What do you think?
Rate this book
A Steady Hand
`Mike Doyle's collection A Steady Hand takes shape in dialogue with the texts of other poets and artists (for example, Anna Akhmatova, Max Ernst, Cesar Vellejo, W.S. Merwin), with diaries, journals, biographies, and pieces by and about painters -- particularly Klee. A Steady Hand tends to converse internationally. If that sounds very general, the particularity of this poet's community is that it is so literary/artistic; it is not easy to assign it any other sense (e.g., geographic) of community. One gets the strong sense of language itself being his home and native land.' --Laurel Boone, Canadian Literature
- GenresPoetry
92 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1982
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 28, 2022
last season's paperthin
maple leaf
cups a stigma of snow
above it
a single daffodil
nods, without blemish
* * *
We work on granite boulders
from the moraine
of the Forno Glacier.
Wonderfully polished
by time, frost & weather,
they are in themselves
unfathomably
beautiful.
No human hand can do that.
So, why not leave
the spadework to the elements
& confine ourselves
to scratching on them
the runes of our own mystery
* * *
How the leaves float, downward
to lawn & pavement! See,
they are swept away, as if
by an artist who, at last,
has finished her painting.
Though nobody likes the way
she stands & stares, or her vigilant
expression, there's no doubt that one
rusty, distinctly shrivelled
leaf remains on the tree.
* * *
Thirsty so long
he rediscovered
the well
In the eye of the storm
he paused
for sustainance
In the ruined garden
dovelike
she found a resting place
At high noon
the rains
over & gone
he picks for her
from the palpable, shining air
oranges, jasmine
* * *
who don't have heads any more,
four with their necks snapped,
call them the neckless four.
When they drank a glass
in a cafe on the square or boulevard
the waiters would be sure to bring some funnels.
When they ate it was bloody,
all four sighing & sobbing.
When they loved, all was blood.
When they ran, all was wind.
When they wept, everything was lively.
When they slept, it was without regret.
When they laboured, they were naughty,
when they prowled, it was frightening,
when they played it was - different.
When they played it was just like anybody,
like you & me, you & us & all the others.
When they played, it was astounding.
But when they spoke, it was of love.
For a kiss they'd have given
what was left of their blood.
Their hands had lines without number
which disappeared in the shadows
like railway lines in the forest.
When they sat down it was more majestic than kings,
and idols hid behind their crosses
when confronted by the four of them.
Having found them at the hunt or at the ball
people brought their heads back to them
more than twenty times, more than a hundred.
But they refused to take back
these heads with shining eyes
& memories sleeping in their brains.
This maybe would not be good
for the business of hatters & dentists.
The gaiety of some makes other sad.
The four without necks still live, that's for sure.
I know at least one
& maybe also the other three.
First is Anatole,
second is Croquignole,
third is Barbemolle,
& fourth is Anatole again.
I see them less & less
because, in the long run, it's depressing
always to be around people who are clever.
* * *
Against the huge
black door night
echo twelve knocks.
Men start up in bed:
fear's icy scales
slide all over them.
Who can it be? Barefoot
through their houses
terror goes.
Their trembling
candleflames quench
in the clamour of knocking.
Their unknown guest is calling;
across their eyelids
flashes a thin blue flame.
maple leaf
cups a stigma of snow
above it
a single daffodil
nods, without blemish
- Spring Balance, pg. 9
* * *
We work on granite boulders
from the moraine
of the Forno Glacier.
Wonderfully polished
by time, frost & weather,
they are in themselves
unfathomably
beautiful.
No human hand can do that.
So, why not leave
the spadework to the elements
& confine ourselves
to scratching on them
the runes of our own mystery
- Spadework, after Max Ernst, pg. 19
* * *
How the leaves float, downward
to lawn & pavement! See,
they are swept away, as if
by an artist who, at last,
has finished her painting.
Though nobody likes the way
she stands & stares, or her vigilant
expression, there's no doubt that one
rusty, distinctly shrivelled
leaf remains on the tree.
- Marina in Late Fall after Tsvetaeva, pg. 21
* * *
Thirsty so long
he rediscovered
the well
In the eye of the storm
he paused
for sustainance
In the ruined garden
dovelike
she found a resting place
At high noon
the rains
over & gone
he picks for her
from the palpable, shining air
oranges, jasmine
- High Season after Ungaretti, pg. 29
* * *
who don't have heads any more,
four with their necks snapped,
call them the neckless four.
When they drank a glass
in a cafe on the square or boulevard
the waiters would be sure to bring some funnels.
When they ate it was bloody,
all four sighing & sobbing.
When they loved, all was blood.
When they ran, all was wind.
When they wept, everything was lively.
When they slept, it was without regret.
When they laboured, they were naughty,
when they prowled, it was frightening,
when they played it was - different.
When they played it was just like anybody,
like you & me, you & us & all the others.
When they played, it was astounding.
But when they spoke, it was of love.
For a kiss they'd have given
what was left of their blood.
Their hands had lines without number
which disappeared in the shadows
like railway lines in the forest.
When they sat down it was more majestic than kings,
and idols hid behind their crosses
when confronted by the four of them.
Having found them at the hunt or at the ball
people brought their heads back to them
more than twenty times, more than a hundred.
But they refused to take back
these heads with shining eyes
& memories sleeping in their brains.
This maybe would not be good
for the business of hatters & dentists.
The gaiety of some makes other sad.
The four without necks still live, that's for sure.
I know at least one
& maybe also the other three.
First is Anatole,
second is Croquignole,
third is Barbemolle,
& fourth is Anatole again.
I see them less & less
because, in the long run, it's depressing
always to be around people who are clever.
- The Four Without Necks after Robert Desnos, pg. 55-56
* * *
Against the huge
black door night
echo twelve knocks.
Men start up in bed:
fear's icy scales
slide all over them.
Who can it be? Barefoot
through their houses
terror goes.
Their trembling
candleflames quench
in the clamour of knocking.
Their unknown guest is calling;
across their eyelids
flashes a thin blue flame.
- Visitor after Jorge Carrera Andrade, pg. 66
Displaying 1 of 1 review