Razovsky At Peace

by Stuart Ross

Touching, hilarious, and terrifying: the follow-up collection by 2000 Trillium Award Nominee. In his third major collection of poetry, Stuart Ross blazes surprising, new paths. Razovsky At Peace still showcases his trademark humour, surrealism, and absurd take on the banal, but also delves into darker, more raw territory. While once again challenging our perception of suburbia, capitalism, and hamburgers, his trembling characters now stumble awkwardly into litter-strewn rural landscapes, emotional rapture, and even terrified, unadvisable love. Accessible, conversational, and dynamic, his work appeals even to people who hate poetry. There is no one in Canada writing quite like Stuart Ross. “Stuart Ross is one of North America’s most active and fiercely independent literary populists.” — Richard Huttel, Another Chicago Magazine “Stuart Ross’s preferred form of self-indulgence is clean, clever and thoroughly entertaining. … Ross is well-known in Toronto as a skillful performer of his work and as an irreverent, uncompromising writer.” — Kevin Connolly, Arts Editor, eye Weekly  “Ross (is) a master butcher in the delicatessen of humanity.” — Kathleen Hickey, NOW 

Genres: Poetry

120 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2001

About the author

Stuart Ross published his first literary pamphlet on the photocopier in his dad’s office one night in 1979. Through the 1980s, he stood on Toronto’s Yonge Street wearing signs like “Writer Going To Hell: Buy My Books,” selling over 7,000 poetry and fiction chapbooks.

A tireless literary press activist, he is the co-founder of the Toronto Small Press Book Fair and now a founding member of the Meet the Presses collective. He had his own imprint, a stuart ross book, at Mansfield Press for a decade, and was Fiction & Poetry Editor at This Magazine for eight years. In fall 2017, he launched a new poetry imprint, A Feed Dog Book, through Anvil Press.

Stuart has edited several small literary magazines, including Mondo Hunkamooga: A Journal of Small Press Stuff, Syd & Shirley, Who Torched Rancho Diablo?, Peter O’Toole: A Magazine of One-Line Poems, and, most recently HARDSCRABBLE.

He is the author of two collaborative novels, two solo novels, two collections of stories, and twelve full-length poetry books. He has also published two collections of essays, Confessions of a Small Press Racketeer and Further Confessions of a Small Press Racketeer (both from Anvil Press), and edited the anthology Surreal Estate: 13 Canadian Poets Under the Influence (The Mercury Press) and co-edited Rogue Stimulus: The Stephen Harper Holiday Anthology for a Prorogued Parliament (Mansfield Press).

Stuart has taught writing workshops across Canada and works one-on-one with authors on their manuscripts. He lives in Cobourg, Ontario. In spring 2009, Freehand Books released his first short-story collection in more than a decade, Buying Cigarettes for the Dog, to almost unanimous critical acclaim.

Stuart was the fall 2010 writer-in-residence at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, and the winter 2021 writer-in-residence at the University of Ottawa.

In 2017, Stuart won the eighth annual Battle of the Bards, presented by the International Festival of Authors and NOW Magazine. In spring 2023, Stuart received the biggest book award in Ontario, the Trillium Book Prize, for his memoir The Book of Grief and Hamburgers. In fall 2019, Stuart was awarded the Harbourfront Festival Prize for his contributions to Canadian literature and literary community. His other awards include the Canadian Jewish Literary Prize for Poetry and the ReLit Award for Short Fiction. His work has been translated into Russian, French, Spanish, Estonian, Slovene, and Nynorsk.

Stuart is currently working on ten book projects.

Reviews

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

You know what they say about not judging a book by its cover...? Well, it's true of most books and it's especially true of Razovsky at Peace. Please do not judge this book by its cover. The cover has no relation to the contents whatsoever (with the possible exception of the line about the eyeglasses "shattering / like comedic dancing ants" from "One Afternoon in the Pharmacy", pg. 59).

If you can overlook the cover, you arrive at the title. Razovsky at Peace. Who is Razovsky? Razovsky is none other than the poet himself. In a recent blog entry, Stuart Ross explained that "Ross" is derived from "Razovsky". Ross's "Razovsky" is comparable to Charles Bukowski's "Chinaski" - an alter ego that embodies all the myth that's fit to print. It's also the best way to write about yourself in the third person.

The Razovsky of Razovsky at Peace is also Ross's father who, according to the same blog entry, died around the time of the book's publication.

This death, however significant, does not loom on the page (it is present, but it doesn't loom). Razovsky at Peace still contains all of the exuberance that I have come to expect from Stuart Ross, the freshness and spontaneity that keeps forcing its way into my line of vision, even after my eyes have grown tired and the words have begun to blur on the page... Perhaps Mr. Ross should look into the "magic eye" technology that enables viewers to see a hidden picture within a picture, transferring this process for the weary-eyed reader to see a hidden poem within his poems?

