Download Field Marks: The Poetry of Don McKay (Laurier Poetry) by Don McKay, Méira Cook PDF

By Don McKay, Méira Cook

This quantity positive factors thirty-five of Don McKay’s top poems, that are chosen with a contextualizing advent through Méira cook dinner that probes desolate tract and illustration in McKay, and the canny, quirky, considerate, and infrequently comedian self-consciousness the poems adumbrate. integrated is McKay’s afterword written in particular for this quantity during which McKay displays on his personal writing process―its dating to the earth and to metamorphosis.

Don McKay has released 8 books of poetry. He received the Governor General’s Award in 1991 (for Night Field) and in 2000 (for Another Gravity), a countrywide journal Award (1991), and the Canadian Authors organization Award for Poetry in 1984 (for Birding, Or Desire). Don McKay was once shortlisted for the 2005 Griffin Poetry Prize for Camber and used to be the Canadian winner of the 2007 Griffin Poetry Prize for Strike/Slip. Born in Owen Sound, Ontario, McKay has been energetic as an editor, artistic writing instructor, and collage teacher, in addition to a poet. He has taught on the college of Western Ontario, the college of recent Brunswick, The Banff Centre, The Sage Hill Writing adventure, and the BC pageant of the humanities. He has served as editor and writer of Brick Books when you consider that 1975 and from 1991 to 1996 as editor of The Fiddlehead. He is living in British Columbia.

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Additional resources for Field Marks: The Poetry of Don McKay (Laurier Poetry)

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Where did they go? Are they hiding under the snow, clasped, plotting in their sleep like rhizomes? Before the discovery of America, her father says, bows were made of ironwood. Now we use pernambuco, from Brazil, a wood so dense it tenses at the slightest flex and sinks in water. Outside the window, snow swoons abundantly into its soft self, as though a great composer had stopped The Poetry of Don McKay / 29 dead in his tracks, spilling an infinity of crotchets quavers phrases into the earth’s lap.

When I pick strawberries I can feel those paths growing over. I feel like I was taking off gumboots all over my body. Feeling the tickle of the grass blades in my wrist. Feeling the sun’s angle in my shoulders. The cloud shadows moving over the ground. This time I felt another shadow and there was this hawk. He swerved suddenly above the bush, maybe he saw something, and the sun flashed on his underside. I will tell you what it was like. It was like a wild strawberry crushed against the roof of your mouth, a blood-bit.

I’d like to toss it in the garbage can but can’t let go so easily. I’d bury it but ground is steel and hard to find. Cremation? Much too big a deal, too rich and bardic too much like an ode. Why not simply splurge and get it stuffed, perch it proudly on the shelf with Keats and Shelley and The Birds of Canada? But when at last I bury it beneath three feet of snow there is nothing to be said. It’s very cold. The air has turned its edge against us. My bones are an antenna picking up arthritis, wordless keening of the dead.

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