Skip to content

Small Mechanics Poems

Best in textbook rentals since 2012!

ISBN-10: 0771023294

ISBN-13: 9780771023293

Edition: 2011

Authors: Lorna Crozier

List price: $18.95
Blue ribbon 30 day, 100% satisfaction guarantee!
what's this?
Rush Rewards U
Members Receive:
Carrot Coin icon
XP icon
You have reached 400 XP and carrot coins. That is the daily max!

Description:

A radiant collection of new poems from one of Canada's most renowned and well-read poets. The poems in Lorna Crozier's rich and wide-ranging new collection, a modern bestiary and a book of mourning, are both shadowed and illuminated by the passing of time, the small mechanics of the body as it ages, the fine-tuning of what a life becomes when parents and old friends are gone. Brilliantly poised between the mythic and the everyday, the anecdotal and the delicately lyrical, these poems contain the wit, irreverence, and startling imagery for which Crozier is justly celebrated. You'll find Bach and Dostoevsky, a poem that thinks it is a dog, a religion founded by cats, and wood rats that dance…    
Customers also bought

Book details

List price: $18.95
Copyright year: 2011
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Publication date: 3/29/2011
Binding: Paperback
Pages: 112
Size: 5.48" wide x 8.22" long x 0.31" tall
Weight: 0.308
Language: English

Lorna Crozier was born in Swift Current, Saskatchewan, Canada on May 24, 1948. She received a BA from the University of Saskatchewan in 1969 and a MA from the University of Alberta in 1980. She taught high school English and worked as a guidance counselor for numerous years. Her first collection of poetry, Inside in the Sky, was published in 1976. Her other collections of poetry include The Garden Going on Without Us, Angels of Flesh, Angels of Silence, Everything Arrives at the Light, Apocrypha of Light, What the Living Won't Let Go, and Whetstone. In 1992, she won the Governor General's Award, the Canadian Authors Association Award, and the Pat Lowther Poetry Award for Inventing the Hawk.…    

Last Breath
Not a living soul about, except for me and the magpie. I know if I don't keep moving, he'll pluck the breath from my body, taste it on his tongue before it slides down his throat, giving him new prophecies to speak. He's the bird Noah didn't send out, afraid he'd carry the ark's complaints to heaven. Tonight he scallops from the copse of willows to the power pole, stares down at me. I match him cry for cry, not knowing what I mean but feeling good about it, the bird part of my brain lit up. Coyotes, too, start their music as if the magpie's flown in to be the guest conductor for the length of time it takes the sun to sink. He flips his tail, bringing up the oboes then the high notes of the flutes. Other souls, those I sense but cannot see, wait among the stones along the riverbank until they're sure the magpie is distracted, then scentless and inedible to anyone but him, they make their wingless foray across the ice and running water, mouthfuls of silence that, if not for coyotes, the magpie would hear. DON'T SAY IT You admire the wild grasses for their reticence. When you cut across the dusk for home, the meadow is more beautiful for all it keeps inside. Syllables of seeds catch in your socks but they don't need to say, Thank you, friend, even if you've carried them for miles.
The First Day Of The Year
The new writer sucks her fingers in her crib. There is nothing to distinguish her - like the extra toe on Hemingway's literary cats - from all the other babies down the block. She is dreaming ink though she hasn't seen it in this world yet and no one knows, least of all her parents, she loves nothing better than the blank flat whiteness of the bottom sheet when she's laid damp from her morning bath upon it.