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Whylah Falls
This highly praised collection is resonant with a passion for Black history, culture and language. Fourth printing.
153 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1991
7 people are currently reading
425 people want to read
About the author
George Elliott Clarke
75 books90 followersA seventh-generation Nova Scotian, George Elliott Clarke was born in 1960 in Windsor Plans, Nova Scotia. He is known as a poet, as well as for his two-volume anthology of Black Writing from Nova Scotia, Fire in the Water. Volume One contains spirituals, poety sermons, and accounts from 1789 to the mid-twentieth century; Volume Two collects the work of the Black Cultural Renaissance in Nova Scotia, which, in Clarke's words, "speaks to people everywhere about overcoming hardships and liberating the spirit." Currently on faculty at Duke University, he is now writing both a play and an opera on slavery in Nova Scotia, a reformulation of Shelley's The Cenci. He has won many awards including the 1981 Prize for Adult Poetry from the Writers Federation of Nova Scotia, he was the 1983 first runner-up for the Bliss Carman Award for Poetry at the Banff Centre School of Arts and 1991 winner of the Archibald Lampman Award for Poetry from the Ottawa Independent Writers.
Books: Saltwater Spirituals and Deeper Blues (Pottersfield, 1983); Whylah Falls (Polestar, 1990, 2000); Provencal Songs (Magnum Book Store, 1993); Lush Dreams, Blue Exile: Fugitive Poems, 1978-1993 (Pottersfield, 1994); Provencal Songs II (Above/ground, 1997); Whylah Falls: The Play (Playwrights Canada, 1999, 2000); Beatrice Chancy (Polstar Books, 1999); Gold Indigoes (Carolina Wren, 2000); Execution Poems (Gaspereau, 2001); Blue (Raincoat, 2001); Odysseys Home: Mapping African-Canadian Literature (UofT Press, 2002)
Books: Saltwater Spirituals and Deeper Blues (Pottersfield, 1983); Whylah Falls (Polestar, 1990, 2000); Provencal Songs (Magnum Book Store, 1993); Lush Dreams, Blue Exile: Fugitive Poems, 1978-1993 (Pottersfield, 1994); Provencal Songs II (Above/ground, 1997); Whylah Falls: The Play (Playwrights Canada, 1999, 2000); Beatrice Chancy (Polstar Books, 1999); Gold Indigoes (Carolina Wren, 2000); Execution Poems (Gaspereau, 2001); Blue (Raincoat, 2001); Odysseys Home: Mapping African-Canadian Literature (UofT Press, 2002)
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 32 reviews
June 13, 2018
WOOHOO GEORGE ELLIOTT CLARKE!!!
http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/nova-sc...
this man is a national treasure... for canada. after i read his novel, george and rue, i figured i would try to get my hands on some of his poetry. but no matter how many times i ordered them into the store, they never came in. then i came across a copy of this book at the strand (yes, even though i work at a bookstore and buy 6-8 books a week there, i still go to the used bookstores because i have a sickness) and i am halfway through, and i find a sales receipt in the book. for the book. and then i start thinking (because i am already loving this book like a sin) who gets rid of a book like this?? who brings this beautiful book to the strand and says "i dont want it", leaving the sales receipt inside of it so i can see it came to new york all the way from edmonton!! and was paid for in exact change!! who is this robot?? who walks around with $20.28 in their pocket, reads this book, and is unmoved by it?? i can only assume that the poems affected the reader so much that they had some sort of a heart attack in the middle, and this book was part of their estate that got donated to the strand. it is the only explanation. but the book is a must-have. an interlocked collection of poems capturing the stories of several characters living in an acadian blues song - all violence and erotic obsession and love and religion and murder. and if you buy it at audreys books, ltd (10702 jasper ave. edmonton AB t5j 3j5) you can save25% on all globe and mail bestsellers! hot damn!
come to my blog!
http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/nova-sc...
this man is a national treasure... for canada. after i read his novel, george and rue, i figured i would try to get my hands on some of his poetry. but no matter how many times i ordered them into the store, they never came in. then i came across a copy of this book at the strand (yes, even though i work at a bookstore and buy 6-8 books a week there, i still go to the used bookstores because i have a sickness) and i am halfway through, and i find a sales receipt in the book. for the book. and then i start thinking (because i am already loving this book like a sin) who gets rid of a book like this?? who brings this beautiful book to the strand and says "i dont want it", leaving the sales receipt inside of it so i can see it came to new york all the way from edmonton!! and was paid for in exact change!! who is this robot?? who walks around with $20.28 in their pocket, reads this book, and is unmoved by it?? i can only assume that the poems affected the reader so much that they had some sort of a heart attack in the middle, and this book was part of their estate that got donated to the strand. it is the only explanation. but the book is a must-have. an interlocked collection of poems capturing the stories of several characters living in an acadian blues song - all violence and erotic obsession and love and religion and murder. and if you buy it at audreys books, ltd (10702 jasper ave. edmonton AB t5j 3j5) you can save25% on all globe and mail bestsellers! hot damn!
come to my blog!
November 26, 2009
Could almost be a five star book. No time for reviews now, but I'll think of something enlightening to say about this book after I stuffed my stomach with Thanksgiving dinner.
July 30, 2024
Wow!
So many riches here, one scarcely knows where to begin. There are little gems, such as:
”Every word we write is a breath — perhaps our last — against oblivion.”
Or a cautionary note:
"Beware of people with empty hands, big stomachs and big mouths: They’re politicians. In filthy times, they spring up like mushrooms."
Or a mother’s insight:
”Every man likes to act like a statue —
Bronzen, cold and hefting a sword.
But a woman knows what is true:
He’s a boy, easily injured.”
Or a lullaby:
”The moon twangs its silver strings;
The River swoons into town;
The wind beds down in the pines,
Covers itself with stars.”
But there are also great heaping helpings of the very stuff of life, most delightful being Cora’s “Symposium”, delivering for her daughter’s benefit the down-and-dirty facts of life in the world of man, including: ”Pack a spare suitcase, one for him. If he proves a lucifer, it be easier to toss him out that way. Put one change of clothes into it so that he can’t beg and bug you for nothin’!” (find it and read the rest for yourself, it’s too much fun to miss!)
At the outset, Clark sets forth his “Dramatis Personae" and he is in love with each of his characters, in some fashion — but perhaps most smitten with the lithe and lovely Selah, who Pablo calls “Gatito”, “little cat”. His “Monologue for Selah” is the most sensuous love poem I’ve ever read, rivaling the best of Pablo Neruda!
As in a classical epic poem, each succeeding book begins with its own “Argument” until finally, in the “Apocrypha”, each of the players has his moment before the curtain, including the poet himself in his “Apology”:
”Stolen from the plots of quixotic Pierrot and
troubled Muddy Waters, these elegiac flowers
flourish independently. Irrigated by liquor and tears
and desiccated by blistering blues, they bloom in direct moonlight.”
At the end of the drama, instead of looking back over what has taken place — pain, loss, betrayal, even murder — he gives the last word to young Shelley, in her acceptance of Xavier’s love; we are left looking forward, with hope.
Brilliant!
So many riches here, one scarcely knows where to begin. There are little gems, such as:
”Every word we write is a breath — perhaps our last — against oblivion.”
Or a cautionary note:
"Beware of people with empty hands, big stomachs and big mouths: They’re politicians. In filthy times, they spring up like mushrooms."
Or a mother’s insight:
”Every man likes to act like a statue —
Bronzen, cold and hefting a sword.
But a woman knows what is true:
He’s a boy, easily injured.”
Or a lullaby:
”The moon twangs its silver strings;
The River swoons into town;
The wind beds down in the pines,
Covers itself with stars.”
