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Poetry Canadian


by (author) Brenda Sciberras

Turnstone Press
Initial publish date
Apr 2018
Canadian, Women Authors
  • Paperback / softback

    Publish Date
    Apr 2018
    List Price

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A star shines bright, fades and even dies. When it is gone we have the memory of the warmth and light it bathed us in. Williams, Cash, Cohen, Bowie, Marx, Kong and more weave their way throughout Brenda Sciberras' new collection of poems, Starland. Within its pages is a deep fascination with popular culture, how it moves us, frees us and is often a trap. With the lure of gilded theatres and velvet seats we are drawn like flies to honey. Similarly, the stars we worship are drawn to the light and cannot escape, victims of their own success and for that we love them. Exultant and reflective, Starland breaks the light of our obsession.

About the author

Brenda Sciberras is a Winnipeg writer whose poetry has appeared in several Canadian literary magazines as well the anthology A Cross Sections: New Manitoba Writing. Her work is also forthcoming in the anthology; I found it at the movies, Guernica Editions, fall 2014. She holds a BA from the University of Manitoba and divides her time between working fulltime in a library, singing in the Spirit’s Call Choir, writing and her family. Magpie Days is her first book.

Brenda Sciberras' profile page

Excerpt: Starland (by (author) Brenda Sciberras)

Saturday Matinee

We walk down Main up to Logan
my hand in his colossal palm.
My Father, comforts
me with just his smile.
Big brother walks on ahead
denying any need. He's eleven.
We enter the Starland vestibule
My Father pulls change from his pocket,
a buck and a half for the three tickets, two
bits each for my brother and I. A bargain
for this Saturday matinee, a double feature.
King Kong and the Son of Kong.
The theatre's large paint peeled doors creak
open to a sculpted ceiling, faded and frayed
carpet. Maroon threadbare seats give off
a musty odour, a strange sour smell.
The popcorn has an old taste and the Nibs aren't soft.
We sit backs against the wall, my Father
in the middle, not so we don't fight, he says,
but so he can guard us with his watchful eyes.
I'm not sure who he is watching or why
but I sense that he should.
Lights dim. The curtain rises.
The overture begins.

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