Omens in the Year of the Ox
By Steven Price
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About this ebook
Steven Price
Steven Price’s previous novel, By Gaslight, was shortlisted for the CWA Historical Dagger, longlisted for the Giller Prize, and named a Book of the Year by NPR, CBC, and the Toronto Globe and Mail. He is the award-winning author of one other novel, Into that Darkness, and two collections of poetry. He lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with his family.
Read more from Steven Price
By Gaslight: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Robert De Niro at Work: From Screenplay to Screen Performance Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Griffin Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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Omens in the Year of the Ox - Steven Price
Hass
The Crossing
I
So. At the end of the middle of your life
you wake, rain-shivering, to a white railing
in a shriven dusk. A strangeness churning
under the hull, the great blades boiling through
ferruginous waters. So the ferries sail still
in this late age, vast holds half-full of souls.
And so you rise, each day, more than you were.
Exhausted, maybe, into silence. When Bridges
wrote, How is the world’s bright shift held
in such a cluttered line? Hopkins, in a rage,
had no answer. Or none beyond his poetry.
Rain in silver ropes overrunning his faith,
his metre marking long great gulps of night air.
So the waters gulp at the mournful hull,
so the rusted bolts bleed. You unfold both
fists in the charred coastal dusk, watching
a white chill krill across their skin. Bright shift,
cluttered line. If the ill of the world issues
up out of the world, then there is no course
but to praise it. As Hopkins praised it. In the straits
a slack foam froths blackly in the scum, and you
who are water stare at that water, blurred
by old hurts praise holds no part in, here
at the edge of a dark crossing that is always
evening. As if called to account for a life
lived in the provinces. But there is no
calling to account. You sway at a railing
staring west, towards desolation, that is, forgetting.
II
In Gaudí’s Palau Güell, with her. How the walls
wept into form, as you wandered hall to hall
in that black building, astonished such a shape
could hold. The built thing made bright shift of.
Gaudí had given Güell an allegory of the cross,
both sculpture and story. It was a spatial truth
he’d sought: an ascension up, up
seven stories towards the spires of heaven.
That cellar with its termitic columns,
that cellar where partisans were tortured,
that cellar of sand, dust, stone: that was Hell.
You rested under the white shards of pottery
on Gaudí’s rooftop, watching a white cat pour
past her ankles like blood-threaded milk
while a red sun drenched the staggered chimneys.
How she looked at you, suddenly perplexed.
And when you asked, What is it? she laughed,
having just forgotten what it was. Nothing,
she said, meaning everything she already had.
There is your desire, and her desire, and each
touches many things. You carried Hopkins
all through Spain, wanting to get closer
to something. His stark Jesuit suffering, perhaps.
Tracing your burned fingers along the cool
ancient stones in the narrow streets
of the Gothic Quarter, his music
in your head. We believe we are living
one life and learn too late we have been
living another, she said. If all our pasts
are possible pasts then we are no kind of gone.
On Gaudí’s tiled roof she pointed past a line
of smoky blue spires in the Barcelona haze,
and you felt your future darken before you.
Does it matter now if none of that is true?
You know that you cannot, maybe, bring her
into that city, where she was not. Still, there