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The True Names of Birds
The True Names of Birds is the first book-length collection from a voice that has captured the attention of Canadian poetry readers for the last half-dozen years. Deeply centred in domestic life, Goyette's work is informed by a muscular lyricism. These are poems that push the limits, always true to their roots.
"This is a fresh new voice with a tense lyrical intelligence. This is a collection to begin everything with, a cure for silence, secrets that arrive with a steady eloquence." --Patrick Lane
"This is a fresh new voice with a tense lyrical intelligence. This is a collection to begin everything with, a cure for silence, secrets that arrive with a steady eloquence." --Patrick Lane
80 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 1998
1 person is currently reading
45 people want to read
About the author
Sue Goyette
20 books39 followersSue Goyette is a Canadian poet and novelist. Born in Sherbrooke, Quebec, Goyette grew up in Saint-Bruno-de-Montarville, on Montreal's south shore.
Her first poetry book The True Names of Birds (1998) was nominated for the 1999 Governor General's Award, the Pat Lowther Award and the Gerald Lampert Award. Goyette's first novel, Lures: A Novel (2002), was nominated for the 2003 Thomas Head Raddall Award. She has also written another poetry collection, Undone (2004), and won the 2008 CBC Literary Award in poetry for the poem "Outskirts". The poetry collection of the same name, Outskirts won the Atlantic Poetry Prize in 2012. Goyette's fourth poetry collection, Ocean, was published in 2013 by Gaspereau Press.
Goyette has been a member of the faculty of The Maritime Writers' Workshop, The Banff Wired Studio, and The Sage Hill Writing Experience.
She presently lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and teaches at Dalhousie University.
Her first poetry book The True Names of Birds (1998) was nominated for the 1999 Governor General's Award, the Pat Lowther Award and the Gerald Lampert Award. Goyette's first novel, Lures: A Novel (2002), was nominated for the 2003 Thomas Head Raddall Award. She has also written another poetry collection, Undone (2004), and won the 2008 CBC Literary Award in poetry for the poem "Outskirts". The poetry collection of the same name, Outskirts won the Atlantic Poetry Prize in 2012. Goyette's fourth poetry collection, Ocean, was published in 2013 by Gaspereau Press.
Goyette has been a member of the faculty of The Maritime Writers' Workshop, The Banff Wired Studio, and The Sage Hill Writing Experience.
She presently lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and teaches at Dalhousie University.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
October 27, 2018
Given that the poet is writing these during her husband's illness and subsequent death, it's not surprising that even the poems featuring spring and summer are shrouded in an autumnal gloom. Goyette captures a mood and shares it with us: brown leaves, crows in flight across a gray sky, the earth tilting in the inevitable slide toward its death. The rebirth comes in images of her children, in the burdens of motherhood, in the great weight of carrying generations. The way Goyette links motherhood with death is subtle and painful and gorgeous. These are not happy poems, but they are essential, I think.
January 20, 2022
There are more ways to abandon a child
than to leave them at the mouth of the woods.
Sometimes by the time you find them, they've made up names
for all the birds and constellations, and they've broken
their reflections in the lake with sticks.
With my daughter came promises and vows
that unfolded through time like a roadmap and led me
to myself as a child, filled with wonder for my father
who could make sound from a wide blade of grass
and his breath. Here in the stillness of forest,
the sun columning before me temple-ancient,
that wonder is what I regret losing most; that wonder
and the true names of birds.
* * *
1. The student body snaked its way
to a folded ping-pong table.
A priest sitting behind it,
listened to confessions
in a gym that stank of sweat and sneakers
and sin.
I could hear kids whispering,
say you pushed your sister -
forgot to say your prayers.
I'd prayed every night all week, please God of everlasting love
and lambs,
please give me something to confess
and a Barbie camper.
2. I confess mother,
the night I told you I was sleeping at Mary's,
I was stay-splayed
under a summer night sky
with the sweetest cloud covering me.
Nestled on rusty pine needles
and gnarled old roots,
I made snow-angels in July,
suction cupped myself like a star fish
to him.
I also confess,
my plant you watered
wasn't a tomato.
You wondered why it kept shrinking
and why I kept coming
home later and later.
That summer I was guiltier
than grass stains.
