Given the recent eruption of violence in the Middle East, these are difficult times to be reading poetry. On the other hand, perhaps they are just the right times, especially in the case of these three books, which come to us as gentle prayers in the midst of all the chaos. Whether arguing for the sacredness of nature and life or revisiting God, the “original poet” who cast our world, each book, in its own way is an appeal for balance, a plea for human decency and compassion in these unsettling, precarious times of ours.
With five works of fiction, two volumes of autobiography, and twenty poetry books under her belt, Elizabeth Brewster is no stranger to the Canadian literary scene. Professor Emeritus at the University of Saskatchewan and a member of the Order of Canada, Brewster comes to us now with Bright Centre (Oberon Press, 80 pages, $16.95) her latest collection of poems, which pays tribute, in part, to her recent conversion to Judaism. Much of the book visits the origins and customs of her recently-adopted religion, and it does so simply and eloquently. In “Partial Answer,” Brewster tries to address the numerous reasons for her conversion. She sees the Jewish “family” not only as one “with its own special place... its covenant, its promise” but also as “part of the larger / human family, or the family of living creatures, / of even rocks and trees.”
In an earlier poem, “Gilgul”, she returns to the well-spring, wondering what it would be like "to enter the cycle again / as a rock, a tree, a fish, a bird?" Her broad vision, her intuitive sense of the oneness of community is especially poignant set against these divisive days of war. Now in her eighties, Brewster is at the top of her form. Her clarity, her quiet, down-to-earth meditations on life, death, loss, and grief come not from any textbook, but from a life lived and considered.
Momentary Dark by Margaret Avison (McClelland & Stewart, 92 pages, $17.99) is another celebration of our “little rollicking orb” called Earth. With a career that spans more than four decades and includes two Governor General’s Awards and the prestigious Griffin Prize, she is one of Canada’s most respected literary icons. In this new collection, Avison returns to do what Books in Canada says she does best: awaken spiritual awareness and “remind us of a time when writers had a grander sense of their purpose.” It’s what Garrison Keillor, long-time disciple of poetry, called getting readers to “buck up, pay attention, rise and shine, look alive, get a grip, get the picture, pull up your socks, wake up and die right.”
At 87, she is concerned about our fragile planet and about those of us, who, made in God’s image, would “muddle, mangle, despoil, degrade.” At her most pessimistic, she sees humans as “potential crises, scattered everywhere: / on islands, isolated, bobbing about / in small craft far too far / from rescue...” To Avison, man is both “privilged” and “paltry.” But there is reason to be optimistic, too. In “Palette,” yellow and blue-green leaves in cloud-shadow and sun are
four hues over the
wintry rack of branch and tip—
a still becoming form—that summer
trees will enfold fully.
Thematically linked to the other books, Mary Oliver’s second volume of New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press, 180 pages, $36.95) examines our everyday physical world and the fragility of man’s living arrangement with the environment. Beginning with forty-two new works, the book is rounded off with poems selected by Oliver herself from six previous collections, covering the gamut of topics: bees and flowers, birds, ponds, bears, rain, and the list goes on. These are deceptively simple poems about the restorative powers of nature, poems that ultimately speak of love, mystery, awe, and other matters of the heart.
Born in Ohio in 1935, her many honours include the Pulitzer Prize for American Primitive (1983) and the National Book Award for her first volume of New and Selected Poems (1992).
One of the best-known voices in contemporary American literature, Oliver has been writing poetry for nearly five decades. Her lyrical evocations of our natural habitat are borne out of a genuine reverence for God’s creatures, great and small, a heartfelt desire to be good to the planet. In “Lead,” one of the most poignant, Oliver invites readers to hasten to where the loon still sings the “long, sweet savoring of its life” with a warning to never disclose that secret place. Regretfully, by the end of the piece, that same loon “speckled / and iridescent and with a plan / to fly home / to some hidden lake” is already dead on the shore. The poem concludes with an urgent plea:
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.
May this sane prayer for humanity find its way to the other side of the world.
