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Becoming Light
Robyn Sarah's poetry has been singled out for its "tone, its flawless cadence, an imagination rooted in natural things" (University of Toronto Quarterly); for its " the masterly play of syntax and musical pattern..." (Poetry Canada Review); and for its "play of pure energy" (Margaret Avison).
Becoming Light will surprise and delight readers. There is experiment but no straining for effect; energy, bu always a sense of measure as Robyn Sarah lets familiar landscapes, so carefully observed and painstakingly drawn, open perceptual doors into the human heart.
Robyn Sarah lives with her family in Montreal, where she teaches and writes.
Becoming Light will surprise and delight readers. There is experiment but no straining for effect; energy, bu always a sense of measure as Robyn Sarah lets familiar landscapes, so carefully observed and painstakingly drawn, open perceptual doors into the human heart.
Robyn Sarah lives with her family in Montreal, where she teaches and writes.
40 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 1987
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 of 1 review
January 29, 2022
Where hot meets cold
at the window - there,
where the sash is raised -
the air is moved, the air
wavers and makes dance
the view outside. I hold
this view, that dances, dear
and to be praised -
More than an unmoved view
through a sealed pane,
whose fixed facades don't bend;
and that, for its being new
again and again.
Do you read me, friend?
* * *
The days
folding out of each other
like paper flowers. Nothing
takes your place, that's finally
understood. I kick
through leaves my stride
churns into a sound
like surf.
There are many
beautiful days, one
after another, I lose
count of them, why count them?
Strange reaches of light
across the park, a wind,
unseasonably warm, that gets
under shirts, balloons them.
It is deceptive, this wind.
I recognize you from a long way off,
turning the corner, shouldering
your empty bag. Hours
I've wasted. Weeks. How long
before snow?
The trees expose
their nests, their
perfect geometry.
* * *
Friend, what is it to say
my friend, again to wonder
how it is we seem to have
lost each other - no, scratch
that, to catch one's foot
on a pavement-crack, a ridge
left there by winter, and
stumble a little - straight-
ening to smell lilac on the
sunny air, you see, it is
spring now, and birds are
nesting in the crevices
between stones, the pocked
facades of buildings.
* * *
The impulse running its course:
carried, like a leaf on air,
through air, to rest - not just
the motion, but the path it makes
no leaf will make again - to this
I give what self I can,
what sight, what will.
Or winter warmed: a smell,
fresh, tremulous, and sweet,
we say is spring, that breathes
from heaps of shrinking snow
gone lacy in the sun - or steams
from rivulets that run
in all directions, out from under these.
at the window - there,
where the sash is raised -
the air is moved, the air
wavers and makes dance
the view outside. I hold
this view, that dances, dear
and to be praised -
More than an unmoved view
through a sealed pane,
whose fixed facades don't bend;
and that, for its being new
again and again.
Do you read me, friend?
- Convection, pg. 5
* * *
The days
folding out of each other
like paper flowers. Nothing
takes your place, that's finally
understood. I kick
through leaves my stride
churns into a sound
like surf.
There are many
beautiful days, one
after another, I lose
count of them, why count them?
Strange reaches of light
across the park, a wind,
unseasonably warm, that gets
under shirts, balloons them.
It is deceptive, this wind.
I recognize you from a long way off,
turning the corner, shouldering
your empty bag. Hours
I've wasted. Weeks. How long
before snow?
The trees expose
their nests, their
perfect geometry.
- Point of Departure, pg. 17
* * *
Friend, what is it to say
my friend, again to wonder
how it is we seem to have
lost each other - no, scratch
that, to catch one's foot
on a pavement-crack, a ridge
left there by winter, and
stumble a little - straight-
ening to smell lilac on the
sunny air, you see, it is
spring now, and birds are
nesting in the crevices
between stones, the pocked
facades of buildings.
- A Crack, pg. 24
* * *
The impulse running its course:
carried, like a leaf on air,
through air, to rest - not just
the motion, but the path it makes
no leaf will make again - to this
I give what self I can,
what sight, what will.
Or winter warmed: a smell,
fresh, tremulous, and sweet,
we say is spring, that breathes
from heaps of shrinking snow
gone lacy in the sun - or steams
from rivulets that run
in all directions, out from under these.
- Carried, pg. 39
Displaying 1 of 1 review