A man causes chaos in his house.
His family flees, finds shelter.
Here there is much light.
Here the clocks function.
Here the children learn to hunt.
Meals are served on plates.
The earth does not shift.
A woman wears a hate of fruit;
she sings into a microphone.
Each morning a calf is born.
Children may select their facial features.
It is safe here.

A man lies on a suspension bridge,
curled in a ball.
He closes his eyes
and doesn't breathe.

- The Big Chair, pg. 3

* * *

One
hundred
and
sixty-two
people
ran
screaming
from
the
cinema.

They
poured
into
the
street
and
down
narrow
alleys,
their
faces
contorted,
their
hands
claw-like.
Many
didn't
arrive
home
for
days.

- But Times Were Not So Good at the Box Office, pg. 23-24

* * *

On the street, a guy says to Razovsky,
"Over there, behind those buildings:
nature," Razovsky goes.
In nature, it is much quieter.
There is no TV, but there's animals,
which are like TV bu furrier.
In nature, Razovsky is damp.
His arms and legs itch. He is
covered in insects.
Razovsky talks, shouts:
in nature, he can't understand
his own words. They disappear
into trees, behind rocks, become
dew. Razovsky's shoes slide
along the slick leaves that carpet
this enormous living room.
A squirrel comes round a tree trunk,
its head stretched out, its nostrils
twitching. Razovsky twitches back.
They stare, time passes,
they stare. The squirrel's watery eyes
blink. Razovsky obeys.
He lies down in the moist leaves,
lets his limbs go limp.
Beyond the highest branches of the trees,
through the space the leaves leave,
he sees the sky, the clouds. He is
engulfed by screeches and scratchings
and thuds and buzzings. The song
of birds he cannot name. He was never
good at this stuff.

He closes his eyes, lets the sky
suck itself back into the sky.
Everything is orderly. For example:
a potato-chip bag bounces near in a breeze.
It becomes wedged between two rocks,
flutters, rustles.
Time passes. Razofsky becomes
part of the ground. The chip bag
becomes a butterfly, as ordained
by nature; it struggles from its
cocoon, bats its wings,
tugs frantically,
but still it is lodged
between the rocks. Razovsky
is not surprised
He looks up from the ground
at the same moment
he looks down from the trees.
His eyes meet his eyes.
There is a flicker
of recognition.

- Razovsky at Peace, pg. 25-26

* * *

1.

They got people in there
think they hear voices
in their heads, think
there's voices coming out
of the heating ducts.
You gotta pay ten cents
to see this, but
it's worth it.

*

2.

Eager, because I
like getting mail, I
rip open the package.
It is a shrunken head.
My own.

*

3.

What do you call that thing
where you feel like
centipedes are swarming
over your body, but also
a guy with a screwdriver
is gouging your
elbow?

*

4.

On my driveway,
buck-naked,
I am admired
by neighbours
retrieving
their papers.

*

5.

I wonder what love is
while eating my
eighteenth bag
of potato chips.
Each chip provides
a piece of the answer.
My stomach
will sort it out.

*

6.

Most
ghosts
eat
toast.

- Ten Ways of Looking at Me, pg. 34-39

* * *

The boat
of the music
was happy
and diversion.

The dictator
chose
between
soft drinks.

Bathroom
is located
near monkies
white face.

No se permiten
escenas románticas.

- Meanwhile, in Costa Rica, pg. 51

* * *

In Paris,
Rick hits Ed
on the head
with a stick.
"Crunch!"
Rick exclaims.
"Oof," Ed replies,
holding up an egg.

- Onomatopoeia, pg. 57

* * *

He cursed god
for putting
his handsome feet
on the bottom
of him
instead of
on the top.

He shook his fist,
which was attached
to his arm
and not his leg.

He shook it
at the clouds.

- Feet and Head, pg. 67

* * *

Scream, my feet.
Nothing caresses you,
making you holy.

- Poem, pg. 77

* * *

I'm
circling
the
sharks
again.
There
is
no
explanation.
Music
I
composed
appears
in
films
made
before
I
was
born.
My
elbows
bend
at
my
knees
and
there
are
bunnies
between
my
toes.

- Serenity, pg. 87

[Penn Kemp · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ross’s manic energy is settling into a play of and with form:

“But now I am in control, and from the sofa headquarters of
my inert body, my atrophying limbs, my glowing angel’s
visage, I make things come to me.”

And so the poems descend from dream, from other poets’ lines, from family story. Adventures in liminal land, where dream merges with ordinary, avidly observed absurdist reality.