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Lemon Hound
2007 Winner of the Pat Lowther Award and a Lambda Literary Award
As meditative practices focus on the axis of breath, these poems focus on the moment of action, of thought, on the flux of speech.
This is a poetry not of snapshots or collages but of long-exposed captures of the not-so-still lives of women. One sequence imagines Virginia Woolf’s childhood; another unmakes her novel The Waves by attempting to untangle its six overlapping narratives. Yet another, ‘On the Scent,’ makes us flâneurs through the lives of a series of contemporary women, while ‘The River Is All Thumbs’ uses a palette of vibrant repetition to ‘paint’ a landscape.
Queyras’s language – astute, insistent, languorous – repeats and echoes until it becomes hypnotic, chimerical, almost halluncinatory in its reflexivity. How lyrical can prose poetry be? How closely can it mimic painting? Sculpture? Film? How do we make a moment firm? These ‘postmodern,’ ‘postfeminist’ poems pulse between prose and poetry: the line, the line, they seem to ask, must it ever end?
Sina Queyras's latest collection of poetry, Expressway, was nominated for a Governor General's Award and won Gold at the National Magazine Awards. Her previous collection Lemon Hound won a Lambda Award and the Pat Lowther Award. She has taught creative writing at Rutgers, Haverford and Concordia University in Montreal where she now resides.
As meditative practices focus on the axis of breath, these poems focus on the moment of action, of thought, on the flux of speech.
This is a poetry not of snapshots or collages but of long-exposed captures of the not-so-still lives of women. One sequence imagines Virginia Woolf’s childhood; another unmakes her novel The Waves by attempting to untangle its six overlapping narratives. Yet another, ‘On the Scent,’ makes us flâneurs through the lives of a series of contemporary women, while ‘The River Is All Thumbs’ uses a palette of vibrant repetition to ‘paint’ a landscape.
Queyras’s language – astute, insistent, languorous – repeats and echoes until it becomes hypnotic, chimerical, almost halluncinatory in its reflexivity. How lyrical can prose poetry be? How closely can it mimic painting? Sculpture? Film? How do we make a moment firm? These ‘postmodern,’ ‘postfeminist’ poems pulse between prose and poetry: the line, the line, they seem to ask, must it ever end?
Sina Queyras's latest collection of poetry, Expressway, was nominated for a Governor General's Award and won Gold at the National Magazine Awards. Her previous collection Lemon Hound won a Lambda Award and the Pat Lowther Award. She has taught creative writing at Rutgers, Haverford and Concordia University in Montreal where she now resides.
112 pages, Paperback
First published April 19, 2002
3 people are currently reading
108 people want to read
About the author
Sina Queyras
19 books52 followersSina Queyras' last collection of poetry, Expressway, was nominated for a Governor General's Award and won Gold at the National Magazine Awards. Her previous collection Lemon Hound won a Lambda Award and the Pat Lowther Award, and she is the winner of the 2012 Friends of Literature Award. She is a blogger for Harriet, the Poetry Foundation's blog.
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
May 15, 2018
I don't think I fully appreciated Lemon Hound given how little I know about Virginia Woolf. However, even ignorance of the subject of these poems cannot disguise or diminish the brilliance of the language. Lemon Hound is almost like chanting, with repetition and word play that leaves your dizzy at times. Feminist themes drift in and out of the narrative, and it leaves readers in such a contemplative mood.
February 3, 2023
KSKS
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 27, 2022
The river wants the town to hug her but the town has an odour. The river wants to love the odour but it can't. The river wants the town to know this. The river wants the town to be invited. The river wants the town to paint itself red. The river wants the town to understand it. The river wants the town to talk softly. The river wants the town to step inside. The river wants the town to get over itself. The river wants the town to make way. The river wants the town to hug her without odour. The river wants the town to let her hug it too. The river wants to flood the town with anger. The river wants to fill its basements and cellars. The river wants to dig up graves and twirl them down Main Street. The river wants to flush out pantries and libraries. The river wants to lap her way through schools and courtrooms. The river wants to swallow the town the way it swallows her. The river wants the last gulp.
* * *
If only men were more feminine. If only Judaism were more feminine. If only industry were more feminine. If only bridges were more feminine. If only airplanes were more feminine. If only fruit were more feminine. If only engines were more feminine. If only economics were more feminine. If only test tubes were more feminine. If only physicists were more feminine. If only space were more feminine. If only Hollywood were more feminine. If only America were more feminine. If only farmyards were more feminine. If only the weather were more feminine. If only Islam were more feminine. If only engineers were more feminine. If only city planners were more feminine. If only feminists were more feminine. If only Catholicism were more feminine. If only politicians were more feminine. If only astronauts were more feminine. If only corporations were more feminine. If only women were more feminine. If only what was feminine were firm. If only there were slots. If only things fit inside.
* * *
Oh, she said, the ladies of Boston never tipped their hats. Nor did hemlines flirt with pubic hair. There was never enough ice. She would never have an above-ground pool. We never spoke at dinner. We never talked of money. We never said sex. There were never any fluids. The women were buttoned down. The women took Ex-Lax and subscribed to Good Housekeeping. And the white women in Tuscaloosa never sit next to blacks. Oh, she said, you're from Canada? I'm so sorry.
* * *
Many shapes. Sudden ruptures of joy. Exalted lashes of light stroking the wall, there up toward the cornice, down to unknown voices in the garden. All this a state of rapture despite the cool feel of marble on bare skin. Lines being drawn. There on the ceiling one's future scissors. Below voices. Nowhere safer. Moments ride as opium. Moments to break open. Moments later to stroke and stoke. Moments of balm, moments delicious and staggering, hooks of story, daggers and parachutes, exit wounds, doorways, boulders weighing and releasing; boulders to stand on and trip over, moments, make of them what you will.
* * *
Hesitation upon seeing. A little lack in the middle. A long way out. Something to reach, something to ward us off. A long time coming. Reaching only. Seeing the end there. Nothing less than never again. Lips on iron. Impression of succession, Stella leaning down to undo a button on her nightgown, lips upright, iron and nowhere to be seen. No further. Turret walls and moat of nursery. The solid core. Upended. Emptied. Wrapped in towels. Led with brandy. Let into the great room. Led down the hall. Led to the bed, lips on iron. Led, led, led, always ever after the expectation, the kiss in the garden, the kiss of iron. Led where he is standing. Led where he would have us go. Always after. Led. Led. Led.
* * *
In another poem a woman might let memories solidify, and as they hardened beneath her, step on them one and one and one until she left the old world neatly behind. In another poem death. In another poem light. In another poem there is no E in heart. In another poem there is an H. In another poem feeling is orchestrated. In another poem a woman might find pleasure in the sound of her own words, might feel quite naturally content with herself, see the city as a pleasant backdrop. In another poem a woman might couplet. In another poem a woman might villanelle. In another poem squeaky clean. In another poem tidy. In another poem, pause, and pause. In another poem sestina. In another poem squander. In another poem a woman might do a handstand on a patch of grass the only grass for miles but her mind rests the whole of Wyoming under her thumb.
* * *
She passes the watch-repair shop with its grandfather clock door. No one goes in or out but a dog barks. She is sure the repairman has never heard of Dali. Buttercups wave and bob. They are so yellow they shine a halo six inches around each pinky-sized flower. They are so good she wants to eat them, but they are singing, all along the roadside, and she cannot eat anything that sings.
- What the river wants, pg. 15
* * *
If only men were more feminine. If only Judaism were more feminine. If only industry were more feminine. If only bridges were more feminine. If only airplanes were more feminine. If only fruit were more feminine. If only engines were more feminine. If only economics were more feminine. If only test tubes were more feminine. If only physicists were more feminine. If only space were more feminine. If only Hollywood were more feminine. If only America were more feminine. If only farmyards were more feminine. If only the weather were more feminine. If only Islam were more feminine. If only engineers were more feminine. If only city planners were more feminine. If only feminists were more feminine. If only Catholicism were more feminine. If only politicians were more feminine. If only astronauts were more feminine. If only corporations were more feminine. If only women were more feminine. If only what was feminine were firm. If only there were slots. If only things fit inside.
- If only, pg. 21
* * *
Oh, she said, the ladies of Boston never tipped their hats. Nor did hemlines flirt with pubic hair. There was never enough ice. She would never have an above-ground pool. We never spoke at dinner. We never talked of money. We never said sex. There were never any fluids. The women were buttoned down. The women took Ex-Lax and subscribed to Good Housekeeping. And the white women in Tuscaloosa never sit next to blacks. Oh, she said, you're from Canada? I'm so sorry.
- On the Scent, 9, pg. 37
* * *
Many shapes. Sudden ruptures of joy. Exalted lashes of light stroking the wall, there up toward the cornice, down to unknown voices in the garden. All this a state of rapture despite the cool feel of marble on bare skin. Lines being drawn. There on the ceiling one's future scissors. Below voices. Nowhere safer. Moments ride as opium. Moments to break open. Moments later to stroke and stoke. Moments of balm, moments delicious and staggering, hooks of story, daggers and parachutes, exit wounds, doorways, boulders weighing and releasing; boulders to stand on and trip over, moments, make of them what you will.
- I should make curved shapes, showing the light through, but not giving a clear outline, pg. 49
* * *
Hesitation upon seeing. A little lack in the middle. A long way out. Something to reach, something to ward us off. A long time coming. Reaching only. Seeing the end there. Nothing less than never again. Lips on iron. Impression of succession, Stella leaning down to undo a button on her nightgown, lips upright, iron and nowhere to be seen. No further. Turret walls and moat of nursery. The solid core. Upended. Emptied. Wrapped in towels. Led with brandy. Let into the great room. Led down the hall. Led to the bed, lips on iron. Led, led, led, always ever after the expectation, the kiss in the garden, the kiss of iron. Led where he is standing. Led where he would have us go. Always after. Led. Led. Led.
- A man sitting on the edge of the bed, pg. 54
* * *
In another poem a woman might let memories solidify, and as they hardened beneath her, step on them one and one and one until she left the old world neatly behind. In another poem death. In another poem light. In another poem there is no E in heart. In another poem there is an H. In another poem feeling is orchestrated. In another poem a woman might find pleasure in the sound of her own words, might feel quite naturally content with herself, see the city as a pleasant backdrop. In another poem a woman might couplet. In another poem a woman might villanelle. In another poem squeaky clean. In another poem tidy. In another poem, pause, and pause. In another poem sestina. In another poem squander. In another poem a woman might do a handstand on a patch of grass the only grass for miles but her mind rests the whole of Wyoming under her thumb.
- Some other poet in the city, pg. 63
* * *
She passes the watch-repair shop with its grandfather clock door. No one goes in or out but a dog barks. She is sure the repairman has never heard of Dali. Buttercups wave and bob. They are so yellow they shine a halo six inches around each pinky-sized flower. They are so good she wants to eat them, but they are singing, all along the roadside, and she cannot eat anything that sings.
- On the way to the swimming hole, pg. 77
January 31, 2008
"The light settled on her brow & she opened the marmalade."
Pleasing sonic wash. Sometimes knocked me out. Sometimes not. Better when she's writing under the sign of Gertrude Stein than when she's making found poems/riffing on Woolf.
Pleasing sonic wash. Sometimes knocked me out. Sometimes not. Better when she's writing under the sign of Gertrude Stein than when she's making found poems/riffing on Woolf.
March 28, 2008
very fine wave of Waves
January 31, 2018
This was a ton harder to read than I expected it would be. It almost took me a year to find my place in it as a reader. I'm glad I never abandoned it. I'm sure the Woolf work is lost on me.
"Distinct tinkle of waterfall"
"Distinct tinkle of waterfall"
December 17, 2021
I really loved this— I’d like to re-read it alongside the Woolf works that Queyras references.
April 16, 2023
Not my favourite of their writing but still gorgeously crafted
July 23, 2014
Read as 3.5 stars. A very strong collection.
Unfortunately, I don't feel particularly qualified to give an in-depth review as I am probably missing a good deal of the references as I have not read a lot of Virginia Woolf.
If you are a fan of Woolf's, I guarantee that your rating will be higher than mine.
Even still, it was enjoyable and I look forward to reading more by this poet.
Unfortunately, I don't feel particularly qualified to give an in-depth review as I am probably missing a good deal of the references as I have not read a lot of Virginia Woolf.
If you are a fan of Woolf's, I guarantee that your rating will be higher than mine.
Even still, it was enjoyable and I look forward to reading more by this poet.
March 20, 2010
The language is electric. I opened the book at random and read the poems that way. This collection shouts quietly and with verve.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews