Showing posts from August, 2015

Nyla Matuk: A Poem

Nyla Matuk GLORIETTE First of the year, we’re snowbound, in debt to the city’s surpluses. Humble strips of flashing discern corners between Prada and Burberry espied by lorgnette, stretched by silver mirror, or Mary’s soul magnifying our Lord. Elegance is a glam accompanist, a buttery scroll, the distanced pace before a gauntlet’s dropped,  and a dish best served cold. (from Sumptuary Laws [Signal, 2012]. Reproduced by permission) Nyla Matuk's poems have appeared recently in PN Review, The Fiddlehead, and New Poetries VI. Photo of mannequin head by Scarlet James, courtesy of Red Edge Images

Cassidy McFadzean in Conversation

Where would poetry be without talk about poets?  I first heard about Cassidy McFadzean in Arc ("the up-and-comers issue," #73), in a memorable introduction to her work by Medrie Purdham. You might remember Medrie from our conversation and her poem in this blog. SUSAN GILLIS: What brought you to poetry in the first place—or if you prefer, what brought poetry to you? CASSIDY MCFADZEAN: I didn’t read a lot of poetry growing up. I read a bit of E. E. Cummings in highschool, and wrote bad Cummings imitations, but my main interest was short stories and novels in translation, my favourites being Notes From Underground and Crime and Punishment . In University, I didn’t take a lot of poetry outside the requirements and certainly wasn’t writing it. In retrospect, I think that something had to click in my brain before I was ready for poetry. I didn’t understand that a poem was the effect of its form, sounds, and techniques on the page—that a good poem couldn’t be pa

Cassidy McFadzean: A Poem

Cassidy McFadzean STAG HUNT MOSAIC We return to places we’ve already been. The path outside the city pulls us in. Winter kept our footprints whole, mud-covered fossils hidden under snow, so walking on old steps weighs the negatives of who we were against the imprints of what we’ve become. This year, my body is locust-thwacked. Their buzzing bodies struck my skin and landed on tilled earth, whirling insects like spinning tops animated from within.   There’s an order to such tiny things. Is our passage any less stupid or dizzy? My fortune cookie promised I’d meet a stranger on an unpaved road. I found the blue jay with a cut wing in a tree. His triangle gash shadow-painted branches. Between two hills and the rusted tractors abandoned in a straight line, we feel the weight of sky. We’re a tin can crushed by the rubber of your shoe. We’re the shell of a seed that splits in two. We stand on red and yellow leaves, the cloak of round petals pe