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Sharawadji
Sharawadji
Sharawadji
Ebook92 pages35 minutes

Sharawadji

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Nominated for the CAA Award for Poetry [Canadian Authors Association]

A renowned poet lets language ride its own musically-malleable syntax into unfamiliar regions of consciousness.

Brian Henderson has established himself as a poet who brilliantly makes us aware of language as an instrument of discovery. In his work we realize, over and over again, that each of the mind's worlds speaks a secret language, which it is the poet's task to discover and translate.In Sharawadji, this includes not only such worlds as those created by the surreal paintings of Jacek Yerka, but the intense, re-humanizing experience of loss and grief.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBrick Books
Release dateSep 15, 2011
ISBN9781771310185
Sharawadji

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    Book preview

    Sharawadji - Brian Henderson

    Sharawadji

    Sharawadji

    Brian Henderson

    Brick Books

    Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

    Henderson, Brian, 1948-

         Sharawadji / Brian Henderson.

    Poems.

    ISBN 978-1-926829-69-2

         I. Title.

    PS8565.E51S48 2010          C811’.54          C2010-907675-3

    Copyright © Brian Henderson, 2011

    We acknowledge the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program.

    The cover image is a photograph by Brian Henderson.

    Brick Books

    Box 20081

    431 Boler Road

    London, Ontario

    N6K 4G6

    Canada

    www.brickbooks.ca

    For Charlene, for ever

    Contents

    TWELVE IMAGINARY LANDSCAPES

    Perfecting Thirst

    The After

    The Gleaner

    City of Heaven

    Test

    The Jetty

    The Replicase

    The Sea, the Valley and the Temple City

    The Sect

    The Survivor

    The Welcoming Catastrophe

    When the Dead and the Living Change Places

    NIGHT MUSIC

    The Before

    Half-Lives

    Last Note

    Unresectable, 11 May

    How to Free the Past for the Future

    As If in an Henri Rousseau Painting

    Collection of Photographs

    The Ruthie Tree

    Belonging

    Night Music

    What Will Become

    Well

    The Lighthouse Dreamer

    What Can Never Stop Having Been

    The Answer

    Returning

    Coda of Sighs

    Last Walk in the Garden

    LIKE THE SOUND OF A GRASS FIRE

    Things Beckon

    Arrowhon Anniversary

    At the Pond

    Early Spring Night by the Lake

    Himalaya

    Every Part of You Has a Secret Language

    Nagarjuna and the Grackle

    On the Skyline

    Residual Messages

    The Clearing

    The Counter-Tree

    Two Time

    Were You to Walk

    Three Quotations

    The Book That Can Be Read from Its Shelf

    The Last Word, A Sharawadji

    PREVIEWS

    Animal Light

    Apocrypha

    Hospital of the Dark

    In the Zone

    A Momentary History of Time, or, The Sheer

    Poisoned

    Portrait

    Something to Remember the World By

    Among the Harvested

    The Invasion

    The Last

    Then

    Time Runner

    Notes

    Acknowledgements

    Biographical Note

    TWELVE IMAGINARY LANDSCAPES

    Oh time thy pyramids

    – Jorge Luis Borges

    Perfecting Thirst

    Golden drench of sand, the backsweep and golden suck of the tides of wind here in the flooded desert of our endless listening, our endless attempts at incarnating water with the stone lintels of mind and the small smirking mouth of a candle, a stubborn blind icon. Trilobites of prayer puncture the walls like shrapnel. On the night table I have closed the Book of Listening on waiting, since the disappearance of the animals, for the beauty of their return. The parched trees out there staggering toward their own mirage. Something about who we’ve always been, between water and sand, inoculated with the backsweep of light, endlessly recalcitrant.

    There is, blindly, no after, so that if we were to say, We were the ones who were always here, we would not be talking of time.

    The After

    A dark purple plunge, one that has the light set back in it, windless, where you could imagine running on empty, the one sticky fuel where the meteor had fallen, up the curved stairway

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