       confusing them
astride another drive, some unnameable creatures
a species of gargoyle or griffin or some beast
       from a fable yet to be written
they are contorted as if undergoing electric shock
       for what must be their ontological schizophrenia
or in discomfort from a stony bowel movement
       half-completed when their mould was cracked
there are no pillars in the shape of the creatures
that most inhabit this busy busy road
no squirrels or chipmunks or raccoons or kids on bicycles
       or old men driving young cars

 

some pillars have brass plaques with numbers or names
and some have lights to keep the day from dying
some are topped with flat bauhaus cubes
       or victorian coach lanterns
echoing some past that never was
       at least not here
but there are no gates              there are no fences
these great pillars crafted with such design and intent
       simply straddle open driveways
and would hold out only the most challenged
       of midnight burglars
defend against only the most drunken
    of wayward revolutionaries charging toward glory
    hasta la victoria siempre along county road number three
only to run smack into a random stone post in the mêlée
and what martyrdom for a stupid rebel
       with a headache and a hangover

 

and so the pillars stand alone
bistro cairns that keep things neither out nor in
exclamation marks to remind god
       of the wonder of his creation perhaps
like the holy pillars of old    the true boaz    the sure jachin
or just simple billboards to those passing by
here i begin              here i end
here i am beyond these unnatural piles of stone
i built this monument, or at least directed it so
i have the power to indulge in unnecessary things
to sculpt the mighty symmetry that resides in me
and announce this concupiscence so all can see
or perhaps they are cautionary signposts for those days
when the scent of mortality sweeps across the bay
and the cinder-man with certain stride seems close
touchstones that reveal something of our need
       to mark this fragile human journey
and remind us that everyone seeks redemption
       in one form or another
everyone needs redemption in one way or another

 

and so theyre building pillars along the road
obelisks of stone and brick and concrete
announcing whatever they announce to the world
and who knows perhaps long after this earth
       has gone silent and dry
and the rich houses by the bay have dissolved
       into dust and wind
lonely visitors will arrive from the outer galaxies
collect these forlorn pillars as treasures from the dirt
and take them back to fill museums in the void

