Poem by Sina Queyras

Eyewear thinks Sina Queyras (pictured above) is one of the most refreshing, innovative and provocative poets to appear in North American writing over the last few years, and is glad to welcome her here, today.

She edited the key book, Open Field: Thirty Contemporary Canadian Poets (Persea, 2005), which is one of the first anthologies published in America in the last few decades to consider the new poetry now coming from Canada. She is is the author of Slip (ECW, 2001) and Teeth Marks (Nightwood, 2004).

Her third collection of poetry, Lemon Hound, won the Pat Lowther Award and a Lambda Literary Award. Expressway is due out from Coach House in spring 2009. She is currently writer in residence at the University of Calgary where she is working on several projects including Autobiography of Childhood, a novel.

11.

This happened before. Then we ran. And the cable

hooked us to a big Dish. We signed up for more. Golden

arches nosed up out of concrete and we were delighted.

Everyone bought a Ford or Chrysler. Roads appeared and

women disappeared down them. Millions were served.

Some of them waved. This happened before. Then again

maybe not. Anyhow once we walked to the television.

Once your little sister stood and changed the channel

from 2 to 3, one hand on the antennae. This really

happened. At the end of the line there was a person.

Whole lives ticked by on salaries. Everyone wore

polyester. Blouses with imprints of European landmarks

abounded. People dialed and the numbers rumbled like a

bank vault. Shag appeared in avocado green and harves

tgold penetrating every corner. Coffee tables thickened

over night. Lights morphed into plastic balls hung

from chains. Little girls rhymed couplets, index

finger poised, waiting for the plastic rotary to hit

zero. This really happened. Women clicking on manual

typewriters. Whole offices of scritch, scritch,

scritch and ping, ping, ping as the carriage released

and rolled up. How we embraced the correctable ribbon.

How we coveted white-out. Listen, once people sent

letters with words crossed out. This all happened.

People placed vinyl on turntables and lifted needles

jumping slightly when the scratch blared out of the

cross hatched speakers from Radio Shack or Sears.

Rumors of a Japanese take-over surfaced. There was

talk of importing fathers. Then again maybe I am

lying. Anyone knew it was true. Anyhow we didn't run.

We bought bigger cars and women embraced the MuMu.

Everything was arriving all at once. Lapels sharpened.

Soul music sweetened the air. People drove their cars

to Drive-ins and hung aluminum speakers on the side

windows. How we embraced the wire.

poem by Sina Queyras

A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

Poetry vs. Literature

Poetry is, of course, a part of literature. But, increasingly, over the 20th century, it has become marginalised - and, famously, has less of an audience than "before". I think that, when one considers the sort of criticism levelled against Seamus Heaney and "mainstream poetry", by poet-critics like Jeffrey Side , one ought to see the wider context for poetry in the "Anglo-Saxon" world. This phrase was used by one of the UK's leading literary cultural figures, in a private conversation recently, when they spoke eloquently about the supremacy of "Anglo-Saxon novels" and their impressive command of narrative. My heart sank as I listened, for what became clear to me, in a flash, is that nothing has changed since Victorian England (for some in the literary establishment). Britain (now allied to America) and the English language with its marvellous fiction machine, still rule the waves. I personally find this an uncomfortable position - but when ...

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se....

E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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