This collection of poetry is a selection of award-winning Franco-Ontarian poet Robert Dickson's various collections of poetry, including his Governor-General Award winning Humains paysages en temps de paix relative.

First published in 1974, Mourir à Scoudouc emerged out of a period of cultural awakening. Chiasson's poems denounced the narrow limitations of the past and traced the lines of a fresh collective vision. The poems were lyrical, referentially modern, and steeped in the rhythms and forms that had emerged from the Americas, Europe, and India.Now, more than 40 years later, Herménégilde Chiasson is considered to be the father of Acadian modernism, and Mourir à Scoudouc ...

A collection of writings from Kevin Matisyn, the former vocalist and writer for Evans Blue. This collection includes song meanings and extended writing for many previous songs as well as abstract writing on many different subject.

Much of this poised and luminous book is rooted in an idea of epiphany, an aesthetic of everyday incarnation; not the sudden and profound manifestation of essence or meaning, but the smaller steps taken toward it. The moments in which, as Joyce writes, “the soul of the commonest object…seems to us radiant.” If epiphanies are for theologians, perhaps the little steps towards them are for poets like Eve Joseph, and for all of us who attempt to see beyond the names we give things to the names...

The Hard Return is a broken list of metaphors for the human heart. Or its a troubling elegy for a disposable world. Alternating between loving descriptions of 21st century excess and awkward social situations, Marcus McCanns poems are sincere and ironic, sad and half-joking, often in the same instant.

If it were necessary to tell someone where I am, I'd say the spheres of Kepler resonate like icicles. I'd say I have loved. These are high-energy poems, riddled with wit and legerdemain and jolted by the philosophy and science of time. 'Time's not the market, it's the bustle; / not the price but worth," he muses, sailing through the rhythms and algorithms of a world made concrete by Samuel Johnson, before it was undone by Niels Bohr. Tierney's narrators grapple with the gap between what's ...

The Fleece Era is Yukon-based, UK-born Joanna Lilley's first book of poems: a wry and eloquent testament to the intricacies of our various relationships. From the shattered pieces of our environmental puzzles to the labyrinth of family dynamics, Lilley makes these dilemmas come alive. Chillingly sparse, attractively odd and refreshingly frank, The Fleece Era embraces the complexities of human life with an unsettling mix of the sardonic and the compassionate.

These poems span the gamut of life from love to death; a eulogy for a people, who for the most part, are no longer with us. Their evolution in rural Newfoundland has taken hundreds of years and there is a good possibility that we will never see their likes again. Full of knowledge, self-sufficiency, independence, pride and dignity, most of them, I think, would be deeply insulted by some of our contemporary characterizations of them. One could easily argue that this collection is a portraya...

Bent at the Spine offers a 'pronoun'-ced frolic where the "you" is a disconnected third party - the reader is left in the position of an eavesdropper, or a listener, or a karmasurplus author. Its relentless interrogation resonates at an invigorating pace: cultural difference, different bodies, diffident accents, deafening rhymes. Sometimes rapturous, often vulvy, the poems audaciously teach "you" how to read them, allowing the last-minute-cram-session to be a delving, a plunging, ...

An accessible and illuminating debut collection that explores the arranged marriage of the bestial and humaneLogic is strained, existence contracts and multiplies, connections amputate then graft in incongruous ways in Jamie Sharpe’s poems, which, like a funhouse mirror, reflect our own absurd image.Nancy Reagan promotes crab salad (which is to say, her husband); the city of Paris spills into the countryside; a hammer seeks understanding through a vase. An ...

In 2016 I buried my mother. I buried a world that had been reduced to a whisper. Two world wars, the roaring twenties, the great depression, the fifties, elvis presley. All a whisper. And I heard my mother in her death throes, crying like a drowning woman, crying my name. Like her mother had cried. And her mother. And now I'm at the end of my world. The world I was raised in. The good times. The Beatles. Trudeau. The assassinations. Vietnam. The Bomb. And I am so angry. I don't want to whi...