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Evade your eye. Try to see as others do
what is desired or refused. What went wrong.
Or right, then wrong. Objectively, what hangs.
Pull yourself together. Years are neither kind
nor cruel. You drag on. The girl is gone.
Consider that it might be time to call in
a professional. Blood is fearless, runs
to meet a touch, indiscriminate, remembering
the first time it fell in love with the world, unaware
that now you are alone.
From "Mirror"
In Modern and Normal, Karen Solie takes her on-the-road fascination with being between places to a new level, exploring conceptual and perceptual states of in-betweenness - for example, between what is perceived and what is actually there, or between and among the patterns the world repeats from the cell to the structure of the universe - to find points of intersection. Solie finds a middle ground between the discourses of the hard sciences and the intuitive, a realm of weird overlap wherein lie questions of probability, fate, determinism, chance, luck, and faith. She writes about fractals and physics, but also about bar bands, broken hearts, and the trappings of desire. Some splendid landscape poems celebrate nature while mourning the way in which it's often exploited and used. Once again Karen Solie offers readers her lovely dexterity and skill in poems which entertain as they move.
100 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 29, 2005
Clothed / in low-rent autobiographies we slouch toward eviction / like dying brickwork.
- The Vandal Confesses (pg. 42)
Simone Weil asks of solitude, Where does its value lie?
It filled her up like rain until, the way a gauge is,
she was emptied.
(pg. 82)
You’re still young. Someone curled an arm around you as you slept,
and upon awaking gently touched your face. The first sound you heard
today was a bird, a note of origin, before traffic. It’s been years
since you thought the morning kind. Someone curled an arm around you
as you slept, and in the afternoon reached a hand toward you that you held,
simply. A note of origin, before traffic. Words you’d left behind rose
like birds to all they keep unto themselves. This is mine. Upon awaking
to that first sound, someone gently touched my face. This afternoon
I took his hand, simply, and reached across the words I’d left behind.
I’m still young. It’s been years since I thought the morning kind.
(pg. 26)