Editorial Reviews

P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">Reviews: P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">?xml:namespace prefix = "o" ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">Shadowy Ancestors and Dead Children— a review of redirection P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>The poetry offered by Brian T. W. Way in redirection: the prime sonnets and other poems showcases a writer who cares as much about form as language. He is a poet who revels in the various modes of expression available in everything from sonnets to haiku. The natural and architectural milieu of the GTA is catalogued in pithy detail, with a tone that brings biting sarcasm and forlorn nostalgia in equal measure. It reads as field notes from a man consciously immersed in the increasing decay of his world. He sees the cracks but he’s hopeful about our ability to rebuild, drawing loving descriptions of how nature is worn away by urban sensibilities. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>Offsetting these universal themes are more intimate portraits of his youth, life and loss. Way evokes dusty memories of his family as they once were. He is speculative about shadowy ancestors, dead children, and his own mortality. Yet, Way is also unapologetic about vanity or jealousy, laying bare his blunt reactions to all that life has thrown his way. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>Amidst this dark matter, however, are moments of playfulness – in structure, language and rhetoric. The singsong rhymes of “to see the queen” or the petulant self-depreciation of “asshole poem” come to mind. “prehistoric literary note (with apologies to wcw)” takes a routine domestic communication to an amusing conclusion. In some ways, the lighter pieces carry a heavier weight for the reader, elevating mundane rituals and routines to fleeting moments of beauty. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>The final section of the book features a set of sonnets meditating on national themes through the lens of Canadian prime ministers. Here, the academic and the artistic in Way blend together, and readers can delve deep into what is clearly his passion project. P class=MsoNormal style="TEXT-ALIGN: right; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none" align=right>SPAN lang=EN-US>Review by Sally Panavas P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt">Strong and Free— a review of Redirection P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>In Brian T.W. Way's redirection, you will find a collection of poems accessible to every reader. Way’s comfort and fluidity in many poetic styles, tones, and voices makes for a volume with variety enough to satisfy even the hungriest of poetic appetites. His poems are easily readable, honest, sometimes cutting, with resonant themes on the subject of human experience and existence. Through his skillful use of conversational language, you can almost hear Way narrating through the stanzas, as if reading to you from beyond the page. Here is a man of many voices, diverse stories, and eclectic styles, replete with allusions to "the Greats" - William Carlos Williams, e e cummings, Renoir, and Al Purdy. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US>redirectionSPAN lang=EN-US> is a raw and uncensored journey through memory, national and family histories, and confrontation with loss, among many things. Often with tongue planted firmly in cheek, Way's writing embraces all forms of experience, never quelling the potential discomfort of his readers with platitudes. The placement of the words on the page often come across as important as the words themselves and Way conjures evocative imagery in both rhyme and free verse, specked with the occasional haiku and shape poem. Of course, the piece de resistance is a form of poetry innovated by Way himself -- a Canadian form of the sonnet, which heretofore had not existed next to its Italian and English counterparts. With his self-effacing sense of humour shining through, Way structures the prime sonnets (dedicated to his dog, Melville) in three parts -- the first a presentation of an issue or scene, the second offering "an opposing or differing point of view" and the third, sitting on the fence, creating what Way describes as "what might be our true sonnet strong and free." P class=MsoNormal style="TEXT-ALIGN: right; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none" align=right>SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">Review by Hannah Renglich P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; COLOR: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; COLOR: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">Review SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt">of Redirection: SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black"> P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">Way’s book of poetry seems aptly titled redirection, shifting as it does from spirited memories to poignant odes. His use of language – playful and exquisite in equal measure – is redolent with allusion and references to popular culture. Evocative content plays opposite syntactical panache, and asks readers to delve deep into their own psyches to interpret vibrant images. Most of the poems in the first half are written in a lyrical or conversational style, and the sonnets in the second are framed by epigraphs from Canadian prime ministers. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">Reminiscent of e. e. cummings, the writing does not follow typical capitalization or punctuation rules, but smoothly guides the reader’s eyes across the text’s eclectic forms. There is a strong forward-moving rhythm in poems like “massacre at the metro: a ragtime tune”, and the shape of the text in “universal concrete poem” – a concrete block – immediately highlights the crudeness of its content. While the subject matter of “westview chapel on wonderland road” and “day fine but sky cloudy” is distinctly sombre in tone, poems like “prehistoric literary note” or “descent of species” showcase the author’s wry wit and sense of humour. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">With vivid descriptions of local landscapes or musings on the ephemerality of experience, these poems share with readers thoughtful memories of Ontario. Their breadth and variety speak to the author’s diverse interests over a lifetime, yet also communicate a palpable sense of home. P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">  P class=MsoNormal style="TEXT-ALIGN: right; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none" align=right>SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">Review by O. Gutauskas P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; COLOR: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; COLOR: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; COLOR: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">Soul JourneySPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt">— a review of SPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-no-proof: yes">ofSPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt"> RedirectionSPAN lang=EN-US style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; COLOR: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"> P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">  P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 114%; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">Through writings on our nationally and personally shared experiences, Way crafts a new and unique genre of sonnet truly Canadian in form and subject matter. Redirection remolds and reconsiders life’s shared small moments and our national history, in unexpected instants of laughter, grand epiphanies of the divine in everyday life, and the palatable mourning for loved ones lost. Way ferries us through his exploration of the structure of the Canadian sonnet utilizing a variety of crafts for his prose including lyric, free verse, haiku, and line break structure, all embodying and playfully restructuring the formation of his new style. A memorable collection that is inhabited by former and current prime ministers, war heroes, and biologists plagued with doubt, alongside reflections on adolescence, humorous laments for former exotic pet owners, and stirring accounts of lovers and family members of days past. An emotional and intellectual journey for the Canadian literary soul. P class=MsoNormal style="TEXT-ALIGN: right; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; LINE-HEIGHT: 114%; mso-pagination: none" align=right>SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">Review by Alexandre den Broeder P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-pagination: none">SPAN lang=EN-US style="COLOR: black">