Don't Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something
Autor Paul Vermeerschen Limba Engleză Paperback – 13 oct 2014
Don’t Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something — Paul Vermeersch’s fifth collection of poetry — is, as its title suggests, a lyrical meditation on written language and the end of civilization. It combines centos, glosas, erasures, text collage, and other forms to imagine a post-apocalyptic literature built, or rebuilt, from the rubble of the texts that came before.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781770412224
ISBN-10: 1770412220
Pagini: 120
Dimensiuni: 137 x 213 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.18 kg
Editura: ECW Press
Locul publicării:Canada
ISBN-10: 1770412220
Pagini: 120
Dimensiuni: 137 x 213 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.18 kg
Editura: ECW Press
Locul publicării:Canada
Recenzii
"Demonstrating remarkable virtuosity and range, Vermeersch here assumes the contradictory mantle of the prophetic, post-apocalyptic poet, and the poems suitably offer a paradoxical mix of cynicism and hope." — Quill & Quire
Notă biografică
Paul Vermeersch is a poet, editor, and teacher. His work has been a finalist for the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award, the K.M. Hunter Artist Award, and the Trillium Book Award. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Guelph for which he received the Governor General’s Gold Medal. He lives in Toronto, Ontario, where he is senior editor of Wolsak & Wynn Publishers Ltd.
Extras
GEOMETRIC MECHANOTHERAPY CELL FOR HARMONIC
ALIGNMENT OF MOVEMENT AND RELATIONS
Dragged through the neighbourhood,
it’s meant to act as a communal
paroxetine. Dead eyes follow it
the way dead eyes follow
sheet music. It’s meant to equalize.
But it fails. Fists and backs
clench and get up. Honeyspats
clog the works. Another pipequake
signals something stuck, something
contractual lodged in the chute.
The cell jutters as the pressure
builds in the black plastic
digestion apparatus. It fails,
but how else to choke back the lungshadow
when the machine can’t heal you?
Beethoven! Beethoven! Elk . . . Ethiopian . . .
Nothing matters. Or seems to.
The backlog of disappearing objects
lurches in the cylinder and goes
nowhere, but it’s the thought that counts.
ALIGNMENT OF MOVEMENT AND RELATIONS
Dragged through the neighbourhood,
it’s meant to act as a communal
paroxetine. Dead eyes follow it
the way dead eyes follow
sheet music. It’s meant to equalize.
But it fails. Fists and backs
clench and get up. Honeyspats
clog the works. Another pipequake
signals something stuck, something
contractual lodged in the chute.
The cell jutters as the pressure
builds in the black plastic
digestion apparatus. It fails,
but how else to choke back the lungshadow
when the machine can’t heal you?
Beethoven! Beethoven! Elk . . . Ethiopian . . .
Nothing matters. Or seems to.
The backlog of disappearing objects
lurches in the cylinder and goes
nowhere, but it’s the thought that counts.