What do you think?
Rate this book
Where Have We Been
Lyric poems of tense clarity.
- GenresPoetry
48 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1982
9 people want to read
About the author
Jan Zwicky
35 books51 followersJan Zwicky’s books of poetry include Songs for Relinquishing the Earth, which won the Governor General’s Award, Robinson’s Crossing, which won the Dorothy Livesay Prize, and, most recently Forge, which was short-listed for the Griffin Prize. Her books of philosophy include Wisdom & Metaphor, Lyric Philosophy, and Alkibiades’ Love (forthcoming 2015).
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
January 23, 2022
Clawing frantically
at the seconds we had together,
at first we merely drew blood.
Now, grasping more desperately,
the chunks we gouge from one another
stain brown the white
of silent morning eyes,
leave ragged wounds
which rot and fester
through days of one-place-settings
and half-empty beds.
How long will it be until
the night when we roll over
to touch each other and find
our wrists raw bleeding stumps?
* * *
it is odd that you should ask
how many poems you have
figures in I am a leech
of sorts and everything that
we have ever done to with
or for each other if not
a poem in itself must
in some way dye images
shape syllables become a
portrait so be careful now
read cautiously and never
look too long nor closely lest
you find the likeness that I
draw not as you would wish it
* * *
At seven, there are no birds.
I wash my hair in darkness
at the kitchen sink. Outside
the dim trees do not breathe but
sag beneath the solitudes
amassed like days.
Survival is more dense
than love, ashes after
evanescence. Histories behind
us pile and shift, an ocean
of transgressions faint
with crowding age.
What is the accounting?
These short and ill-lit
mornings, I cannot
see beyond the week's end.
And by then it still
will not be spring.
* * *
Things most articulate
here, where you live: hands
on wood, these books, table
by that window; as earlier,
voices on maples, chrome on lead,
wind lifting for a moment each
leaf, one against one other.
Simplest lucidity, rare
artless eloquence.
at the seconds we had together,
at first we merely drew blood.
Now, grasping more desperately,
the chunks we gouge from one another
stain brown the white
of silent morning eyes,
leave ragged wounds
which rot and fester
through days of one-place-settings
and half-empty beds.
How long will it be until
the night when we roll over
to touch each other and find
our wrists raw bleeding stumps?
- Pieces, pg. 15
* * *
it is odd that you should ask
how many poems you have
figures in I am a leech
of sorts and everything that
we have ever done to with
or for each other if not
a poem in itself must
in some way dye images
shape syllables become a
portrait so be careful now
read cautiously and never
look too long nor closely lest
you find the likeness that I
draw not as you would wish it
- sonnet, pg. 23
* * *
At seven, there are no birds.
I wash my hair in darkness
at the kitchen sink. Outside
the dim trees do not breathe but
sag beneath the solitudes
amassed like days.
Survival is more dense
than love, ashes after
evanescence. Histories behind
us pile and shift, an ocean
of transgressions faint
with crowding age.
What is the accounting?
These short and ill-lit
mornings, I cannot
see beyond the week's end.
And by then it still
will not be spring.
- In Winter, pg. 36
* * *
Things most articulate
here, where you live: hands
on wood, these books, table
by that window; as earlier,
voices on maples, chrome on lead,
wind lifting for a moment each
leaf, one against one other.
Simplest lucidity, rare
artless eloquence.
- Things Most Articulate, pg. 41
Read
January 11, 2023it is odd that you should ask
how many poems you have
figured in I am a leech
of sorts and everything that
we have ever done to with
or for each other if not
a poem in itself must
in some way dye images
shape syllables become a
portrait so be careful now
read cautiously and never
look too long nor closely lest
you find the likeness that I
draw not as you would wish it
— sonnet
i don't think you can ever be "finished" reading a poetry collection, but because i read all the pieces at least once i'm marking it as such, though i can't rate it just yet because once again poetry isn't as easy to rate as linear narrations. i need to read each piece dozens of times to carefully dissect it. but jan zwicky has a delightful way with words and the ones i have properly read have been really satisfying to break down. this was a random find at a bookstore but it's a good start to my new year's resolution of reading (and appreciating) more poetry
how many poems you have
figured in I am a leech
of sorts and everything that
we have ever done to with
or for each other if not
a poem in itself must
in some way dye images
shape syllables become a
portrait so be careful now
read cautiously and never
look too long nor closely lest
you find the likeness that I
draw not as you would wish it
— sonnet
i don't think you can ever be "finished" reading a poetry collection, but because i read all the pieces at least once i'm marking it as such, though i can't rate it just yet because once again poetry isn't as easy to rate as linear narrations. i need to read each piece dozens of times to carefully dissect it. but jan zwicky has a delightful way with words and the ones i have properly read have been really satisfying to break down. this was a random find at a bookstore but it's a good start to my new year's resolution of reading (and appreciating) more poetry
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews