‘It’s in your blood.’
I let a moment of silence develop into discomfort. Staring down at the recruitment agent from atop the zamboni, I can almost see, in my reflection in her pale blue eyes, the pages of an old storybook her parents used to read to her. The round-cheeked Eskimo, face framed by parka mane, eyes crinkled into crescent moons by a delighted smile as he raises his modest catch from a hole in the sheet. My great grandparents left Nunavut around the year 2100, when the ice disappeared.
I took up the endeavour of reviewing these anthologies for my own pleasure, and for the sake of erudition. Both works were presented to me at the same time and both felt equally distanced from me at first (as often is the case when I, a relatively amateur poet, read seasoned authors). Yet, reviewing these collections prompted me to find ways of incorporating their novel sensations into the ones I have already fostered, and beckoned me to appreciate poems in ways I haven’t done before. I am thankful that they brought me out of my comfort zone – I feel like I have uncovered yet another facet of the literary realm.
AtlanticideHe came between us, but not like a secret love affair there’s nothing secret about him there’s no affair we can see him though he’s absence not his absence your absence. my absence. our absence from...
In the oeuvre of Polish science fiction author Stanislaw Lem, science itself is always under intense scrutiny. Predictably, considering their publication during the cold war, Lem’s novels reflect (to some degree) nuclear proliferation induced apocalyptic anxieties. However, Lem’s critique of the scientific enterprise focuses less on humanity’s capacity for technologically accelerated destruction and more on human faith in scientific rationality. What are the limits of human understanding? What happens when we reach them?
She had sleep for dinner. Sometimes for breakfast and lunch, too. Her older son would often wake her, screaming. Rediscovering her empty stomach, Agnes would wipe crumbs of dreams from her eyes and hold him through his fits. He was thirty-five years old, and she was approaching seventy. The younger son, who lived in the living room with his daughter, would leave early in the mornings and take his bike with him on the subway ride downtown where he zipped food from place to place. Agnes walked the older one to therapy sometimes, granddaughter in tow, even when it was blisteringly hot because she saved bus tokens that way. If he had another fit, she could splurge on transit. Sometimes she argued with the bus drivers, but they rarely got on for free.
With the holidays come and gone, a new semester underway, and a fresh lockdown, I find myself in a bit of a slump. It’s too early to dream of spring flowers, yet too late for any more gingerbread or mistletoe— January, for me, felt weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.