But there are also great heaping helpings of the very stuff of life, most delightful being Cora’s “Symposium”, delivering for her daughter’s benefit the down-and-dirty facts of life in the world of man, including: ”Pack a spare suitcase, one for him. If he proves a lucifer, it be easier to toss him out that way. Put one change of clothes into it so that he can’t beg and bug you for nothin’!” (find it and read the rest for yourself, it’s too much fun to miss!)
At the outset, Clark sets forth his “Dramatis Personae" and he is in love with each of his characters, in some fashion — but perhaps most smitten with the lithe and lovely Selah, who Pablo calls “Gatito”, “little cat”. His “Monologue for Selah” is the most sensuous love poem I’ve ever read, rivaling the best of Pablo Neruda!
As in a classical epic poem, each succeeding book begins with its own “Argument” until finally, in the “Apocrypha”, each of the players has his moment before the curtain, including the poet himself in his “Apology”:
”Stolen from the plots of quixotic Pierrot and
troubled Muddy Waters, these elegiac flowers
flourish independently. Irrigated by liquor and tears
and desiccated by blistering blues, they bloom in direct moonlight.”
At the end of the drama, instead of looking back over what has taken place — pain, loss, betrayal, even murder — he gives the last word to young Shelley, in her acceptance of Xavier’s love; we are left looking forward, with hope.
Brilliant!
March 25, 2025
I've hardly ever read a narrative poem so thoroughly ensconced in a place, culture, and feeling. Clarke's writing is beautiful, lived-in, and evocative.
Amazing work.
Amazing work.
April 27, 2015
Absolutely, totally, completely amazing. I would have voted for it to win Canada Reads. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Spectacular, feminist, empowering, inspiring, beautiful beyond all ken.
"SHE DISCOVERS HER VOICE
Against the grey wallpaper of that house,
The monotony of beige dawns and dusks,
The cankered roses in the plastic vase,
Her husbands dull, monosyllabic hate,
She hoarded words borrowed from the Bible,
Country tunes, and gross, indifferent children.
>>Between her servings of watery tea
And his helpings of woman on woman--
Whelping so many bastards he lost count--
She counted in her secret verse, hidden
In the old scribbler in a drab suitcase
In a drab closet under the old clothes.
When, at last, his secret, hidden cancer
Overthrew him, taking possession,
And she had folded him -- beige suit -- into
A grey casket, she salvaged her lost poems
And she sang and she sang. Oh, how she sang!
--Shelley"
Much wisdom in this little book, packed with stories, hope, despair and love. From Cora's proverbs:
"Never mind death. Nothing ever ends. Truth never ages, wisdom never goes out of date, and love never goes out of style. Faith holds the apple to the tree; faith lets the apple fall. Don't allow your feet to lead your heart astray."
I love how Clarke describes verdant nature and weaves it into every poem, every story, every section. This poem, however, is all about it, and so true. Right now, it is April, and I feel it!
"EARLY SPRING
... snow on green branches--
April has come at last.
The earth is astonished,
maddened, by chlorophyll.
Purple and yellow crocuses
are through snow:
watercolours rainbow
across white paper.
How beautiful!
We are dressed in flowers
when we wend hither,
when we twine,
and when we ravel hence.
How beautific!
Fulfillment springs
from the roots.
The jar jetting of lilies
atomizes to perfume.
White snow on green branches--
April has come last."
From 'The Gospel of Reverend F.R. Langford.' Now, here is a sermon, a homily, worth hearing:
"REVELATION
We turn to love before turning to dust so that the grave will
not compress our lives entirely to insects, humus, ash.
Love is our single resistance against the dictatorship of death.
And for the moment of its incarnation, we will worship God,
we will make ourselves beautiful in the glinting of an eye."
This is a beauty. I love how Clarke describes the musicians and also takes us outside. It's something to remember while writing.
"... While he plays, the Sixhiboux River shimmies silver through the hills, lindys beneath the bridge, and jitters into Saint Mary's Bay. ..."
I always love the quotes about writing, about poetry, about literature...
"TO PABLO
In school, I hated poetry -- those skinny,
Malnourished poems that professors love;
The bad grammar and dirty words that catch
In the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.
Pablo, your words are rain I run through,
Grass I sleep in."
So many different relationships, so much beauty, so much... breathtaking.
"TO SELAH
The butter moon is white
Sorta like your eyes;
The butter moon is bright, sugah,
Kinda like your eyes.
And it melts like I melt for you
While it coasts 'cross the sky.
The black highway uncoils
Like your body do sometimes.
The long highway unwinds, mama,
Like your lovin' do sometimes.
I'm gonna swerve your curves
And ride your centre line.
Stars are drippin' like tears,
The highway moves like a hymn;
Stars are drippin' like tears, beau'ful,
The highway sways like a hymn.
And I reach for your love,
Like a burglar for a gem."
An amazing feat, this story. A love story, a murder, lives ruined, all here. This is from May 19__
"You fed me coffee, wieners, beans, and bread;
I wept love poems with tragic majesty,
Remembering every epic failure,
The cigarette smoke of cafe Marxists,
The pearl of moon above the pawnshop's pearls,
When I staggered across the spine of Montreal,
From Pie IX to Berri-de-Montagny,
In dark loneliness and indigo lust,
Five years later, Shelley, I can't forget.
We are our pasts. Nothing is forgotten."
A mix of poetry, real life (non-fiction) and beauty:
"Outside, Whylah shimmers. Sunshine illumines the mirage of literature, how everyone uses words to create a truth he or she can trust and live within."
Spectacular, feminist, empowering, inspiring, beautiful beyond all ken.
"SHE DISCOVERS HER VOICE
Against the grey wallpaper of that house,
The monotony of beige dawns and dusks,
The cankered roses in the plastic vase,
Her husbands dull, monosyllabic hate,
She hoarded words borrowed from the Bible,
Country tunes, and gross, indifferent children.
>>Between her servings of watery tea
And his helpings of woman on woman--
Whelping so many bastards he lost count--
She counted in her secret verse, hidden
In the old scribbler in a drab suitcase
In a drab closet under the old clothes.
When, at last, his secret, hidden cancer
Overthrew him, taking possession,
And she had folded him -- beige suit -- into
A grey casket, she salvaged her lost poems
And she sang and she sang. Oh, how she sang!
--Shelley"
Much wisdom in this little book, packed with stories, hope, despair and love. From Cora's proverbs:
"Never mind death. Nothing ever ends. Truth never ages, wisdom never goes out of date, and love never goes out of style. Faith holds the apple to the tree; faith lets the apple fall. Don't allow your feet to lead your heart astray."
I love how Clarke describes verdant nature and weaves it into every poem, every story, every section. This poem, however, is all about it, and so true. Right now, it is April, and I feel it!
"EARLY SPRING
... snow on green branches--
April has come at last.
The earth is astonished,
maddened, by chlorophyll.
Purple and yellow crocuses
are through snow:
watercolours rainbow
across white paper.
How beautiful!
We are dressed in flowers
when we wend hither,
when we twine,
and when we ravel hence.
How beautific!
Fulfillment springs
from the roots.
The jar jetting of lilies
atomizes to perfume.
White snow on green branches--
April has come last."
From 'The Gospel of Reverend F.R. Langford.' Now, here is a sermon, a homily, worth hearing:
"REVELATION
We turn to love before turning to dust so that the grave will
not compress our lives entirely to insects, humus, ash.
Love is our single resistance against the dictatorship of death.
And for the moment of its incarnation, we will worship God,
we will make ourselves beautiful in the glinting of an eye."
This is a beauty. I love how Clarke describes the musicians and also takes us outside. It's something to remember while writing.
"... While he plays, the Sixhiboux River shimmies silver through the hills, lindys beneath the bridge, and jitters into Saint Mary's Bay. ..."
I always love the quotes about writing, about poetry, about literature...
"TO PABLO
In school, I hated poetry -- those skinny,
Malnourished poems that professors love;
The bad grammar and dirty words that catch
In the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.
Pablo, your words are rain I run through,
Grass I sleep in."
So many different relationships, so much beauty, so much... breathtaking.
"TO SELAH
The butter moon is white
Sorta like your eyes;
The butter moon is bright, sugah,
Kinda like your eyes.
And it melts like I melt for you
While it coasts 'cross the sky.
The black highway uncoils
Like your body do sometimes.
The long highway unwinds, mama,
Like your lovin' do sometimes.
I'm gonna swerve your curves
And ride your centre line.
Stars are drippin' like tears,
The highway moves like a hymn;
Stars are drippin' like tears, beau'ful,
The highway sways like a hymn.
And I reach for your love,
Like a burglar for a gem."
An amazing feat, this story. A love story, a murder, lives ruined, all here. This is from May 19__
"You fed me coffee, wieners, beans, and bread;
I wept love poems with tragic majesty,
Remembering every epic failure,
The cigarette smoke of cafe Marxists,
The pearl of moon above the pawnshop's pearls,
When I staggered across the spine of Montreal,
From Pie IX to Berri-de-Montagny,
In dark loneliness and indigo lust,
Five years later, Shelley, I can't forget.
We are our pasts. Nothing is forgotten."
A mix of poetry, real life (non-fiction) and beauty:
"Outside, Whylah shimmers. Sunshine illumines the mirage of literature, how everyone uses words to create a truth he or she can trust and live within."
May 2, 2014
There were some poems in here that caught me off guard like someone throwing a fishhook into your mouth and pulling you along... but others that were bland, boring...
One of my favorites from this anthology:
100 Proof
Waking with a woman's name
sour and martini dry on my tongue,
I twist, lemon slice
dipped in sorrow, one-quarter asleep,
and slant, slip, slapped
to and fro like a black
bastard by alcohol's white,
wide hand; then, pasty-faced
sun whips my black back;
heat trickles bloody down my spine.
My yellow-mouthed honey creeps
'cross the linoleum in her lovin' stockin' feet.
My mouth bleeds a Bloody Mary,
song cutting my lips with liquor:
Miss Rum be my sweetest white gal,
Make me stumble from Jarvis to Whylah Falls.
One of my favorites from this anthology:
100 Proof
Waking with a woman's name
sour and martini dry on my tongue,
I twist, lemon slice
dipped in sorrow, one-quarter asleep,
and slant, slip, slapped
to and fro like a black
bastard by alcohol's white,
wide hand; then, pasty-faced
sun whips my black back;
heat trickles bloody down my spine.
My yellow-mouthed honey creeps
'cross the linoleum in her lovin' stockin' feet.
My mouth bleeds a Bloody Mary,
song cutting my lips with liquor:
Miss Rum be my sweetest white gal,
Make me stumble from Jarvis to Whylah Falls.
January 18, 2020
I really enjoyed the poetry sections, some of the short stories, but not so much with some of the longer ones. It was fairly easy to put myself in the specific characters as they told their version of went on in Whylah Falls. I am glad this is part of my own library.
July 3, 2022
a beautifully written, all-engulfing glimpse into a life i could never know. "bees' wings" is one of my very favourite poems of all time, especially this one particular excerpt:
"Upon Shelley, his sis', light as bees' wings,
Who roams a garden sprung from rotten wood
And words, picking green nouns and fresh, bright verbs,
For there's nothing I will not force language
To do to make us one — whether water
Hurts like whisky or the sun burns like oil
Or love declines to weathered names on stone."
this collection of words still has me gasping for air all--and reaching for tissues--these years later.
"Upon Shelley, his sis', light as bees' wings,
Who roams a garden sprung from rotten wood
And words, picking green nouns and fresh, bright verbs,
For there's nothing I will not force language
To do to make us one — whether water
Hurts like whisky or the sun burns like oil
Or love declines to weathered names on stone."
this collection of words still has me gasping for air all--and reaching for tissues--these years later.
October 22, 2021
Clarke is fantastic at getting into characters. He lets them sing on the page. It is amazing. They sound so authentic. And of course he is witty and sensual--ie. "don't l'amour/ echo la mort?"(26) and "I'd be damned/ if I 'lowed him to stir my sugar bowl"(42); " She said my kisses on her breasts/were "bee stings and cool mist"(63); "Love is our single resistance against the dictator of death" (134). This book is based on archival research and has a murder. It has many personae with great names like Othello, Pushkin, Lavinia, and Shelley among others.
January 2, 2025
While this was a beautifully written novel and I liked being in Nova Scotia, this is a hard book to get a handle on. There are a lot of characters and you never fully connect with them because the whole novel is in verse. I don't even know if I understand the entire plot. I definitely did root for X and Shelley though.
March 2, 2020
Wow, this was a very compelling collection and very interesting to have a narrative throughout the whole thing. It got me. Really got me.
April 11, 2023
Amazing book. Sensual. Moving. Rapturous.
March 14, 2017
oh my God this book is so good. not a fast read; you really have to savour it.
November 5, 2024
I can't decide how to review this. I know it is an important work, but I found it to be pretentious to the point of unreadability. It was so inaccessible. I actually love poetry--especially Canadian poetry--but this turned me off. I don't think the collection merits as low of a review as my personal gripes with it would warrant, though. I think the book did what it sought to do, but it wasn't for me.
Coming back 2 years later... I think I was too hard on the book. Yes, it was so chock full of allusions that it became somewhat inaccessible to a not-that-well-read chump like me, but the allusions as poetry device WORKED... when analyzing just a portion of it, I was amazed at the depth created by the carefully chosen allusions (and other devices). That's what makes for good poetry. Poetry is not just something you can do well so easily, despite what many instgrammers think. Clarke does it exceptionally well. Also, his themes came across clearly. The book did what it wanted to do (and perhaps more). And it taught me about an important part of Nova Scotia (and its history) I hadn't known previously.
Coming back 2 years later... I think I was too hard on the book. Yes, it was so chock full of allusions that it became somewhat inaccessible to a not-that-well-read chump like me, but the allusions as poetry device WORKED... when analyzing just a portion of it, I was amazed at the depth created by the carefully chosen allusions (and other devices). That's what makes for good poetry. Poetry is not just something you can do well so easily, despite what many instgrammers think. Clarke does it exceptionally well. Also, his themes came across clearly. The book did what it wanted to do (and perhaps more). And it taught me about an important part of Nova Scotia (and its history) I hadn't known previously.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
May 19, 2014
Okay, full disclosure, I had to read this for a seminar at university. Otherwise I wouldn't have chosen it and I probably wouldn't have finished it. That said, I didn't hate it, even though I feel like I didn't always get it and found the prologue pretentious.
It evokes plenty of nature's beauty, as well as aptly depicting personal relationships. Even violence and death are sometimes beautiful in this book.
This is certainly a book that lives on poetic language and beautiful imagery rather than plot and suspense. That's perfectly legitimate and can work very well, but the multiple points of view made it harder for me to understand who is speaking in which poem sometimes, which also rendered it less meaningful at times.
All in all, I did not find this a very accessible book, but probably one that is worth reading. I can't find it in me to care enough, but I have a feeling that this is the kind of book you can read several times and still discover new meanings and layers every time.
It evokes plenty of nature's beauty, as well as aptly depicting personal relationships. Even violence and death are sometimes beautiful in this book.
This is certainly a book that lives on poetic language and beautiful imagery rather than plot and suspense. That's perfectly legitimate and can work very well, but the multiple points of view made it harder for me to understand who is speaking in which poem sometimes, which also rendered it less meaningful at times.
All in all, I did not find this a very accessible book, but probably one that is worth reading. I can't find it in me to care enough, but I have a feeling that this is the kind of book you can read several times and still discover new meanings and layers every time.
April 28, 2016
"In school I hated poetry - those skinny,
malnourished poems that professors love;
the bad grammar and dirty words that catch
in the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech"
Not only did Clarke finally win me over on poetry, he gave me the words to express how I've felt for years. He's made me realize what I have been missing out on this entire time.
I'm not sure what you call this - a novel via poem? Anyways, it really drew out my senses, creating a picturesque world of Black Canadiana as the backdrop to the romantic drama that unfolds upon its pages.
Clarke is a wordsmith of the highest degree.
malnourished poems that professors love;
the bad grammar and dirty words that catch
in the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech"
Not only did Clarke finally win me over on poetry, he gave me the words to express how I've felt for years. He's made me realize what I have been missing out on this entire time.
I'm not sure what you call this - a novel via poem? Anyways, it really drew out my senses, creating a picturesque world of Black Canadiana as the backdrop to the romantic drama that unfolds upon its pages.
Clarke is a wordsmith of the highest degree.
February 27, 2013
I am so inspired by this writer he takes your breath away with his use of the English language, his language of love and life. He is lyrical in his work. Clarke pays tribute to the blues, epic poetry and Nova Scotia. This is comparable to Chaucer and Milton. A time and a place so well captured that you are drawn into the lives of his staged characters and their narrative. "My love come down like sweet water." (p41) The Confession of Saul. Only one of many lines written that are so moving. Beautiful work. I will be reading it again.
July 23, 2015
My reason for buying this book of poems by an Afro-Nova Scotian writer fifteen years ago is lost to me now. Probably a review I read in the Star Book Section, something the advent of a computer in my life caused me to cease reading on a regular basis.
A book of 200 pages has a 30-page introduction written by the author. Whylah Falls is a home lost in memory, a place that never existed but not unlike a home one can only return to in memory because the home remembered no longer exists in reality.
A book of 200 pages has a 30-page introduction written by the author. Whylah Falls is a home lost in memory, a place that never existed but not unlike a home one can only return to in memory because the home remembered no longer exists in reality.
October 4, 2012
Yes, it's kind of pretentious in its effort to Shakespeare-up the Africadian culture that Clarke writes and perhaps, to some degree, creates in this book. But it's beautiful nonetheless and its skin glistens and it fucks with form and content in a truly inspired, loving manner. Love it or hate it - and I've felt both about it - this book's a proof that Clarke has full mastery of his craft.
September 2, 2016
The writing was great and the poetry gorgeous, I liked this a lot. I wasn't always sure who all of those characters were (there were quite a lot) or what was going on, as they weren't always introduced or the events described explicitly and I read it over most of a summer. But I don't regret spending $30 on it.
November 4, 2009
I can't say that I overly enjoyed this book. Parts of the poetry were okay but I found that a lot of it didn't appeal to me. I found that I didn't care about the people he was writing about at all. The images in the novel were kind of interesting to look at however.
February 6, 2013
'Whylah Falls'Was not a novel,as much as it was a dream.The combination of poetry,prose in short story form was a delight to the senses.If you love music,poetry, and language you will love 'Whylah Falls'
July 17, 2007
An unbelievably beautiful and sad story told in a combination of linked narrations, poetry, prose and song.
January 13, 2009
A truly beautiful read!
March 25, 2011
My all-time favourite book.
July 29, 2011
Intense, rich collection of poetry and poetic prose that tells the story of life in a small Atlantic town. George Elliott Clarke's words have the flavor of Blues music.
October 31, 2012
Beautifully written and rich in imagery.
February 16, 2018
I think I was too young to fully appreciate these poems the first time around. I'm longing for spring to come.
February 7, 2019
Such an interesting read, definitely one to stay part of Canadian literary canon.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 32 reviews