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This Brighter Prison: A Book of Journeys
This Brighter Prison: A Book of Journeys
This Brighter Prison: A Book of Journeys
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This Brighter Prison: A Book of Journeys

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In her first book of poetry since The Small Words in My Body, which won the Pat Lowther Prize for 1990, Karen Connelly writes, in the tradition of the writer-adventurer, of vivid encounters and reflections abroad and at home, continuing her pursuit of "living knowledge of the world." These poems enact journeys of the body and heart with candour and sensuous grace, catching the very texture of human experience in the lithe, muscular lines which have a cat-like metaphorical reach.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBrick Books
Release dateOct 15, 1993
ISBN9781771312646
This Brighter Prison: A Book of Journeys
Author

Karen Connelly

Karen Connelly, a native of Calgary, has lived in Thailand, Spain, France and Greece. Her travels are an integral part of her writing. Touch the Dragon, a travel book deriving from her experience in Thailand, won the 1993 Governor General's Award for Non-fiction.

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    Book preview

    This Brighter Prison - Karen Connelly

    This Brighter Prison

    A Book of Journeys

    This Brighter Prison

    A Book of Journeys

    Karen Connelly

    Brick Books

    CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

    Connelly, Karen, 1969 –

         This brighter prison: a book of journeys

    Poems.

    ISBN 978-1-771312-64-6

    1. Title.

    PS8555.055T5

    1993     c811'.54     C93-093755-4

    PR9199.3.C65T5 1993

    Copyright © Karen Connelly, 1993.

    Fifth printing, June 2000.

    The support of the Canada Council and the Ontario Arts Council is gratefully acknowledged. The support of the Government of Ontario through the Ministry of Culture and Communications is also gratefully acknowledged.

    Cover painting by Joane Cardinal-Schubert, ‘The Banff Series-Moonlight Sonata: Vision Quest’, acrylic on canvas, 1989. Photographed by John Dean.

    Brick Books

    Box 20081

    431 Boler Road

    London, Ontario

    N6K 4G6

    Canada

    www.brickbooks.ca

    Acknowledgements

    I gratefully acknowledge the former Alberta Foundation for Literary Arts and Alberta Culture, whose financial assistance enabled me to complete this collection.

    I would like to thank the faculty and participants from the 1991 Banff May Studios, especially the late Adele Wiseman, who gave us so much grace. Thanks is also due, as always, to Nancy Holmes, and to Dennis Lee and Don McKay, my editor.

    Some of these poems have appeared in their current or slightly altered forms in the following periodicals and anthologies:

    Books In Canada, Dandelion, Descant, Grain, Guerra Azul (Spain), More Garden Varieties II, Midwest Quarterly (U.S.), New Myths (U.S.), The New Quarterly, Passages, Poetry Canada, Prism International, Secrets from the Orange Couch, Stand (England).

    ‘Amaya’ and ‘Amaya, in spring’ were aired on CBC'S Alberta Anthology.

         For my brothers and sisters,

             Ken, Mara, David, Jen

             and for Scott Gabriel.

    Contents

    Part I: Spanish Lessons

    Spanish Lessons

    The Old Man Presents Himself

    Ana Falls In Love With A Rich Man

    Amaya

    Amaya, in spring

    Would You Trade Your Life To Live There?

    Rat Laughter

    Teeth Of Garlic

    The Ugly Mermaid

    A Song For Lorca

    Isadora and the Basque Photographer

    A Painting For Rachel

    A Bowl Of Yellow Flowers Stains The Canvas

    Part II: Paris Is Not A Dream

    Paris Is Not A Dream

    Jean-Louis, eight years after the Italian girl went away

    The Jeweller In Brazil

    Journal without dates: from Paris to Honfleur to Caen

    Part III: I Kneel To Kiss The Ice

    I Kneel To Kiss The Ice

    She Returns To The Farm

    Animals I Cannot Touch

    This Domain Of Dark Wing

    Living Nowhere

    The Attic Of Paper Dragons

    This Brighter Prison

    No Green Tongue

    Love has nothing to do with closing your eyes

    An Evening Wake, Its Prayer

    Something is burning

    Words Woven From The Sadness Of Evening Trains

    My Photographs Of Madeleine

    The Word Is Absurd

    Part IV: A Grand Place, A Greeting

    A Grand Place, A Greeting

    Sleeping Near The Graveyard

    The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting…

    I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you're going no matter how you live, cannot you part.

    – Annie Dillard

    Spanish Lessons

    For Anayensi Lopez Herraiz

    Spanish Lessons

    Spain takes you in like a masked lover,

         ties you up with a red scarf,

         throws you the ocean's score

         and commands you to sing.

    You are fooled by the grace of a man's hand

         gliding over a woman's bronze neck.

    You are fooled by black eyelashes, amber eyes,

         mouths that smell of chocolate and wine.

    Spain teaches that the body is its own absolute.

    The body is greedy and simple, honest, a hungry child.

    The Mediterranean insists that the mind

         is a snake in the sand,

         turning its sharp tongue in venom.

    In El Greco's city of narrow streets, the sabres

         pierce your eyes to sunsets

         that awe even the gods.

    Through a butterfly dance of bats, the violet sky

              sweeps down to kiss the velvet desert,

              reaches down to kiss your face,

              and stars drop ivory petals of light in your eyes.

    The Old Man Presents Himself

    Suddenly it is cold.

    Green strokes of summer, a dream.

    Burnt gold of fall, a good lie.

    The sea beats its heart on the shore

         as fishermen beat tough octopi.

    Water writhes into my life.

    I must lie still, still, without slipping down.

    Morning, but too cold to rise.

    Tea from the tin–could it scald me to life?

    The kitchen is a great distance from my bed.

    The ceiling drips fine mud over my head.

    Black pools poise to swallow my naked feet.

    Now the Old Man presents himself at the roof

         and begins to eat.

    I hear his mouth tear the tiles.

    I hear his teeth break on the bricks.

    He is crag-boned and blind.

    His bitter sleep is

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