To illustrate my point, here is part of her gracefully depressing poem "Impasse:"
As Illness makes us live hour by hour,
revising our day as we go.
As winter plants a great snowy
foot in our path
As glass baffles the fly.
How rosy can you be
without money?
As war when it comes. If it comes.
A boarding pass for a defunct airline
found in the lining of an empty purse.
....
Suddenly the line goes dead.
We are without a map.
In truth, My Shoes -- also the title of a longish verse inside -- is a difficult book for me to review because I know the author, or rather the author's family. So I must tread carefully, but still be brutally honest, so you, precious reader, will continue to trust my book reviews as gospel. The other reason My Shoes is difficult to review is simply that it is poetry, a sophisticated art type I have never completely embraced, except for awhile in primary school -- Rudyard Kipling -- and during a few courses in university, when some Canadian and 16th century poems were forced on me as a kind of test of my maturity.
Reading and grasping most good poetry requires lingering patience, quiet meditation and a sort of eerie emotional connectedness with the carefully chosen words. These are all feelings and activities from which I normally shrink. And, except for many of the famous and outstanding renaissance poets -- the most brilliant and profound thinkers probably in all eternity -- I am usually unsure which poet is faking talent and who really has it.
Having said all that, am I even qualified to evaluate Robyn Sarah's work, which, over the years, has won all kinds of Canadian literary honours, most recently the Governor General's Award in 2015? The answer of course is a resounding yes, but only because all art is ultimately subjective. In fact, I can say with reluctant confidence My Shoes -- though deeply sombre and melancholic -- is a powerfully inspiring collection. It's an intimate peak into Sarah's memories, which are obviously and completely sane, and therefore unsettling. You can't help but ask yourself, with some trepidation, are her ideas prophetic? Do they represent the sad, dismal future of my emotions and thoughts? I am forced to answer, again with some fear, absolutely maybe.
Yet her poems also somehow ignite a low-key but exciting idea, the notion that with time perhaps comes starker clarity and a more profound but spiritual longing.
The poems concentrate, nostalgically, on Sarah's personal and, at times, emotionally tragic history, her "mistaken happiness," "her numb, wasted days," "her hazardous past." This is part of "Fall Arrives:"
Comes a day when we accept
the imperfection of our lives
and begin to hope
for a perfect death.
Goodbye my illusions
Anger of my hunger.
....
Sarah was born in 1949 in New York City, but she grew up a full-blooded Canadian, in Montreal. She attended McGill University. Starting to write the moment she could pick up a pencil, Sarah has amassed a small mountain of published work, including several volumes of poetry, short stories and one book of essays about poetry. For awhile she was the editor of Porcupine's Quill. She at one time taught English literature at Quebec's Champlain Regional College.
Among her widely recognized distinctions since 1990 are a CBC Literary Award, a National Magazine Award and, last year, the Governor General's Award for English-language Poetry. What do these honours say about Sarah's academic approach to writing? At first glance, they would seem to imply that her work belongs in the modern Canadian literary categories of avant-garde and progressive. I assume this not because I am particularly appreciative or knowledgeable of the genre, but because I notice she shares the stage and some leftist/feminist awards with several, more famous, uber-liberal Canadian women writers, including "national treasure" Margaret Atwood, whose work I stopped reading about 40 years ago.
But association-by-shared-awards is not always a fair assessment. And in Sarah's case, with respect to My Shoes anyway, there isn't really anything distinctly socialist or even overtly political to pin on her. She does, however, occasionally mention Israel and that country's desperate wars, but in a way, thankfully, that does not denounce the successful, besieged state.
And then there is this cryptic little gem -- that totally reads like a bit of healthy conservative, if unexciting, thinking -- called, "it is not in great acts:" (The table of contents uses no capitals for this poem's title, unlike every other poem's title.)
people don't want a destiny
they want a little house, means
enough to feed their children
a doctor when they need one
new shoes, little pleasures
people don't want a mission
they want a little leisure
....
it is not in great acts
it is not in great voyages
what we long for is with us, passing too quickly
....
Do yourself a favour and buy this tiny green book. It won't take but a few hours to read twice and absorb the penetrating conceptualizations. You may shed a few tears, but your heart and inner child will thank you.
As with most books on Lynne Like's, you can get this on Amazon.ca.
BH
ReplyDeleteHello Lynne
You write with just the right balance of humour and seriousness. Really enjoyed reading your book review.
All the best
Shachar
Shachar, from Chabad of Venice. That is Venice in Italy, folks!! Thank you Shachar so much for your kind words. You know, interestingly, I have had more responses through email to this poetry review than almost any other book review. The nice ones I am asking to put on the website. Be well Shachar!! We hope to visit you again soon.
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