The latest book by Gillian Sze, author of the Pat Lowther Memorial Award–winning book Quiet Night Think
This prosimetrical work is a meditation on motherhood, language, and art. The central speaker witnesses the earliest utterances of her child and launches into a poetic inquiry of words themselves, asking, How to measure one’s mouth by its words? The speaker seeks an answer amidst the language that surrounds her — words misspoken, mispronounced, remembered, unwritten — and, in doing so, struggles with signification and significance.
Each prose poem in the five-part collection darts between the many meanings of “fit” — as in “a sudden burst of emotion” or “to be the right size and shape,” and the archaic “fytte” (a section of a poem). A text becomes an open mouth, a square day of a calendar, or a bare fragment of a narrative. The final section of the book is an intimate and ekphrastic engagement with the work of Danish painter Vilhelm Hammershøi. Drawn to Hammershøi’s paintings of the empty rooms of his apartment, the speaker recognizes a familiar space of art’s insistence.
An Orange, A Syllable details a period of maternal and artistic transformation.
GILLIAN SZE is the author of Panicle (ECW Press, 2017), Peeling Rambutan (Gaspereau Press, 2014) and Redrafting Winter (BuschekBooks, 2015), which were shortlisted for the QWF A.M. Klein Prize for Poetry. She is also the author of The Anatomy of Clay (ECW Press, 2011) and Fish Bones (DC Books, 2009). More recently, she has started writing for children. Her first two picture books are The Night Is Deep and Wide (Orca, 2021) and My Love for You Is Always (Philomel, 2021). Gillian's work has appeared in a number of national and international journals, and has received awards such as the University of Winnipeg Writers’ Circle Prize and the 3Macs carte blanche Prize. She studied Creative Writing and English Literature and received a Ph.D. in Études anglaises from Université de Montréal. Originally from Winnipeg, she now resides in Montreal.
A collection of darknesses and lights Of tombstones and half-open doorways
A collection of open mouths and outpourings Of fits, both fluid and frozen in time
A collection of cries, from the first to the last Of embraces, of the risible, of the perplexing
The child is at its core, like a caterpillar eating its way, to chrysalis, to metamorphosis
The child has both a mother and a father, and some are language animals, some are not
The logic of the child is primal scream pitted against the logic of sense, the logic of geometry
Call them prose poems, or shorts, or vignettes, they probe delicately and tenaciously they problematize ambiguities the nature of a black square and its place in art history the nature of a black hole in physics and how two such holes may coexist in relative harmony the nature of love and its phases the nature of fear, and Schwellenangst
An Orange, A Syllable inquires sketches a scene takes an example, tells a story takes a counter-example, tells another and in a series of moves that may resemble a game of Go, keeps the reader rapt until the end
“I cannot blame the child for choosing efficiency. The verb slipping into the past with the smallest addition of sounds, consistent and predictable. I never correct her. Write. Writed. Why must the grammar strengthen if it already works? It’s a weak verb, so it’s correct, I over you say. Love. Loved.”