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Beast Gate
Paperback
Published January 1, 1980
About the author
E.D. Blodgett
46 books2 followersEdward Dickinson Blodgett (born 26 February 1935) is a Canadian poet, literary critic, and translator who won the Governor General's Award for poetry in 1996 for his collection Apostrophes: Woman at a Piano.
Born in Philadelphia and educated at Rutgers University, E. D. Blodgett emigrated to Canada in 1966 to work as a literature professor at the University of Alberta.[1]
In 1999, Jacques Brault won the Governor-General's Award for Translation for 'Transfiguration (1998), a translation of Blodgett's poetry.
On July 1, 2007 E.D. Blodgett was appointed the post of Poet Laureate for the City of Edmonton, Alberta.
Born in Philadelphia and educated at Rutgers University, E. D. Blodgett emigrated to Canada in 1966 to work as a literature professor at the University of Alberta.[1]
In 1999, Jacques Brault won the Governor-General's Award for Translation for 'Transfiguration (1998), a translation of Blodgett's poetry.
On July 1, 2007 E.D. Blodgett was appointed the post of Poet Laureate for the City of Edmonton, Alberta.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 21, 2022
these are the essences of the given.
take a tree:
partly in air, a revision
implicitly
grounded where you begin - green
echoes of birds,
some other tree in between.
so many words
you start. where do i go to go
under you,
your ending in leaf, below
absence too?
* * *
hardest of all: to believe
whatever is there -
no rose it is
planets unclosed to take
orbits that are theirs -
is what you see.
* * *
who is there now, and where, to tell us,
when all we see of planets is
the shell, what kind of spacious
in- flowering of bliss
pelicans create? and when,
moons reflecting, did he see
wings as a young abyss open
and flesh, and gravity
implode? of birds they are the in-
side out - the cosmos cracks
as an egg, and everything within
heliotrope retracts.
* * *
my song is of the birds who eat
the fallow flesh and sweet.
my song is of the dead who lie
upon the fields for aye:
bone through the mouth laid bare -
black harrowing air.
take a tree:
partly in air, a revision
implicitly
grounded where you begin - green
echoes of birds,
some other tree in between.
so many words
you start. where do i go to go
under you,
your ending in leaf, below
absence too?
- bird cage, pg. 26
* * *
hardest of all: to believe
whatever is there -
no rose it is
planets unclosed to take
orbits that are theirs -
is what you see.
- fly, pg. 34
* * *
who is there now, and where, to tell us,
when all we see of planets is
the shell, what kind of spacious
in- flowering of bliss
pelicans create? and when,
moons reflecting, did he see
wings as a young abyss open
and flesh, and gravity
implode? of birds they are the in-
side out - the cosmos cracks
as an egg, and everything within
heliotrope retracts.
- pelicans, after gerrit achterberg, pg. 40
* * *
my song is of the birds who eat
the fallow flesh and sweet.
my song is of the dead who lie
upon the fields for aye:
bone through the mouth laid bare -
black harrowing air.
- crow, pg. 55
Displaying 1 of 1 review