By Bruce Bond
In his most up-to-date assortment, Blind Rain, Bruce Bond transforms the identified and the favourite into anything surreal and new. With spare, unadorned language, he complicates what it's to be either absolute to the area and but unfastened inside that global, the best way the mind's eye deepens our engagements and but bargains a few degree of distance on the similar time.
Bond opens with a number of elegies, a lot of which obstacle the final days and loss of life of his father. Later poems discover the ability of ingenious reaction as repayment for loss, targeting poetry, insanity, and tune, which consoles ironically, because it is a sort of loss itself. The paintings contains a lengthy meditation, "The Return," that hinges at the double feel of the notice "true" as suggesting either "the actual" and "the loyal," and so participates, frequently via own and cultural narrative, in a postmodern dialog concerning the strength of returning as a fashion of grounding us ethically and emotionally to the realm handy.
One day now in view that my father final attempted to speak,since the outer provinces of his physique shutdown like small towns while the facility goes,just the enormity of starlight to lead themon their chilly trip into sunrise. i'm writingat the sting of the opposite half existence, the partwithout my father in it; i think the strange
sure pull of the earth I stroll here,the polish of the grass, the space among meand my scholars who lookup and waitfor my first questions, understanding so littleof my existence, simply as i do know so little of theirs,only a poem at a time to carry us togetherlike teenagers ahead of a fireplace within the woods.
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Extra info for Blind Rain: Poems
Which brings us back to Ontario: the colder the country the less it smells. Welcome, the silver age of the stereo. And so he withdrew into the phone conversations that consumed the night with hardly a voice on the other line. There were those who fell asleep a bit to hear his words eroding in the black stream, vanishing into music and back. 4. As a child he had the gift of numbers, not merely the ledgers of sticks and circles, but the calculus of rain, the thunder’s mass divided by a flash of hail, the chirping of May frogs at his window raised to the power of clouds in April; in short, he knew how certain measures go to pieces, how they drug themselves and spill into a kind of music.
Who would not dip again into skies like this, into bowls of virtual fountains we drank and lost our face to. I want to say the silver at the bottom is how I felt beside a girl once, our beaded skins drying in the night air. Slowly my shadow flew back into my chest, feathering the buried wings of lungs, and I repeated her name for the pulse it made. Who was that boy after all. And when (the hand asks of every body it explores) when will seasons mend the difference between happiness and olive trees, between sharpened stars and pleasure; who will claim us the way night claims an open window, its vines unburdened, releasing their scent.
55 The Quick I have just received The Mystery of Human Life, a pamphlet from a lay believer who wants the Word to enter me, to work its will the way the hand of God, pictured below, enraptures the glove of a soul, a body, the things we say, so that our outward selves might be His, heaven’s puppets blown to life with phantom voices.