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The Impstone
Poetry by Canadian writer.
- GenresPoetry
Paperback
First published January 1, 1976
2 people want to read
About the author
Susan Musgrave
78 books44 followersSusan Musgrave is a Canadian poet and children's writer. She was born in Santa Cruz, California to Canadian parents, and currently lives in British Columbia, dividing her time between Sidney and Haida Gwaii.
Musgrave was married to Stephen Reid, a writer, convicted bank robber and former member of the infamous band of thieves known as the Stopwatch Gang. Their relationship was chronicled in 1999 in the CBC series Life and Times.
She currently teaches creative writing in the University of British Columbia's Optional Residency Master of Fine Arts Program.
Recognizing a life in writing, the Writers' Trust presented Susan Musgrave with the 2014 Matt Cohen Award for her lifetime of work.
Musgrave was married to Stephen Reid, a writer, convicted bank robber and former member of the infamous band of thieves known as the Stopwatch Gang. Their relationship was chronicled in 1999 in the CBC series Life and Times.
She currently teaches creative writing in the University of British Columbia's Optional Residency Master of Fine Arts Program.
Recognizing a life in writing, the Writers' Trust presented Susan Musgrave with the 2014 Matt Cohen Award for her lifetime of work.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
January 21, 2022
Anima
You smell of
the woods
you smell of
lonely places.
You smell of
death
of dreams I am
afraid of.
I reach out
to touch you
but you
aren't there.
You have gone
into the only darkness
animals come from.
* * *
Making Blood
We are
dancing
we are
making blood
our bodies
disguise the
dance
where love is
impossible to
hide.
We know
the way,
they memory's
bone-music
our bodies
enter the dance
we are
making
each other
our of
visions,
our of
old photographs
we are dancing
out of the words
we have spoken
for other people
out of the
long silence
we are breaking
into the dance
that is the
real bond
we are making
animal blood.
* * *
Today
I saw our ghosts
making love under
the trees.
Your ghost was a
dark tide
rising to
flood the earth.
My ghost
started crying:
the future seemed
so predictable.
* * *
The Child Is Father of the Man
The rat has been dead
under the sink for
three days.
You poisoned
it.
It died
while we were
making love
one night
when the baby
is born
I will still be
indifferent.
* * *
A Private Joke, for Al Purdy
Write about all the
horrors, an American
tells me
on an unmapped
street corner
in Mexico City
handing out invitations
to a flowing
existential experience.
I lie about
who I am. I don't
want to write anything
about Mexico.
And turn away.
Hey, Canada, come back
and talk.
I think of
All and Eurithe at
a party in
Progreso. Al got
drunk and left his
bathing suit behind.
Could have happened
to anyone.
The cook passed out
on the floor (broken dishes,
delusions, etc.). It couldn't
have happened
anywhere.
The American wants
statistics. He wants
to meet later - to
communicate openly.
I agree and
lie about my address.
And take a direct flight
to Vancouver
in the morning,
sitting next to a
doctor who tell me
women bleed longer
in Mexico.
* * *
The Impstone, for Roy Kiyooka and Daphne Marlatt
i
The day the man
stumbled and
cursed the stone's
existence
the stone created
woman
out of another stone.
Darkness fell
like a thick velvet
curtain over the
land. The stone saw
that it was good.
And on the seventh day
he rested.
ii
This stone has been
rained on
this stone has been
left out in the
dark.
This stone has been
stepped on
though it never hurt
anyone.
Pick up the stone -
you will notice these
scars.
Drop it again
it won't blame you.
iii
This stone
is the guilt
each person takes
upon him;
this stone
is a
mass-murderer,
a poet,
a thief.
This stone is a
god, a
failure, a
government.
This stone
stands for
nothing -
it has
no country.
iv
This stone
was an island
once;
tourists would take
picnics to its
beaches;
fishermen would take
shelter in its
coves.
The stone knew
what it felt like
to be sinking.
Some people
changed the
island's name
in memory of a
dead politician.
v
In your house
nobody mentions
this stone.
It is asleep
beside the fireplace,
it is dreaming
of warmth.
Nobody mentions it
because they are
frightened.
Nobody feels it
because they are
cold.
One night
it changes
into an apparition.
Nobody knows why.
Your house trembles
like an animal dying.
It sees its reflection
for the first time.
vi
This stone
knows what it's like
to be chipped away
into nothing
to be blown up
into pieces
to make roads for people
to walk down
complaining all the
way.
This stone should have been
a writer
knowing the truth's disguised
as a bulldozer or a
typewriter
knowing the devil is
always present
wearing a
white carnation
being sucked like a
cigar
until he succeeds.
vii
This stone is
everybody's
culture hero.
He has been made to
explains his dream
once too often.
His dream
is the same scene
over and over.
He is standing with a
loaded gun in his
mouth
trying to explain
his feelings.
You smell of
the woods
you smell of
lonely places.
You smell of
death
of dreams I am
afraid of.
I reach out
to touch you
but you
aren't there.
You have gone
into the only darkness
animals come from.
* * *
Making Blood
We are
dancing
we are
making blood
our bodies
disguise the
dance
where love is
impossible to
hide.
We know
the way,
they memory's
bone-music
our bodies
enter the dance
we are
making
each other
our of
visions,
our of
old photographs
we are dancing
out of the words
we have spoken
for other people
out of the
long silence
we are breaking
into the dance
that is the
real bond
we are making
animal blood.
* * *
Today
I saw our ghosts
making love under
the trees.
Your ghost was a
dark tide
rising to
flood the earth.
My ghost
started crying:
the future seemed
so predictable.
* * *
The Child Is Father of the Man
The rat has been dead
under the sink for
three days.
You poisoned
it.
It died
while we were
making love
one night
when the baby
is born
I will still be
indifferent.
* * *
A Private Joke, for Al Purdy
Write about all the
horrors, an American
tells me
on an unmapped
street corner
in Mexico City
handing out invitations
to a flowing
existential experience.
I lie about
who I am. I don't
want to write anything
about Mexico.
And turn away.
Hey, Canada, come back
and talk.
I think of
All and Eurithe at
a party in
Progreso. Al got
drunk and left his
bathing suit behind.
Could have happened
to anyone.
The cook passed out
on the floor (broken dishes,
delusions, etc.). It couldn't
have happened
anywhere.
The American wants
statistics. He wants
to meet later - to
communicate openly.
I agree and
lie about my address.
And take a direct flight
to Vancouver
in the morning,
sitting next to a
doctor who tell me
women bleed longer
in Mexico.
* * *
The Impstone, for Roy Kiyooka and Daphne Marlatt
i
The day the man
stumbled and
cursed the stone's
existence
the stone created
woman
out of another stone.
Darkness fell
like a thick velvet
curtain over the
land. The stone saw
that it was good.
And on the seventh day
he rested.
ii
This stone has been
rained on
this stone has been
left out in the
dark.
This stone has been
stepped on
though it never hurt
anyone.
Pick up the stone -
you will notice these
scars.
Drop it again
it won't blame you.
iii
This stone
is the guilt
each person takes
upon him;
this stone
is a
mass-murderer,
a poet,
a thief.
This stone is a
god, a
failure, a
government.
This stone
stands for
nothing -
it has
no country.
iv
This stone
was an island
once;
tourists would take
picnics to its
beaches;
fishermen would take
shelter in its
coves.
The stone knew
what it felt like
to be sinking.
Some people
changed the
island's name
in memory of a
dead politician.
v
In your house
nobody mentions
this stone.
It is asleep
beside the fireplace,
it is dreaming
of warmth.
Nobody mentions it
because they are
frightened.
Nobody feels it
because they are
cold.
One night
it changes
into an apparition.
Nobody knows why.
Your house trembles
like an animal dying.
It sees its reflection
for the first time.
vi
This stone
knows what it's like
to be chipped away
into nothing
to be blown up
into pieces
to make roads for people
to walk down
complaining all the
way.
This stone should have been
a writer
knowing the truth's disguised
as a bulldozer or a
typewriter
knowing the devil is
always present
wearing a
white carnation
being sucked like a
cigar
until he succeeds.
vii
This stone is
everybody's
culture hero.
He has been made to
explains his dream
once too often.
His dream
is the same scene
over and over.
He is standing with a
loaded gun in his
mouth
trying to explain
his feelings.
August 7, 2018
Still a compelling collection of poetry capturing the spirit of her place and time.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews