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Is
A stunning new book of poems from the Griffin Poetry Prize-winning author of Loop .
A cell is a world within a world within a world. In this remarkable new collection, Anne Simpson finds form and inspiration in the cell – as it divides and multiplies, expanding beyond its borders. As these poems journey from the creation of the world emerging out of chaos to the slow unravelling of a life that is revealed in a poem that twists like a double helix, Simpson illuminates what it means to be alive, here and now. Rich with the muscular craft, vibrant imagery, and exquisite musicality for which her poetry is widely acclaimed, this collection sees Simpson continuing to “negotiate an ever-changing path between language and structure” ( Vancouver Sun ) – with astonishing results. It is a work of great vision from one of our most compelling poetic voices.
A cell is a world within a world within a world. In this remarkable new collection, Anne Simpson finds form and inspiration in the cell – as it divides and multiplies, expanding beyond its borders. As these poems journey from the creation of the world emerging out of chaos to the slow unravelling of a life that is revealed in a poem that twists like a double helix, Simpson illuminates what it means to be alive, here and now. Rich with the muscular craft, vibrant imagery, and exquisite musicality for which her poetry is widely acclaimed, this collection sees Simpson continuing to “negotiate an ever-changing path between language and structure” ( Vancouver Sun ) – with astonishing results. It is a work of great vision from one of our most compelling poetic voices.
- GenresPoetry
104 pages, Paperback
First published March 29, 2011
9 people want to read
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April 6, 2011Is, the latest collection of poetry from Canadian author Anne Simpson, was, at least for me, a surprising and lovely experience. The thing about Is, is that it isn't always poetry in the traditional and expected sense.
The collection starts, quite appropriately, with a poem entitled "Books of Beginnings" which stretches over several pages, the first page containing only the line "before you were a cell, dividing into cells and more cells-" with the text all at the bottom of the pages, the subsequent two pages each possessing a paragraph made up of a kind of list of things before- "before crumpled dark before tarnished dark" she writes- and not having any punctuation. On the fourth page in the top corner, Simpson writes "You are the world dividing.", using punctuation once again to help break up the poem before continuing into several pages with text at the top, lists of things which are separated, "You are day divided from night," she writes. Over the subsequent pages the poem shifts almost imperceptibly into a story of creation, "Fire. You are what you embrace- heat, in its thousand costumes.", Simpson writes, and then later "Ash, a layer of velvet, dressed up as beauty when it's merely wreckage." a line which was my favourite of the poem. The poem ends with the line "Beginning, ending, beginning.", summing up the contrast within the poem, the division and conflict it contains. Overall, "Books of Beginnings" which takes up 12 pages makes up over 10% of Is and provides a perfect introduction to Simpson, how she plays with the shape of the page and the sounds of words, her poetry is also a very much visual experience.
The following poem, "Cell Division" is also visually unique, it is divided up into three identical portions of text, each labeled as a figure and found on a subsequent page, containing progressively smaller text and more columns. "Cell Division" is the story of a seduction and the repetition within the poem as well as the back and forth of "him" and "her" pronouns results in a poem which is both rushed and slow, the hesitant pull of the lovers' passion. Later poems also use unexpected spacing or placement of words, striking through words at one point, and the poem in the collection, "Double Helix" is actually shaped like a double helix. With Simpson's maturity of words and quiet eloquence, her playful formatting adds an unexpected dimension to her poetry. The reader is forced to follow her words across the page, lead there not only by their beauty but also by the form that Simpson has given them.
There were times however when I craved a little more rigidity within the poems, such as in "Divide, Break" when the lack of punctuation felt familiar instead of surprising and the repeated use of the word "break" in various contexts- "Break into break up break down break out break off break open" felt more like wordplay than actual poetry. "Child" a play on various nursery rhymes likewise failed to create a connection with me as a reader. In contrast to some of the less emotionally interesting poems, Simpson shared gems such as "At the Bottom of the World, a Tree of Gold", a delicate piece combining imagery of nature and the slow decay of letting go of a person you love. One page of the poem goes:
"It's October. The souls of the flower have risen into the cool air. Phlox, daisies, lilies, roses. The leaves of the hostas are yellow, waxy.
You've come to strip the garden for winter. You have shears in your hands.
But you think of your fingers on her scalp, making circles. The way the two of you were quiet.
When you rinsed her hair, she didn't complain. Silver ran down her neck, down her back- music slipping away from the body, returning to it."