3. Alone in his apartment
I searched through my ex-lover's poems,
wanting to read the ones with my name
and breasts again.
I wasn't surprised to see
he had whited out my name
but hadn't touched my body.
4. There are days
when the rain's drilling
drives holes into my body,
deeper than my bones.
And I write,
umbrella umbrella UMBRELLA,
getting colder and wetter
each line.
5. I always lost count
doing penance.
Always did one more
for the road.
* * *
With the end of each day, my breasts set like the sun. Sink back
to my body and my hands become those of a stranger.
How often, with a blanket tucked into your collar, did you try to fly?
Jumping off wagons, lawn chairs, roofs. The ground harder each time.
We buried our feet at the seaside. Made wishes
on the white caps. Whole years filled with snapshots.
I said it silently. Said it in sandwiches cut the way you liked.
Said it at bedtime and with bandaids.
The sky is cupped in puddles all the way down the road. Your eyes.
I wind the timbre of your voice around my fingers.
I give birth everywhere. Pull out whole meals from the oven.
Exclaim over new bean shoots in the garden. So tender. So green.
than to leave them at the mouth of the woods.
Sometimes by the time you find them, they've made up names
for all the birds and constellations, and they've broken
their reflections in the lake with sticks.
With my daughter came promises and vows
that unfolded through time like a roadmap and led me
to myself as a child, filled with wonder for my father
who could make sound from a wide blade of grass
and his breath. Here in the stillness of forest,
the sun columning before me temple-ancient,
that wonder is what I regret losing most; that wonder
and the true names of birds.
- The True Names of Birds, pg. 11
* * *
1. The student body snaked its way
to a folded ping-pong table.
A priest sitting behind it,
listened to confessions
in a gym that stank of sweat and sneakers
and sin.
I could hear kids whispering,
say you pushed your sister -
forgot to say your prayers.
I'd prayed every night all week, please God of everlasting love
and lambs,
please give me something to confess
and a Barbie camper.
2. I confess mother,
the night I told you I was sleeping at Mary's,
I was stay-splayed
under a summer night sky
with the sweetest cloud covering me.
Nestled on rusty pine needles
and gnarled old roots,
I made snow-angels in July,
suction cupped myself like a star fish
to him.
I also confess,
my plant you watered
wasn't a tomato.
You wondered why it kept shrinking
and why I kept coming
home later and later.
That summer I was guiltier
than grass stains.
3. Alone in his apartment
I searched through my ex-lover's poems,
wanting to read the ones with my name
and breasts again.
I wasn't surprised to see
he had whited out my name
but hadn't touched my body.
4. There are days
when the rain's drilling
drives holes into my body,
deeper than my bones.
And I write,
umbrella umbrella UMBRELLA,
getting colder and wetter
each line.
5. I always lost count
doing penance.
Always did one more
for the road.
- Confessions, pg. 25-26
* * *
With the end of each day, my breasts set like the sun. Sink back
to my body and my hands become those of a stranger.
How often, with a blanket tucked into your collar, did you try to fly?
Jumping off wagons, lawn chairs, roofs. The ground harder each time.
We buried our feet at the seaside. Made wishes
on the white caps. Whole years filled with snapshots.
I said it silently. Said it in sandwiches cut the way you liked.
Said it at bedtime and with bandaids.
The sky is cupped in puddles all the way down the road. Your eyes.
I wind the timbre of your voice around my fingers.
I give birth everywhere. Pull out whole meals from the oven.
Exclaim over new bean shoots in the garden. So tender. So green.
- Ryan, pg. 44
January 28, 2018
Loved it. Lyrical conversations. Her long lines - full of description and movement. Something I have yet to master in my own work. Wish the book was longer. Usually I mention poems that stand out for me - too many to name. Did I mention I loved this book.
November 15, 2021
Read this so I can deeper enjoy Antithesis when I start it. Beautiful, and so interesting to see the process of finding a voice laid out when you're coming at the work with the knowledge of what the poet has grown into.
June 25, 2025
heartbreaking, beautifully domestic, deeply familiar. i’ve spent hours at goyette’s kitchen table. you should too.
August 3, 2011
1999 GG nominee. Saw one of the poems on the subway ad boards. Loved the whole book.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews