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My Shoes Are Killing Me
Winner of the Canadian Jewish Literary Award for Poetry
In My Shoes are Killing Me, poet Robyn Sarah reflects on the passing of time, the fleetingness of dreams, and the bittersweet pleasure of thinking on the "hazardous . . . treasurehouse" that is the past. Natural, musical, meditative, warm, and unexpectedly funny, this is a restorative and moving collection from one of Canada's most well-regarded poets.
Robyn Sarah is the author of nine previous collections. Ten of her poems have appeared on The Writer's Almanac, and her work has been anthologized in Garrison Keillor's Good Poems for Hard Times (2005), The Norton Anthology of Poetry (2005), and The Bedford Introduction to Literature (2001).
In My Shoes are Killing Me, poet Robyn Sarah reflects on the passing of time, the fleetingness of dreams, and the bittersweet pleasure of thinking on the "hazardous . . . treasurehouse" that is the past. Natural, musical, meditative, warm, and unexpectedly funny, this is a restorative and moving collection from one of Canada's most well-regarded poets.
Robyn Sarah is the author of nine previous collections. Ten of her poems have appeared on The Writer's Almanac, and her work has been anthologized in Garrison Keillor's Good Poems for Hard Times (2005), The Norton Anthology of Poetry (2005), and The Bedford Introduction to Literature (2001).
64 pages, Paperback
First published April 7, 2015
About the author
Robyn Sarah
22 books12 followersRobyn Sarah was born in New York City (1949) to Canadian parents, and has lived for most of her life in Montreal.
She is the author of eight poetry collections, two collections of short stories, and a collection of essays on poetry.
In 1976, with Fred Louder, she co-founded Villeneuve Publications and co-edited its poetry chapbook series which included first titles by August Kleinzahler and A.F. Moritz as well as her own 1981 chapbook, The Space Between Sleep and Waking.
Her poems have been widely anthologized in Canada and the United States and broadcast on The Writer's Almanac.
She is the author of eight poetry collections, two collections of short stories, and a collection of essays on poetry.
In 1976, with Fred Louder, she co-founded Villeneuve Publications and co-edited its poetry chapbook series which included first titles by August Kleinzahler and A.F. Moritz as well as her own 1981 chapbook, The Space Between Sleep and Waking.
Her poems have been widely anthologized in Canada and the United States and broadcast on The Writer's Almanac.
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Displaying 1 - 17 of 17 reviews
March 28, 2019
This is a good to so-so poetry collection. Many of the poems all filled with nostalgia and regret - clearly written by an author approaching her later years in life. I felt the first half of the collection was stronger, but there were many poems that I enjoyed throughout. 3.5⭐️
May 18, 2018
Well I can't say thatI loved this book of poetry by Sarah, it is not because of a lack of beautiful writing. I didn't jive with most of the poems on a personal level, but I found them carefully written with fantastic use of language and structure. Though it didn't suffuse my soul with joy, I am glad I read this book!
July 4, 2015
Fantastic collection of poems about the passing of time and significance in the small things in life. I could read this over and over at different times in my life and uncover new layers of meaning. Refreshing, quick read.
January 14, 2021
Call it a barefoot romp through the past, a trampoline bounce into childhood and the "yellowing" that takes place over time.
Beautifully written, this reflective poetry collection by Montreal poet Robyn Sarah spoke to me! It was both meditative and memorable filled with memories, unexpected changes, and lost dreams.
I especially enjoyed her title poem "My Shoes are Killing Me", featuring 9 profound and poetic sections on 11 pages. At one point she writes "Undo your shoes,/before they undo you" (p. 19) and towards the end in another section, she adds "This is the vestibule where we change/our shoes for paper slippers." (p. 21)
And my favourite line, "And a little herd of dry leaves/came drifting across my path./The wind was their shepherd." (p. 17)
The work appeals to all the senses "the smell of hay, and little watery/cluckings of chickens" (p. 42) and includes some interesting word play, "A moving eye,/moving the 'I'/I would become." (p. 51).
Bravo!
Beautifully written, this reflective poetry collection by Montreal poet Robyn Sarah spoke to me! It was both meditative and memorable filled with memories, unexpected changes, and lost dreams.
I especially enjoyed her title poem "My Shoes are Killing Me", featuring 9 profound and poetic sections on 11 pages. At one point she writes "Undo your shoes,/before they undo you" (p. 19) and towards the end in another section, she adds "This is the vestibule where we change/our shoes for paper slippers." (p. 21)
And my favourite line, "And a little herd of dry leaves/came drifting across my path./The wind was their shepherd." (p. 17)
The work appeals to all the senses "the smell of hay, and little watery/cluckings of chickens" (p. 42) and includes some interesting word play, "A moving eye,/moving the 'I'/I would become." (p. 51).
Bravo!
March 19, 2020
I thought these poems were amazing, even the few that I didn't fully connect to. In this case, it didn't matter, each poem is so calculated, structured, and worded in such a way that leaked excellence with every line. This is a true poet writing true poetry, someone clearly in love with words and how to use them, how to mend them, play with them, shape them... Her use of writing devices and sounds was brilliant, the metaphors, the imagery, the way her words feel like a song as you say them out loud, it's very inspiring. I also enjoyed the subject matter and content. They are subjects I think about often and I love how she uniquely describes and questions them. I think this book is highly underrated here on goodreads and deserves a lot more praise. This is a masterful writer who knows exactly how to manipulate her skill into pieces of true art.
September 26, 2016
A beautifully written collection. Poignant and palpable. My favourite is "It is not in great acts", which after describing the moments alone and shared with loved ones doing ordinary" things on "ordinary"days, brands life's experiences "wisps of well being". I love it.
August 3, 2017
My Shoes are Killing Me is the first book of poetry I've read.
It was quite a nice introduction.
It was quite a nice introduction.
January 21, 2022
At first I thought the past
must have alighted on my wrist,
and it was neither owl nor moth,
but word misread.
It pointed me my path.
We passed a faery forest.
Trees dipped overnight in mist
and sugared with a thin fur of frost
held masses of lacy twigwork up
to the sun. The snow cover, further on,
was like a threadbare cotton blanket
thrown down over the fields - it showed
the contours of the ground beneath,
furrow and stone, with tufts of grass
and weedstalk poking through.
The book lay open in my lap.
Later, two dogs stood far apart,
lonely and wagging on a snow field,
and for a long fast stretch
the train whistle wailed a blues chord,
inverted sixth.
I thought I heard it blast
that misread word,
the Past the Past the Past
* * *
At a New Year's party
you learn to count to ten
in Mandarin: yi, ar, sun, sseh, woo,
liu, chi, ba, jeow, sheu.
It remains to be seen what good
this will ever do you. Earlier in the day,
the hostess sent an email
to apologize for cutting you odd
on the phone: I had a dog in my arms
as I sat behind the steering wheel,
and you thought this could be
a metaphor for your life,
though you yourself have no dog,
and don't drive.
* * *
i
The illusion of a social life.
Only a thin sift on big gusts
howling in the dark.
The numbers don't add up.
The sight of thickly falling snow
an innocuous way to edge back
towards "story" - people out and about
but not exactly burdened under packages,
our whole generation's failure
to transmit a framework of values
(what my wiser heart suspected all alone) -
just the debris of another numb,
wasted day. A few flakes
in the middle of the night. I want
to be a better person.
ii
Sunshine, twittering of birds - a tender quiet,
the world catching its breath.
Noted, mentally, but not celebrated.
Maybe the only read story, the great
human story, is a speck
in the continuum of crisis.
A piece of faded and threadbare navy velour.
Watching the tiny movements of tiny people -
maybe it's a wish for just a taste
of one of the lives I didn't choose.
We need these markers. The new buds
were a green haze over the trees.
A two-minute meeting in spring sunshine
feels more like a lucky accident
than anything I'm doing to get it right.
iii
Not for the ancient temple lost
but for the burden of my past wrongs -
if I pluck one string, the other resonates.
The angel of the West has fallen.
Garage sales all up and down the block.
Wind blowing momentary holes in the tree's
green canopy, to the tune of crows cawing -
suddenly a homesickness for the days
when all of this mattered, for the way
it mattered. Sun comes to the balcony yet,
two days after the hurricane you're wondering
about where to go to get your hair done,
yellow leaves clinging to a branch, here and there,
like shreds, tatters of summer - it does not feel
as if this could be the whole story.
iv
To keep my fragile hold on the tricky tightrope,
a flash connection between two or three memories
remote from each other in time - but what?
what? It's gone... I haven't kept my promise.
I feel so far from stories. (Speeches now.
A lot of heart-bottoms being invoked.)
Up the tree runs the bobtailed squirrel,
he's a plucky one, he gets by.
The world grows madder, days are trickling away,
bevies of sparrows keeping up a constant
manic chirping - I feel an emptiness
in the middle of my childhood, somehow we took
a wrong turn and entered a backwater.
Streetlamps were swaying on their metal poles
like flowers on stalks. I love these winds,
[...]
* * *
So close are we to ruin every day!
A friend has lost her son; another's ill.
And There but for the grace of God, we say.
Some throw themselves into their work; some pray.
Some live as though there's no tomorrow. Still,
so close are we to ruin every day,
we know we only hold the dark at bay.
It peers at us beneath the curtain frill.
There but for the grace of God, we say.
Music hath charms. And wine. Salves that allay
night terrors - but we waken, and a chill
attends our brush with ruin another day:
whispers of trouble, come our neighbours' way.
How long before we taste the bitter pill
ourselves? But for the grace of God, we say,
and Let us love each other, come what may.
Brave words, half understood. Until, until.
We skirt the edge of ruin every day,
spared by the grace of God. Or so we say.
must have alighted on my wrist,
and it was neither owl nor moth,
but word misread.
It pointed me my path.
We passed a faery forest.
Trees dipped overnight in mist
and sugared with a thin fur of frost
held masses of lacy twigwork up
to the sun. The snow cover, further on,
was like a threadbare cotton blanket
thrown down over the fields - it showed
the contours of the ground beneath,
furrow and stone, with tufts of grass
and weedstalk poking through.
The book lay open in my lap.
Later, two dogs stood far apart,
lonely and wagging on a snow field,
and for a long fast stretch
the train whistle wailed a blues chord,
inverted sixth.
I thought I heard it blast
that misread word,
the Past the Past the Past
- Reading Marianne Moore on a Train between Cobourg and Kingston, pg. 11
* * *
At a New Year's party
you learn to count to ten
in Mandarin: yi, ar, sun, sseh, woo,
liu, chi, ba, jeow, sheu.
It remains to be seen what good
this will ever do you. Earlier in the day,
the hostess sent an email
to apologize for cutting you odd
on the phone: I had a dog in my arms
as I sat behind the steering wheel,
and you thought this could be
a metaphor for your life,
though you yourself have no dog,
and don't drive.
- Gleanings at Year's End, pg. 26
* * *
i
The illusion of a social life.
Only a thin sift on big gusts
howling in the dark.
The numbers don't add up.
The sight of thickly falling snow
an innocuous way to edge back
towards "story" - people out and about
but not exactly burdened under packages,
our whole generation's failure
to transmit a framework of values
(what my wiser heart suspected all alone) -
just the debris of another numb,
wasted day. A few flakes
in the middle of the night. I want
to be a better person.
ii
Sunshine, twittering of birds - a tender quiet,
the world catching its breath.
Noted, mentally, but not celebrated.
Maybe the only read story, the great
human story, is a speck
in the continuum of crisis.
A piece of faded and threadbare navy velour.
Watching the tiny movements of tiny people -
maybe it's a wish for just a taste
of one of the lives I didn't choose.
We need these markers. The new buds
were a green haze over the trees.
A two-minute meeting in spring sunshine
feels more like a lucky accident
than anything I'm doing to get it right.
iii
Not for the ancient temple lost
but for the burden of my past wrongs -
if I pluck one string, the other resonates.
The angel of the West has fallen.
Garage sales all up and down the block.
Wind blowing momentary holes in the tree's
green canopy, to the tune of crows cawing -
suddenly a homesickness for the days
when all of this mattered, for the way
it mattered. Sun comes to the balcony yet,
two days after the hurricane you're wondering
about where to go to get your hair done,
yellow leaves clinging to a branch, here and there,
like shreds, tatters of summer - it does not feel
as if this could be the whole story.
iv
To keep my fragile hold on the tricky tightrope,
a flash connection between two or three memories
remote from each other in time - but what?
what? It's gone... I haven't kept my promise.
I feel so far from stories. (Speeches now.
A lot of heart-bottoms being invoked.)
Up the tree runs the bobtailed squirrel,
he's a plucky one, he gets by.
The world grows madder, days are trickling away,
bevies of sparrows keeping up a constant
manic chirping - I feel an emptiness
in the middle of my childhood, somehow we took
a wrong turn and entered a backwater.
Streetlamps were swaying on their metal poles
like flowers on stalks. I love these winds,
[...]
- Variations on an Untold Story, pg. 32-33
* * *
So close are we to ruin every day!
A friend has lost her son; another's ill.
And There but for the grace of God, we say.
Some throw themselves into their work; some pray.
Some live as though there's no tomorrow. Still,
so close are we to ruin every day,
we know we only hold the dark at bay.
It peers at us beneath the curtain frill.
There but for the grace of God, we say.
Music hath charms. And wine. Salves that allay
night terrors - but we waken, and a chill
attends our brush with ruin another day:
whispers of trouble, come our neighbours' way.
How long before we taste the bitter pill
ourselves? But for the grace of God, we say,
and Let us love each other, come what may.
Brave words, half understood. Until, until.
We skirt the edge of ruin every day,
spared by the grace of God. Or so we say.
- Villanelle on a line from William Carlos Williams, pg. 52
April 16, 2022
Some poems in this collection are really good, absolutely wonderful to read and really struck me! Others were so-so and didn’t leave as much of an impression on me. But can tell the poet is extremely skilled in the craft of poetry.
June 6, 2017
quiet poems with startling lines and insights
November 23, 2017
Some beautiful lines
May 15, 2023
Especially for those about the passage of time
Read
March 25, 2025Poetry book #12 of the year
May 9, 2025
Where is my trampoline?
May 3, 2026
52BC "From the 800s of the Dewey Decimal System"
August 12, 2018
My Shoes Are Killing Me is a book of poems about being tired and sore, looking back from the end of a long Boomer life. Full of an incessant sense of nostalgia, of loss, and regret, as is clear from titles such as "Castoffs", "Spent", and "Too Late."
"Do we all cling to the grandeur of our past?", she asks in "What We Keep". Maybe. She writes as if there is nothing left to live for. I found this book difficult to relate to, but I recognize I could feel like this one day too—I hope not.
"Do we all cling to the grandeur of our past?", she asks in "What We Keep". Maybe. She writes as if there is nothing left to live for. I found this book difficult to relate to, but I recognize I could feel like this one day too—I hope not.
March 30, 2021
This is a fabulous collection. The theme of fugacity and life experiences is beautifully conveyed in the poems, and the word choice…absolutely breathtaking. I think I’ll come to love this collection even more in the future. My favourite poems were “Vestigial”, “Keep off the Grass, “What We Keep”, “Gleanings at New Year’s End”, “Lacunae” AND “CAMEO”—which might be my favourite poem!
Displaying 1 - 17 of 17 reviews