Download At Lake Scugog: poems by Troy Jollimore PDF

By Troy Jollimore

This is often an eagerly awaited number of new poems from the writer of Tom Thomson in Purgatory, which gained the nationwide publication Critics Circle Award and used to be hailed by means of the hot York occasions as a "snappy, exciting book." A effective follow-up to that acclaimed debut, At Lake Scugog demonstrates why the San Francisco Chronicle has referred to as Troy Jollimore "a new and intriguing voice in American poetry."

Jollimore is a qualified thinker, and in witty and profound methods his officially playful poems dramatize philosophical subjects--especially the individual’s relation to the bigger international, and the permeable, always moving border among "inner" and "outer." for example, the speaker of "The Solipsist," suspecting that the whole global "lives inside your skull," wonders "why / God could make ear and eye / to stand outward, no longer in." And Tom Thomson--a personality who additionally seemed in Jollimore’s first book--finds himself touring like an astronaut throughout the a ways reaches of the gap that fills his head, an adventure that activates him to invite doorbell be put in "on the inside," in order that he can warn the realm earlier than "intruding on’t."

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That gentle I’ll see you this evening smile and absent-minded but affectionate peck on the check it would lightly bestow on him as it was heading out the door each morning are now, sad to say, no more: often, these days, he doesn’t even know if it’s still home, or left some time ago. m. rolls around. He’s just getting started drafting his list of reasons not to start any substantial thing. Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore—dearly departed— no, wait, beloved—it’s I who must depart. 31 Tom Thomson in Flight This is your captain speaking, says God’s voice.

Had he only the will, he’d hate it for loving, too. ” Well, yes—didn’t he grasp it? Only fair that prior to intruding on’t, he give the world some sort of warning. (Not that world had shown the converse courtesy to him . —sounding patiently and regular as Kant—every twelve seconds— that calm announcing bell. Will someone come and let him out? At some point. Understand: all good things come to those who wait. And then, wait just a bit more, and they go again. 28 Tom Thomson in Flames It’s a slow-burning fire, creeping up the highway of his spine, which it will jump as soon as it’s built up the proper heat to colonize his other side.

Truth be told, he don’t care. People will say what they will say. Besides, they’re right: he knows what lurks beneath the sur­face crust of skin—his memory’s still got eyes: it sees, when he turns to face his face in the mirror, or shuffles through a photo album, what abides there, slowly emerging, growing clearer— what reveals itself—himself—as the fuse runs out . . For now, though, bites his tongue and holds his breath ‘til he turns blue. Face it: he looks like death. 33 Tom Thomson in View He’s got so many telephones, telescopes, microscopes, microphones, hidden in his clothes or trained at him from behind the top-floor windows of nearby office buildings (slyly leased in the name of some innocuous-sounding firm— stevens financial services or what have you—) that no mistake, no screw-up goes unscrewtinized: all errors are preserved on tape for all eternity, and classified at the morning briefing, the agents grimly chuckling o’er coffee and danishes.

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