Some Dance (The Hugh MacLennan Poetry Series)

by Ricardo Sternberg

"To be able to pry / this is object, this is subject / even though (confusion begins) / he can be both. Difficult then / to stand at the mirror and / I am this. This is what I am." Some Dance is a meditation on stories, the intersection of stories, of things made up, of things imagined, and of things lived - perhaps. Tricks played by memory, scrambling events from life with fiction, are a constant. Ricardo Sternberg seeks a fixed point from which to understand the world, but finds no resolution save for another poem. Everything is in flux, unstable, and leads to unexpected a commune in the 1960s, a drunken doctor who deals in contraband, a palm reader, a classroom visited by Jesus, a dance in a darkened kitchen. A lively collection that turns towards the commonplace, classical, and strange, Some Dance masterfully balances serious thought, big ideas, and good humour through surprising, elegant, and colloquial expressions.

Genres: Poetry

90 pages, Paperback

First published April 1, 2014

Reviews

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Niceties dispensed, muse,
give it to me straight,
intravenous, undiluted, right
into this arm I write with.

Here or hereabouts
(I'm never quite sure)
a show of modesty
is expected so I admit

the gift is not commensurate
to the task at hand:
such a small wingspan,
my fear of heights.

So silver my drab tongue.
But as for theme: leave it to me
to come up with something
that while not highfalutin,

carries a whiff of the sublime.
Finally, don't just hang around
after giving me my dose. Look:
I'm really, really grateful. No adios.

- An Invocation of Sorts, pg. 3

* * *

Time passes and heals all wounds
then passes some more and scars
are effaced, the memory gone
of disasters that brought him here.

So as he sits on the deck and surveys
the foam-fringed curve of the bay,
the very air seems saturated
with light, a golden pollen of promise

inducing a lotus torpor, a letting go
in the most curmudgeonly of spirits,
never mind this man, inveterate optimist,

who believes ha ha his ship's sailed into port
when flying in fast below radar
fate or its proxy is making a move.

- California Fado, pg. 20

* * *

Intricately devious
this man
who blindsides,
hoodwinks even himself.

Just as he declares
that for now and forever
he's done with it,
there'd be no turning back,

he'd already backtracked
and by a circuitous route
returned to the spring
driven by the very thirst

he swore he'd quenched.

- At It, pg. 36

* * *

Under the stern tribunal
of his own eyes
(he faces a mirror)
he confesses to everything.

Pointing a finger at himself
(or at his reflection)
he spells out the charges
and the trial begins.

There will be time
for excuses, alibis,
limits to liability
but now the prosecution

is calling its witnesses:
What prodigious memory!
Every long-lost friend
answers the summons

and with such malice,
surely salt has been rubbed
in fading wounds
for grievance to feel this fresh.

With the razor poised
at his lathered throat,
they recite a toxic list
of alleged transgressions

and hint of exhibits to come:
compromising photographs,
inconvenient phone logs.
The case appears irrefutable.

The prosecution rests as he rises
but, presiding judge,
he has dismissed the defence
and makes ready to leave.

The mirror goes dark.
He holds his breath
then plunges his soul
in clean fresh water.

The face in the mirror
gives nothing back as he,
newly shaved, strides out
groomed for further crimes.

- The Reckoning, pg. 47-48

* * *

Someone quick!
Fetch this man
a dictionary.

See if he can
on his own
find the name

for what ails him:

an icy finger
slowly tracing
a bent spine.

No word he knows
can name this funk
though he swears

when found such word
(to name is to tame)
will prove a balm

that quiets the heart,
allows it sleep.
Here. Start with the A's.

- The Word, pg. 66-67

[Christopher Madsen · Rating 3 out of 5]

Finishing the year and the decade with poetry. Appropriate. I liked the poetry, and enjoyed it. I lost my place at one point and had difficulty finding it because none of the poems had lodged in my brain. I didn't find myself pulling apart the difficult language as I do with Whitman. It will sit on my shelf now with the opportunity to revisit it someday.