It epitomizes what is lovely about the collection, the simplicipity of Is, the quiet images and scenes. More than the unique and interesting formats of the poems, moments like these are the ones which will stay with me as a reader. "At the Bottom of the World, a Tree of Gold" is not a poem with a predictable form either, it is a snapshot on many pages, but it is not something that overpowers the reader but rather something you look back on, and realize that the reason why it felt like a collection of memories was partially due to the way it Simpson spread out and divided the scenes within the poem.
The range of topics Simpson covers in Is is broad. Several poems focus on the political "Viva Voce" is a long poem dedicated to oil spills and "Life Magazine" begins with a woman seeing the photograph of a monk who lit himself on fire in 1963 and delves into the consequences of war through vivid images, but others feel quite personal. Throughout them all, there is a scientific underpinning, which is unusual in poetry. From describing the poem as three figures in "Cell Division", to talking about creation as beginning from a cell in "Books of Beginnings", to the title of the final poem, "Double Helix", Simpson manages to intertwine the scientific with the poetic throughout the collection. Nature also appears regularly, with water in particular playing an important role in many of the poems including "Viva Voce", "River", "Flood", "Flood, Translated", "Flood, Interior View" and "Boat of Dawn, Boat of Dusk" as well as appearing subtly in many more.
The last poem in the collection is "Double Helix" and it is clear why Simpson saved it for the end. It is a poem which describes what two people are made of, both as a list of things "unlit dust of stars. / Blood, / bone. / Salt / on skin." as well as traits, incidents and desires. The twisted format of the poem works surprisingly well in the way it leads the reader's eye up and down and across the pages, and circular in the sense that the end can easily once again become the beginning. If anything, I feel "Double Helix" it would have made a better title for the collection, although Is works (besides the difficulty of using it in a sentence, especially in a review when I feel compelled not to say Is is too often) the poem of the same name is good but not remarkable. Ultimately, I felt this was a collection about creation, about the start of something new, about the thin line between a beginning and an ending and how they twist together like a double helix, intertwined, both are necessary for it to be complete. While there were a few times I craved a stronger emotional connection in Is, overall Simpson has created a book remarkable for the simple beauty of her poetry and the complex originality of her structure resulting in a collection which compels the reader from page to page with the wave-like power of her writing.
The collection starts, quite appropriately, with a poem entitled "Books of Beginnings" which stretches over several pages, the first page containing only the line "before you were a cell, dividing into cells and more cells-" with the text all at the bottom of the pages, the subsequent two pages each possessing a paragraph made up of a kind of list of things before- "before crumpled dark before tarnished dark" she writes- and not having any punctuation. On the fourth page in the top corner, Simpson writes "You are the world dividing.", using punctuation once again to help break up the poem before continuing into several pages with text at the top, lists of things which are separated, "You are day divided from night," she writes. Over the subsequent pages the poem shifts almost imperceptibly into a story of creation, "Fire. You are what you embrace- heat, in its thousand costumes.", Simpson writes, and then later "Ash, a layer of velvet, dressed up as beauty when it's merely wreckage." a line which was my favourite of the poem. The poem ends with the line "Beginning, ending, beginning.", summing up the contrast within the poem, the division and conflict it contains. Overall, "Books of Beginnings" which takes up 12 pages makes up over 10% of Is and provides a perfect introduction to Simpson, how she plays with the shape of the page and the sounds of words, her poetry is also a very much visual experience.
The following poem, "Cell Division" is also visually unique, it is divided up into three identical portions of text, each labeled as a figure and found on a subsequent page, containing progressively smaller text and more columns. "Cell Division" is the story of a seduction and the repetition within the poem as well as the back and forth of "him" and "her" pronouns results in a poem which is both rushed and slow, the hesitant pull of the lovers' passion. Later poems also use unexpected spacing or placement of words, striking through words at one point, and the poem in the collection, "Double Helix" is actually shaped like a double helix. With Simpson's maturity of words and quiet eloquence, her playful formatting adds an unexpected dimension to her poetry. The reader is forced to follow her words across the page, lead there not only by their beauty but also by the form that Simpson has given them.
There were times however when I craved a little more rigidity within the poems, such as in "Divide, Break" when the lack of punctuation felt familiar instead of surprising and the repeated use of the word "break" in various contexts- "Break into break up break down break out break off break open" felt more like wordplay than actual poetry. "Child" a play on various nursery rhymes likewise failed to create a connection with me as a reader. In contrast to some of the less emotionally interesting poems, Simpson shared gems such as "At the Bottom of the World, a Tree of Gold", a delicate piece combining imagery of nature and the slow decay of letting go of a person you love. One page of the poem goes:
"It's October. The souls of the flower have risen into the cool air. Phlox, daisies, lilies, roses. The leaves of the hostas are yellow, waxy.
You've come to strip the garden for winter. You have shears in your hands.
But you think of your fingers on her scalp, making circles. The way the two of you were quiet.
When you rinsed her hair, she didn't complain. Silver ran down her neck, down her back- music slipping away from the body, returning to it."
It epitomizes what is lovely about the collection, the simplicipity of Is, the quiet images and scenes. More than the unique and interesting formats of the poems, moments like these are the ones which will stay with me as a reader. "At the Bottom of the World, a Tree of Gold" is not a poem with a predictable form either, it is a snapshot on many pages, but it is not something that overpowers the reader but rather something you look back on, and realize that the reason why it felt like a collection of memories was partially due to the way it Simpson spread out and divided the scenes within the poem.
The range of topics Simpson covers in Is is broad. Several poems focus on the political "Viva Voce" is a long poem dedicated to oil spills and "Life Magazine" begins with a woman seeing the photograph of a monk who lit himself on fire in 1963 and delves into the consequences of war through vivid images, but others feel quite personal. Throughout them all, there is a scientific underpinning, which is unusual in poetry. From describing the poem as three figures in "Cell Division", to talking about creation as beginning from a cell in "Books of Beginnings", to the title of the final poem, "Double Helix", Simpson manages to intertwine the scientific with the poetic throughout the collection. Nature also appears regularly, with water in particular playing an important role in many of the poems including "Viva Voce", "River", "Flood", "Flood, Translated", "Flood, Interior View" and "Boat of Dawn, Boat of Dusk" as well as appearing subtly in many more.
The last poem in the collection is "Double Helix" and it is clear why Simpson saved it for the end. It is a poem which describes what two people are made of, both as a list of things "unlit dust of stars. / Blood, / bone. / Salt / on skin." as well as traits, incidents and desires. The twisted format of the poem works surprisingly well in the way it leads the reader's eye up and down and across the pages, and circular in the sense that the end can easily once again become the beginning. If anything, I feel "Double Helix" it would have made a better title for the collection, although Is works (besides the difficulty of using it in a sentence, especially in a review when I feel compelled not to say Is is too often) the poem of the same name is good but not remarkable. Ultimately, I felt this was a collection about creation, about the start of something new, about the thin line between a beginning and an ending and how they twist together like a double helix, intertwined, both are necessary for it to be complete. While there were a few times I craved a stronger emotional connection in Is, overall Simpson has created a book remarkable for the simple beauty of her poetry and the complex originality of her structure resulting in a collection which compels the reader from page to page with the wave-like power of her writing.
August 4, 2022
Gracious and precise, gorgeous and intelligent, Simpson's work is both puzzle and delight. While there's some impressive formal innovation here that I will return to to "unpick," I was most moved by the poems about age and grief, which are truly beautiful without being sentimental. 4.5 stars.
January 29, 2022
before blue before blue deepening and unwinding inside blue before bluegrey before
the envelope of morning before opening the crisp envelope of morning before
afternoon and afternoon's picked threads before evening before the scattering of
evening's fish scales before crumpled dark before tarnished dark before glovesoft
dark before world not yet world
* * *
Break into break up break down break out break off break open break away break
me up take a break on't step on a crack you'll break your mother's back breaking
ground breaking record breaking news break the spell break the bank break the ice
break a leg the straw that broke the camel's back lucky break seven years of bad luck if you -
Break into laughter break into song break into tears make it or break it break my
heart break your heart break his heard break her heart breaking up is hard break
this bread sticks and stoned may break -
make a break for it break out in a cold sweat knucklebreaker jawbreaker ballbreaker
break and enter break it up boys all hell breaking -
And wind, doing what wind does. Rattling a jar of bones.
* * *
Massage your fingers into her scalp. With the shower curtain half-drawn her hair is nearly transparent; the strands are fine. Her head could be that of your grandmother, your great-grandmother, your great-great-grandmother.
Shampoo her hair, rinse it. Do this with care. As the same time, do it briskly, so she won't get cold.
On her hip, taped bandages. Because of the surgery, her legs are bruised with burgundy islands. Indonesian archipelago.
You could pick her up, gently, a package of wet feathers, but she'd rather do things herself. She wants to be in and out of the bath, tucked into bed.
But after her bath, she'll do her exercises.
Hang up the damp towels, go into the garden.
* * *
Is snow as years, lightly. Is your face back then, your hands.
Is mine and not. Is the low branch, ice moon split by the blade
of the low branch.
Is kiss, cool kiss. Is snow. Is always
inside never.
Is years. Is the pileated woodpecker, the hammer of a beak.
Is goldsmith. Is time, shimmered.
Is my arms is your arms is my shoulder is your shoulder is my neck is your -
Is not love. Is.
Is the box of feathered white, opened.
Is opened, is closed. Is day and night, feathered.
Is a bird inside your chest, inside mine. Is fear, that hammer.
Is fear of opening. Is courage.
Is the frailty of daylight, falling to pieces around us.
Is music under your eyes, music touched with a finger. Mine.
Is mine is yours. Shadows under your eyes.
Is children, is ducks, is dogs. Is sleep, sleep, sleep.
Is snow. Is glass. Is snow.
Is your eyes back then. Saw, see, saw.
Is you, now. Is snow. Is your hands, lightly, years.
Is your head in your hands. Is the sound of the spoon in the cup.
Is ruby under cloud. Is morning, is fire.
Is held. Is more than.
Is laughter, feathered. Is low branch, high branch.
Is a rosehip, winter's lantern:
one, two, three, four.
Is moon, married to sky. Unmarried. And married.
Is night's cloak, embroidered. Is yours is mine.
Is speechlessness. Is touch. Is snow.
* * *
Sky, a dance with veils: each of the veils discarded on the floor. The time of year when spirits press close.
Someone's hand, a sweeping gesture in a window.
On the street, a girl crosses a woman's shadow. Clack, clack of heels. The woman doesn't think herself old until the girl moves through her.
Geese skimming broken stalks in a field. Late afternoon, a kerosene lantern, smoke-smeared.
To bear responsibility, he said. I have to think about that. His voice, rowing out to sea, growing smaller.
I'd never seen him before.
Occasionally spirits fly into the mouth. They taste like frost, like honey.
A woman, a girl, a man, canted light, geese inside the canted light. I saw the man get into the rowboat. His gloved hands on the oars, ice on the water.
* * *
He finds her crying in the bedroom with the lights out. He puts his arms around
her. No sound, except all they can't say. The neighbour's house turns into a ship,
listing. Starboard, port, starboard. O of moon, forked shadows imitating trees. He
doesn't speak about how the rug is being pulled out from under him. Nothing
beneath the rug, nothing to stop him falling through space. A dream, no end to it.
* * *
Once, before waking, I saw the tree. Its branches could have been made by a jeweller.
Wild dark, coyote dark, and a tree, glowing. Northern lights, ice-thin
music. No woodcutter in this story. Only the tree, taller than any other,
inside you.
Not the one outside the kitchen window, skirts high above the ground.
The tamarack's dropped needles, pulling gold threads under snow.
Not the wonderboom, ancient fig, surrounded by its ring of daughters. Not the
Dragon Tree of Icod de los Vinos. Not the Abre de Ténéré, last acacia of the desert.
Inside the night cathedral of your life
is a tree without name - carrying the names of other trees - a tree candled, on fire,
but not burning.
Brushed with radiance,
each branch, each tassel, the tip of each needle.
the envelope of morning before opening the crisp envelope of morning before
afternoon and afternoon's picked threads before evening before the scattering of
evening's fish scales before crumpled dark before tarnished dark before glovesoft
dark before world not yet world
- Book of Beginnings, pg. 2
* * *
Break into break up break down break out break off break open break away break
me up take a break on't step on a crack you'll break your mother's back breaking
ground breaking record breaking news break the spell break the bank break the ice
break a leg the straw that broke the camel's back lucky break seven years of bad luck if you -
Break into laughter break into song break into tears make it or break it break my
heart break your heart break his heard break her heart breaking up is hard break
this bread sticks and stoned may break -
make a break for it break out in a cold sweat knucklebreaker jawbreaker ballbreaker
break and enter break it up boys all hell breaking -
And wind, doing what wind does. Rattling a jar of bones.
- Divide, Break, pg. 16
* * *
Massage your fingers into her scalp. With the shower curtain half-drawn her hair is nearly transparent; the strands are fine. Her head could be that of your grandmother, your great-grandmother, your great-great-grandmother.
Shampoo her hair, rinse it. Do this with care. As the same time, do it briskly, so she won't get cold.
On her hip, taped bandages. Because of the surgery, her legs are bruised with burgundy islands. Indonesian archipelago.
You could pick her up, gently, a package of wet feathers, but she'd rather do things herself. She wants to be in and out of the bath, tucked into bed.
But after her bath, she'll do her exercises.
Hang up the damp towels, go into the garden.
- At the Bottom of the World, a Tree of Gold, pg. 21
* * *
Is snow as years, lightly. Is your face back then, your hands.
Is mine and not. Is the low branch, ice moon split by the blade
of the low branch.
Is kiss, cool kiss. Is snow. Is always
inside never.
Is years. Is the pileated woodpecker, the hammer of a beak.
Is goldsmith. Is time, shimmered.
Is my arms is your arms is my shoulder is your shoulder is my neck is your -
Is not love. Is.
Is the box of feathered white, opened.
Is opened, is closed. Is day and night, feathered.
Is a bird inside your chest, inside mine. Is fear, that hammer.
Is fear of opening. Is courage.
Is the frailty of daylight, falling to pieces around us.
Is music under your eyes, music touched with a finger. Mine.
Is mine is yours. Shadows under your eyes.
Is children, is ducks, is dogs. Is sleep, sleep, sleep.
Is snow. Is glass. Is snow.
Is your eyes back then. Saw, see, saw.
Is you, now. Is snow. Is your hands, lightly, years.
Is your head in your hands. Is the sound of the spoon in the cup.
Is ruby under cloud. Is morning, is fire.
Is held. Is more than.
Is laughter, feathered. Is low branch, high branch.
Is a rosehip, winter's lantern:
one, two, three, four.
Is moon, married to sky. Unmarried. And married.
Is night's cloak, embroidered. Is yours is mine.
Is speechlessness. Is touch. Is snow.
- Is, pg. 33
* * *
Sky, a dance with veils: each of the veils discarded on the floor. The time of year when spirits press close.
Someone's hand, a sweeping gesture in a window.
On the street, a girl crosses a woman's shadow. Clack, clack of heels. The woman doesn't think herself old until the girl moves through her.
Geese skimming broken stalks in a field. Late afternoon, a kerosene lantern, smoke-smeared.
To bear responsibility, he said. I have to think about that. His voice, rowing out to sea, growing smaller.
I'd never seen him before.
Occasionally spirits fly into the mouth. They taste like frost, like honey.
A woman, a girl, a man, canted light, geese inside the canted light. I saw the man get into the rowboat. His gloved hands on the oars, ice on the water.
- November, pg. 48
* * *
He finds her crying in the bedroom with the lights out. He puts his arms around
her. No sound, except all they can't say. The neighbour's house turns into a ship,
listing. Starboard, port, starboard. O of moon, forked shadows imitating trees. He
doesn't speak about how the rug is being pulled out from under him. Nothing
beneath the rug, nothing to stop him falling through space. A dream, no end to it.
- Dream, pg. 58
* * *
Once, before waking, I saw the tree. Its branches could have been made by a jeweller.
Wild dark, coyote dark, and a tree, glowing. Northern lights, ice-thin
music. No woodcutter in this story. Only the tree, taller than any other,
inside you.
Not the one outside the kitchen window, skirts high above the ground.
The tamarack's dropped needles, pulling gold threads under snow.
Not the wonderboom, ancient fig, surrounded by its ring of daughters. Not the
Dragon Tree of Icod de los Vinos. Not the Abre de Ténéré, last acacia of the desert.
Inside the night cathedral of your life
is a tree without name - carrying the names of other trees - a tree candled, on fire,
but not burning.
Brushed with radiance,
each branch, each tassel, the tip of each needle.
- In the Night Cathedral, a Tree, pg. 75
December 18, 2020
Skillfully written with many background details that weave together past and present experiences
April 16, 2015
I am not a regular reader of poetry, but I was drawn to Anne Simpson and the way her poetry is as much visual as it is mental.
I will not attempt to decipher the intentions behind this poetry collection, but I found that it encompassed the riddle of life, the chaos, the beauty, the complicated, living and dying... It is all there. Deciphered yet undecipherable all at once.
I will not attempt to decipher the intentions behind this poetry collection, but I found that it encompassed the riddle of life, the chaos, the beauty, the complicated, living and dying... It is all there. Deciphered yet undecipherable all at once.
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May 20, 2011Won in a giveaway! Look forward to reading this poetry novel!
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews