Waiting
Waiting for bog
to blossom
with white flame
of bog cotton
is groom not given
to see the dress
before the day
Knowing her only
one long cold season
is love meeting
weekdays only
or sensing no more than
the moon's dark side
thus the moon's
wrong meaning
Yet bog in continual winter
is most bog wearing nothing
but more and more water
her deep nature
reiterated
bog is what bog does
And
yet another launch at Collected Works of a wonderful book! This time
Hoard by Tracy Ryan, joint winner of the Whitmore Press Prize.
It's a deep, unfathomable book, and a shifty, slippery book. With who
knows what within. So like a bog, so like a hoard within a bog.
(Tracy's pronunciation of the local way of saying 'hoard' is still
resonating with me.) And how much I appreciated the quiet, stringent
perfection of the laying down of the words on the page.
Marion May Campbell's trenchant launch speech is
published here in Cordite -
- and it pretty well covers anything else I might be
moved to say about this book.
http://whitmorepress.com/new-releases/
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