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orient
orient
orient
Ebook83 pages24 minutes

orient

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orient is the third collection from one of Western Canada's most accomplished poets. Composed mainly of three long poems—an extended meditation on the connection between man and fish, the lament of a big-souled cowboy poet looking up from rock bottom, and a historical envisioning of an intimate relationship between a pioneer and a powerful crone—orient leaps, sings, burrows down, and orients the reader within its rich ecosystem. The appeal of these poems lies partly in their blend of humility (the open-minded approach), in their force (the taut style, the original vision) and in an astonishing boldness. Wigmore is a "poet of place"; in the best sense: "about the big picture."
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBrick Books
Release dateFeb 6, 2015
ISBN9781771314060
orient
Author

Gillian Wigmore

Gillian Wigmore is the author of three books of poetry, (most recently Orient, Brick Books, 2014) a novella, (Grayling, Mother Tongue Publishing, 2014), a novel (Glory, Invisible Publishing, 2017), and Night Watch: The Vet Suite (Invisible Publishing, 2021), a trio of novellas. A health communications officer, she lives and works on the traditional territory of the Lheidli T'enneh in Prince George, BC.

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    Book preview

    orient - Gillian Wigmore

    SELF

    1

    the fact of a fish, a trout, a weighted thought,

    firm, thick bend of flesh, flex of meat, heavy, unblinking, slick

    fish of dreams, Plato’s fish, lived for years in the black lake,

    years, from fry to broken flesh.

    this is no revelation, this smacked body-flinch,

    and this is no poem of sorrow, not a flick of regret,

    instead the flash of water flung skyward

    from the self-preserving tail.

    this perfect morsel, this unblemished self, this scathed or unscathed one

    scaled green, gold, blue, black, pink, orange, grey, white, embolism of existence

    cracked once, twice above the gills, centred thump on the hill above the eyes

    like so – cease the ode, it’s supper time.

    beyond the silk gut, the gorgeous spleen, those

    sated crows hanging around on the beach; beyond the memory

    of weight in my arms, first as I pulled it forth and then as I held it close,

    evening glare off the fading shine, dried slime, the fillet knife

    catching the flash of light: after-image of the rod held high.

    2

    oh not just the fish, the fish, the fish –

    also the poem of the fish,

    the great spread of paper behind it, smoothed

    so the crumples and crimps are just memories of folds gone wrong,

    and the feeling about the fish is greater than the actual catch.

    it’s the dearness of it.

    so busy loving the line from tail to dorsal fin.

    the line enraptures me,

    oh me. and where is the day in all this?

    the rain gear, the drips off the ends of our noses.

    we didn’t kiss for fear of those drips but wanted to –

    all exaltation for being out in it, the ice just off,

    the boat seats so cold our bums were numb.

    excuse me,

    the light was an absence of light, the cold was greater than we let

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