Whistle for Jellyfish
by Field Stone Poets
Book Details
| Title | Whistle for Jellyfish |
| Authors: | Field Stone Poets Click image to see back cover Standing from left to right: brock currie, Glenn Kletke. Seated from left to right: Margaret Malloch Zielinski, Sylvia Adams, Barbara Myers, Gill Foss. |
| Editor: | Sylvia Adams |
| Cover art: | Back cover photograph: Lech Zielinski and Ron Binette |
| Publisher: | BookLand Press |
| Date: | 2011 |
| Pages: | 120 pp. |
| Format: | Paperback |
| ISBN: | 978-1-92695601-5 |
Foreward
These poems are patient and wise. They invite, rather than alert, accost, or besiege. Their words, chosen for their quiet particularity, communicate rather than display. From the shared concerns emerges a shared sensibility, a voice that is accessible and gentle yet immediate. Here is a book that is a conversation, not one that we overhear, but one that includes us.
From the Foreword by Stephanie Bolster, Winner of the Governor General's Award
Availability
Most bookstores in the Ottawa area, and from the publisher.
Publisher
BookLand Press
6021 Yonge Street, Suite 1010
Toronto, Ontario M2M 3W2
Tel: (416) 607-6176
www.booklandpress.com
Excerpt
GOING NOWHERE, by Sylvia Adams
On mornings when the mist on the river is old and vulnerable
when the bridge is anchored in forgetfulness
and headlights no more threatening than rainswept fireflies
and the radio’s clarinet concerto – its smoothly silver spirals –
has lost its lustre
there’s no forgiveness in a cup of coffee
no linen waiting warm with last year’s sunlight
only cold metal, a straight-backed chair
a door with a rusted key
and what you remember and what you weep for
are the moments of childhood
yours, anybody’s, the cool hand on a fevered brow
the soft voice, are you all right? –
though you’re not, and never can be.
These are the moments when we tell our little stories,
how the children moved out and left their imaginary friends;
one gives you a teddy bear, one a stuffed cow for your pillow.
You’re never lonely, just sad that your pen dries up.
And suddenly our stories are telling us
in the kindest whispers
embracing us as a poet might a long lost metaphor
or a classmate who died young.
They rise like smoke and hover
going nowhere, like the bridge
refusing to name the season.
Time’s run out, left us grieving for all those moments we thought
God gave us to do up buttons, wait for the timer’s
ding, the egg soft but not runny.
Tomorrow is one day closer to summer – call off
Spring’s suicide watch, let it go, bury it in an unmarked grave –
sweep the scourge of dead leaves from the back porch,
bring flats of impatiens from the market,
take down the empty raisin jar from your grandmother’s pantry shelf
let it fill up with sunlight
or wake, having dreamed it’s done and done as always –
nothing to do but wait for the next crop of angels
pick out the one most likely to learn your language
kiss her cheeks, garland her hair with forget-me-nots,
ask if her wings can heal you
(from Whistle for Jellyfish)