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Tiny, Frantic, Stronger
PMIn Tiny, Frantic, Stronger, Jeff Latosik takes up the questionof durability and longevity in an age of ephemeralmores and instant gratification. In gritty urban poems,ancient and elemental forces collide with the sophisticatedinfrastructures of modern life, a system thatbrings with it not only incredible strength but alsoprofound vulnerability. These poems probe the pressurepoints where notions of physical, psychological,and technological strength continually threaten toerupt into their opposites, and they ask the question:what aspects of our daily lives will actually last beyondthe here and now, beyond their own inherent limitationsof time and plac
79 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2010
34 people want to read
About the author
Jeff Latosik
4 books5 followersJeff Latosik is the author of Tiny, Frantic, Stronger, a collection of poems that won the 2011 Trillium Award for poetry and was shortlisted for the Gerald Lampert and Relit awards. His work has been published widely in Canada in magazines such as The Walrus, Maisonneuve, and the Literary Review of Canada, and journals such as the Malahat Review, Grain, and Prairie Fire. He is the winner of This Magazine’s Great Literary Hunt (2008) and the P.K. Page Founder’s Award (2010), and appeared on the shortlist for the Bronwen Wallace award (2009). He teaches English at the University of Toronto.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
January 28, 2022
Night pushes their windows closer.
They slouched more. It felt good to give up posture.
They sat for hours, immersed in a game
that involved a series of miniature doors.
The problem was figuring out who was winning
or when the game might come to an end.
I imagined my life differently, she said.
No matter, he said, when I drink
I'm the tallest man in Toronto.
There was the ritual of high-fiving
until something delicate fell from a table.
There was inhaling the price tags from beautiful clothes.
You have too many tiny apartments, she said.
And he sat on the chair he'd made for her
from balsa wood, remembered how it all came
in dusty panels with uneven edges,
how he'd told her that was the measure of awe,
cutting panels from larger panels
as if somewhere at the start of it
there was something huge and complete.
* * *
Their sons are pointed anchors
that flip over onto delicate canvas.
Tearing through residential streets
in bright vans, the windsurfing fathers
curse left turns and child support.
Sons as dull as a garage door
or a white fence: quiet, cautious, never
disobedient -
they wait in parking lots
while their fathers
stand on oceans, like myths.
* * *
Starfish hold the house together.
Pull them out, and the frame falls around itself
like an empty shirt.
They aren't distributed evenly.
Some are falling around themselves,
their own clasps having given;
some move further into the nourishing dark.
All the pressure points are moving
through the house, congealing, cracking.
At the table someone sits and thinks
of how to deliver the news.
It is not good; a door will slam;
a wristwatch will go missing.
Under him, a different pace,
life that is measured in days
or seconds, and floorboards that last.
* * *
This moment's room is lit with track
lighting. There's no furniture.
Only a desk, this screen
where I type my words. A corner pokes
into view. Something is taking shape,
nailed together with hinges
that do not creak or rust.
Panels become more than panels,
placed together, now an enclosure.
The base leaves a print in the dust.
You can make shapes on the floor
no one has considered.
You can pick up the box and peer
inside, carry in it whatever you choose.
A lid shuts like a ban on lids.
In the mind, a box weighs
as much as an ocean, and both get bigger,
or smaller, or both.
They slouched more. It felt good to give up posture.
They sat for hours, immersed in a game
that involved a series of miniature doors.
The problem was figuring out who was winning
or when the game might come to an end.
I imagined my life differently, she said.
No matter, he said, when I drink
I'm the tallest man in Toronto.
There was the ritual of high-fiving
until something delicate fell from a table.
There was inhaling the price tags from beautiful clothes.
You have too many tiny apartments, she said.
And he sat on the chair he'd made for her
from balsa wood, remembered how it all came
in dusty panels with uneven edges,
how he'd told her that was the measure of awe,
cutting panels from larger panels
as if somewhere at the start of it
there was something huge and complete.
- An Unauthorized Account of the Downtime of the Lovely Couple, pg. 17
* * *
Their sons are pointed anchors
that flip over onto delicate canvas.
Tearing through residential streets
in bright vans, the windsurfing fathers
curse left turns and child support.
Sons as dull as a garage door
or a white fence: quiet, cautious, never
disobedient -
they wait in parking lots
while their fathers
stand on oceans, like myths.
- Windsurfing Fathers, pg. 38
* * *
Starfish hold the house together.
Pull them out, and the frame falls around itself
like an empty shirt.
They aren't distributed evenly.
Some are falling around themselves,
their own clasps having given;
some move further into the nourishing dark.
All the pressure points are moving
through the house, congealing, cracking.
At the table someone sits and thinks
of how to deliver the news.
It is not good; a door will slam;
a wristwatch will go missing.
Under him, a different pace,
life that is measured in days
or seconds, and floorboards that last.
- Silverfish Elegy, pg. 58
* * *
This moment's room is lit with track
lighting. There's no furniture.
Only a desk, this screen
where I type my words. A corner pokes
into view. Something is taking shape,
nailed together with hinges
that do not creak or rust.
Panels become more than panels,
placed together, now an enclosure.
The base leaves a print in the dust.
You can make shapes on the floor
no one has considered.
You can pick up the box and peer
inside, carry in it whatever you choose.
A lid shuts like a ban on lids.
In the mind, a box weighs
as much as an ocean, and both get bigger,
or smaller, or both.
- The Thought Box, after Ted Hughes, pg. 75
Read
November 11, 2014Jeff Latosik is an accomplished and thoughtful poet who has given us a remarkable first book of poetry. I have been through the book twice and my admiration only increased on the second reading. Latosik is able to use common language to create an idiosyncratic picture of the world which is both strange and remarkably comfortable. My favourites in the collection are those poems that so wonderfully reference Toronto ('Toronto Island, Summer', 'Sunnyside') but I was regularly delighted by the poet's skill with more traditional forms ('Something Inside That Grows Like a Vine'). Like many first books, the poems betray sprawling interests and influences and I look forward to Latosik's next book to see where his gifts will take him.
February 10, 2015
I really enjoyed reading this book of poems. I was able to visualize everything. I truly enjoyed it. It made me feel relaxed and at times I laughed and related to bits and pieces. Some parts made me want to write my own and some poems played in my head like an old black and white film. Truly brilliant and wonderful. It's one of those books you can keep with you all them time and read while you wait in line or just to relax at home. Wonderful and inspiring!
December 3, 2014
I loved this skim volume. Mr. Latosik's verses accomplish what really good poems should: they enable you to see reality in a beautiful and entirely new way. They were like a refreshing breeze through my dusty, cobwebbed brain. I thoroughly enjoyed this work and would love to read more of it.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews