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The Memory Orchard
In Tim Bowling's poems, memory is much more than a sally down landmark lane. Time is both creator and destroyer, equally at home with the shocking or the sublime. The skid marks on our hearts, the exclamation points carved in our eyeballs, these are signs that we have lived and been lived. This is poetry of loss and fury, of awe and celebration, Bowling's voice stunningly rich and rakish.
"I write this with the hot ink of the red stripe on the back of a garter snake stopped a second in the tall grass beside the Fraser River under a sky of August fire. I reached into a closet racked with bones in a condemned house I put my arm through the dark of the dead to wet this quill I leaned all my weight on the dust and air (nobody there but this moment, still)." from "Memory"
"I write this with the hot ink of the red stripe on the back of a garter snake stopped a second in the tall grass beside the Fraser River under a sky of August fire. I reached into a closet racked with bones in a condemned house I put my arm through the dark of the dead to wet this quill I leaned all my weight on the dust and air (nobody there but this moment, still)." from "Memory"
- GenresPoetry
99 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2004
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