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Another Name for Bridge
Suzanne Hancock's debut collection of poems seeks to explore seemingly disparate family bonds, self deceit, lost desire, and the final days of Descartes' life. With precision and urgent honesty these poems take us from an apple orchard in summer, to a Dutch slaughterhouse, to diving from a train bridge. Yet, there is cohesiveness throughout these pages that can be explained by the author's yearning to discover the world, to be transformed by language and its implications. In Another Name for Bridge, the author attempts to link pieces of the experience and memory, one side of the river to the other, the dialogue between natural philosophy and painterly practice. These poems sing the praises of connection, but never seem to forget the vast spaces that cannot be linked.
- GenresPoetry
72 pages, Paperback
First published March 7, 2005
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
January 20, 2022
That love is swollen and vascular.
That it is a bridge holding two torsos immobile.
A way to afford the heat.
Wind lifts the wrapping paper,
pulls and pulls until it flutters wildly,
the bod underneath smooth and
bone-china white.
That the body is as civil as cedar
and if you build a fire of welcome
someone will see. Will come.
Just hold out your merciful hands
and they will be filled.
History in its steaming cup,
all the proof you need.
* * *
Even if the ground is green,
you will be left alone. The smell
could be pine or mulch, it could
be early spring or late fall. If you
have loved, love will fall between
the words lift up your hearts. And
that will be all. Look at the bird
drowning in a bucket of water
while we sit on short wooden
stools braiding the divided world
that always comes undone.
* * *
Like kneeling in a chapel,
a bridge, too, offers
safe passage.
Wooden beams on stone piers
were an answered prayer,
a way to manage the horse,
as well as the swarming
cutthroats.
Perhaps those blessed with
dry feet planted firmly
on the other side thought:
And God too must
have fastened bridges.
* * *
because the sky seems to say: my pretty, my hollow one
because a garden in full bloom can be so vulgar in its obviousness
because language can be whittled down to stop and watch
because light above those wispy pines is bent into a bow
because all we've been listening to since the Manitoba border is Glenn Gould
because we hurt here and here and here
because next summer in Montreal when the air conditioning refuses to work we will need a memory that recalls air as cold as this wind
because there must be more to this scene than lonely
because Great stars of white frost / come with the fish of darkness / that opens the road of dawn
because the sound of soles across frozen ground is as lovely as polished rosewood
because the sky seems to say: my hollow one
That it is a bridge holding two torsos immobile.
A way to afford the heat.
Wind lifts the wrapping paper,
pulls and pulls until it flutters wildly,
the bod underneath smooth and
bone-china white.
That the body is as civil as cedar
and if you build a fire of welcome
someone will see. Will come.
Just hold out your merciful hands
and they will be filled.
History in its steaming cup,
all the proof you need.
- Self Deceit, pg. 2
* * *
Even if the ground is green,
you will be left alone. The smell
could be pine or mulch, it could
be early spring or late fall. If you
have loved, love will fall between
the words lift up your hearts. And
that will be all. Look at the bird
drowning in a bucket of water
while we sit on short wooden
stools braiding the divided world
that always comes undone.
- Behind the Barn, pg. 23
* * *
Like kneeling in a chapel,
a bridge, too, offers
safe passage.
Wooden beams on stone piers
were an answered prayer,
a way to manage the horse,
as well as the swarming
cutthroats.
Perhaps those blessed with
dry feet planted firmly
on the other side thought:
And God too must
have fastened bridges.
- Fratres Pontifices, pg. 50
* * *
because the sky seems to say: my pretty, my hollow one
because a garden in full bloom can be so vulgar in its obviousness
because language can be whittled down to stop and watch
because light above those wispy pines is bent into a bow
because all we've been listening to since the Manitoba border is Glenn Gould
because we hurt here and here and here
because next summer in Montreal when the air conditioning refuses to work we will need a memory that recalls air as cold as this wind
because there must be more to this scene than lonely
because Great stars of white frost / come with the fish of darkness / that opens the road of dawn
because the sound of soles across frozen ground is as lovely as polished rosewood
because the sky seems to say: my hollow one
- Early March and We Stop in a Town Too Small for the Map Somewhere North of Thunder Bay, after Shane Rhodes, pg. 66
February 5, 2008
i steal song lyrics from only this book.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews