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Michael
CRUMMEY |
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https://www.writerstrust.com/authors/michael-crummey/ https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/authors/6123/ https://www.lecrachoirdeflaubert.ulaval.ca/?s=crummey
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Breen’s Island lies in the mouth of Indian Tickle, two rocks hinged by a narrow strand of beach, fused vertebrae in a long spine of water running between two larger islands. He hasn’t laid eyes on the place in fifty years and hoped to this afternoon, but there’s a heavy sea on as they labour through Domino Run and the Skipper won’t chance the passage. Rain, and grey waves breaking on the headlands, water worrying stone. He and his son stare down through the Tickle with binoculars as the ship staggers by the northern entrance, Breen’s Island out of sight behind a crook of land. As they trace the arm of the Tickle in open water, he names the pairs of islands to port: the Gannets, the Ferrets, the Wolves. The seascape like a book of rhymes from childhood he is unforgetting in fragments. He points out the stretch of bog where they picked bakeapples in August, the deep water shoals best for jigging cod at season’s end. And Breen’s Island just over the cliff to starboard, as good as fifty years away. When the ship clears the arm they turn to watch the Tickle recede, passing the binoculars back and forth between them. Half a dozen tiny islands in the mouth, one revealed behind the other like a series of Chinese boxes each hidden inside the last. Do you see it, his son asks, and he grins uncomfortably, as if he wants to say yes for his son’s sake but can’t. They aren’t close enough to make it out for sure. He knows they never will be. The ship heaves south on the dark swell toward Red Point, Indian Tickle slowly blurring out of focus. The steady drift of rain like a cataract clouding his eyes.*
From Hard Light, 2015, Brick Books
I, Ellen Rose of Western Bay in the Dominion of Newfoundland. Married woman, mother, stranger to my grandchildren. In consideration of natural love and affection, hereby give and make over unto my daughter Minnie Jane Crummey of Western Bay, a meadow garden situated at Riverhead, bounded to the north and east by Loveys Estate, to the south by John Lynch’s land, to the west by the local road leading countrywards. Bounded above by the sky, by the blue song of angels and God’s stars. Below by the bones of those who made me. I leave nothing else. Every word I have spoken the wind has taken, as it will take me. As it will take my grandchildren’s children, their heads full of fragments and my face not among those. The day will come when we are not remembered, I have wasted no part of my life in trying to make it otherwise. In witness thereof I have set my hand and seal this thirteenth day of December, One thousand Nine hundred and Thirty Three.
Her Ellen X Rose Mark
From Hard Light, 2015, Brick Books
I was twenty years younger than my husband, his first wife dead in childbirth. I agreed to marry him because he was a good fisherman, because he had his own house and he was willing to take in my mother and father when the time came. It was a practical decision and he wasn’t expecting more than that. Two people should never say the word love before they’ve eaten a sack of flour together, he told me. The night we married I hiked my nightdress around my thighs and shut my eyes so tight I saw stars. Afterwards I went outside and I was sick, throwing up over the fence. He came out the door behind me and put his hand to the small of my back. It happens your first time, he said. It’ll get better. I got pregnant right away and then he left for the Labrador. I dug the garden, watched my belly swell like a seed in water. Baked bread, bottled bakeapples for the winter store, cut the meadow grass for hay. After a month alone I even started to miss him a little. The baby came early, a few weeks after my husband arrived home in September. We had the minister up to the house for the baptism the next day, Angus Maclean we named him, and we buried him in the graveyard in the Burnt Woods a week later. I remember he started crying at the table the morning of the funeral and I held his face against my belly until he stopped, his head in my hands about the size of the child before it was born. I don’t know why sharing a grief will make you love someone. I was pregnant again by November. I baked a loaf of bread and brought it to the table, still steaming from the oven. Set it on his plate whole and stood there looking at him. That’s the last of that bag of flour, I told him. And he smiled at me and didn’t say anything for a minute. I’ll pick up another today, he said finally. And that’s how we left it for a while.
From Hard Light, 2015, Brick Books |
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These texts are published with the kind authorization of the author. |
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LornaCROZIER |
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| An Officer of the Order of Canada, Lorna Crozier has been acknowledged for her contributions to Canadian literature, her teaching and her mentoring with five honourary doctorates, most recently from McGill and Simon Fraser Universities. Her books have received numerous national awards, including the Governor-General’s Award for Poetry. The Globe and Mail declared The Book of Marvels: A Compendium of Everyday Things one of its Top 100 Books of the Year, and Amazon chose her memoir as one of the 100 books you should read in your lifetime. A Professor Emerita at the University of Victoria, she has performed for Queen Elizabeth II and has read her poetry, which has been translated into several languages, on every continent except Antarctica. Her book, What the Soul Doesn't Want, was nominated for the 2017 Governor General's Award for Poetry. In 2018, Lorna Crozier received the George Woodcock Lifetime Achievement Award. Steven Price called Through the Garden: A Love Story (with Cats), her latest nonfiction book, “one of the great love stories of our time.” Lorna Crozier lives on Vancouver Island. https://canpoetry.library.utoronto.ca/crozier/poem6.htm
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The landscape painter at the artist colony in the country noted for its messianic light, its sparse, hard-to-capture beauty, complains she’s come all this way to paint al fresco, but the mosquitoes have driven her inside, no matter the netting on her hat, her cuffed sleeves and pants, a heavy dose of Deet. They bite through everything. And she tries to snap a picture, a breathy handkerchief of mosquitoes flutters over the lens. What can I do? She moans, trapped in a dull and narrow room, thinking of booking a ticket back to her studio in Vancouver. Paint the mosquitoes, god replies.
From God of Shadows, 2018, |
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The onion loves the onion. It hugs its many layers, saying, O, O, O, each vowel mediumer than the last. Some say it has no heart. It doesn't need one. It surrounds itself, feels whole. Primordial. First among vegetables. If Eve had bitten it instead of the apple, how different Paradise.
From Sex Lives of Vegetables.
You want there to be a separate god for owls, for the barred, the burrowing, the saw whet, the spotted, the great-horned, the barn owl whose gaze draws your gaze to his wide face and you see yourself, pale, uncanny. You want this god to keep the owls from harm so the night will be lavishly feathered. Their wings in flight will row through the waters of your sleep and you’ll sense the dip and rise of them, the sky riddled with eyes. You want this god to instruct them not to scoop a cat into the sky, or a family’s only chicken. You want the slow unrolling of the owls’ vowels to slip into your speaking. So much, so little they have to say. You want the owls’ silence to be this god’s silence, one that doesn’t mean there’s no one there, but a refined and honed attention, a keen listening high above you, and a steady looking down.
From God of Shadows, 2018, |
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These texts are published with the kind authorization of the author. |
