By Matt Robinson
This publication is ready reminiscence -- reminiscence as a poetic shape by which refractions of loss, restoration, discovery and identification shape an imaginitive reshaping of the earlier. In uncooked brushstrokes, Robinson documents the sluggish cascade of occasions and characters slipping during the skinny membrane of expertise, shaping our histories. while, he experiments with kind and shape in a superbly sinuous writing. With this, his first ebook, Robinson makes a excellent debut at the North American literary level.
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Additional info for A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking
From "The Motive For Metaphor" by Wallace Stevens i like this place now in its muddy march renewal because it is agreeable — because in its sopping confusion of footprints i am free to stumble and not recognize my doing so in hindsight, but i also appreciate the willingness of these remnants of the wars, of those greater struggles than mine, to align themselves — in the midst of their own haphazard tumbling and collapse — with something akin to my grief; to allow it something of the concrete, and the cooperation of the weather, of the harbour's incessant crashing and its rock-spit, is also a sort of liquid kinship, a coupling and mingling that, while not surprising given the cycles, the multiplicity of water, is a sympathetic sort of storming, indeed, that everything here is fully dead, or seems to be — 54 only the cracked, dark spruce hint at growth, at life — is helpful too, if only by suggestion, as, through previous experience, i know that even this salt-beaten concrete is split by greens in spring.
Minutes pass, snow falls, my shoulders ache in anticipation, something in me below the clavicle seems to say it's better to let storms blow, let walks disappear. that sometimes it's better if we wait it out, if we don't recall graves. 56- a comforting archaeology, this that's the tough part, take the bed, the other half, for instance. when they take their leave, when the forms are filled and filed, when the news ends, it begins. strange, varied — the things that fill. a detritus of habits settles in the contours of a mattress's reminiscence: a crossword-puzzle book and unwashed sweater sediment.
It had been made for happy remembering By people who were still too young To have learned about memory. —from "A Short Film" by Ted Hughes it was not meant to hurt, as such, that ritual departure, no, it was instead a release: a place for tears and words and suits; a cause for dressing up the ties and cuffs an awkwardness become physical. it had been made for happy remembering — that black, that stone, that monument to and of the earth that you'd become, now physical, chiselled, and polished: a monochromatic, and so, by people who were still too young to think themselves a cargo, (something other than the mingled sweat and breath of late-night dance and drinks), you were carried on.