Presentation on theme: "Matt robinson by jen kay and kendra stewart. who is matt robinson? born in halifax, ns in 1974. moved to fredericton, nb in 1998 to attend unb, and returned."— Presentation transcript:
matt robinson by jen kay and kendra stewart
who is matt robinson? born in halifax, ns in moved to fredericton, nb in 1998 to attend unb, and returned to halifax in works as a residence life manager at howe hall, with dalhousie university. 5 published books, “against the hard angle” being his most recent and is due out in april 2010.
who is matt robinson? cont. some awards he has previously won for his poetry are petra kenney international poetry prize, grain magazine’s prose poem award, and the 2009 malahat review long poem prize. hockey goaltender and spends most of his poetry prize winnings on goalie gear.
spring the streets tonite are crystalline; white, and this cold: harder and more violent than second-day-of-spring march should be. mom is making funeral arrangements, (but not to plan ahead). i've come to realize people die weather or not; whether or not it's rain, sun, or snow. they go. they go.
snow; a fear of dying The plan is the body. The plan is the body. The plan is the body. —Robert Creeley, "The Plan Is the Body" the plan is the body— is in the physicality of all this as i glance out the window. and there, the november light is in its solid form—frozen, pieced and chopped— falling from the trees like tickertape. announcing victories and deaths; conclusions of all sorts. and the wind outside is moderately strong: it can be heard, and it can be seen in the nervous postures of birch and spruce. and this snow, it is a smart suggestion, really, of what the plan is. the body knows that familiar swirling toward a destination, down. and i am certain there was something like it swirling in my mother's blood, in my grandfather's veins—something snow-pale and rare, and not quite right; some thing that seemed to come and go, but was truly weather constant. and that blood certainty is mine—an arterial legacy, a flowing probability of days, weeks and years. it is a cool flow, this icy thickening that racks and scrapes and slows me from the inside; it is hidden proof of
snow; a fear of dying, cont. the plan. is the body that much a diagram, a window- framed picture, a second-hand mapping or charting? on days like these it would seem to be, so now i am obsessed with nature— with its understated tallies: blood's snow and its piling virus-frantic. i am concerned with ideas of pressures and systems, with the way seasons bleed into each other like colours, and the fact that drifts melt to newly grown green; that even here we always return, however briefly, to crumbling earth and fields, and stones.
a new gravestone in winter and you become concrete, again. granite-grey, but hazy— like the stone-dusted labour pains of this incarnation you, again. a stone. a name. between your flesh and this dust- ing of snow (which makes this, your winter, real) lies a name. a stone.
a new gravestone in winter cont. when, on christmas eve, these flakes fall all around us as we walk (cold dust upon our flesh) you again become concrete, (heavy on my flesh, heavy as stone), completed: flesh and dust, not name alone.
at the funeral home it came as a surprise; i was suckled on a mythology. and then we were ushered downstairs the day after mom died. uncles, dad, my brother and me. then into the next room for free drinks, snacks. lack of sleep swirling in morning; a non-dairy creamer in our coffee. expiration dates and containers: this is a new vocabulary, truth.
zamboni driver’s lament i know hate, its line- mates. believe me. you kids have, i’m sure, wasted—all early morning anxious and weak-ankled—their first impatient shuffle-kicks and curses on me. no cage contains a stare that well. and despite my perch, i too know damage: precise, zeroed-in maps of possession and loss, traceries step-chiselled into moments that loop around and into—through and across— each, the other. at my worst, i am my own recurring dream, forever turning a corner. and because i am always, when push comes to shove, behind glass —seated, and away—i’ve become a fan of jealousy, can pick him out in the looping confusion of warm-ups. i have his sweater hanging somewhere on my wall, his cards tucked in a box under my bed. indulge me. tell me: can you understand what it is to be something most others only wait, grudgingly, through; endure? i can and do, can and do. i am a common cold, the advertisements that linger too long before a feature. and though you may never see this, the lights—i can assure you—go down each night; the scoreboard’s bulbs snap and flicker, then die. but the ice, it seems, will always be there: a constant wound to dress, a scar i run myself along and over.
threshold something peculiar, almost antithetical occurs when, in the midst of flurries, a child stoops, takes a hand- full, and eats. to take a bite, (no matter what the colour, temperature, or whose yard you're in) is irrevocable. an act. a change of state. a tongued interference. a dry after- mouth. when we eat snow we accept a self, a story; we consume what little is left that hazy space between waking and sleep. this is the birth of forgetting and our lips are placenta wet.
poem; or 18 lines on desire -for m. here, on the carpet, i want to hold you like a new book of poems: gently and with the edges of my fingers tingling - echoing the new and important lines and their sensations. here, in the chair, i want to taste you subtly – like the whispered syllables of words read aloud and alone to yourself at night, like those of stories finished after a child has long since fallen asleep. here, in the kitchen, i want to immerse myself in you as in new dishwater - to cleanse and sting myself in your acuities; to run my hands along unseen liquid edges and discover
analysis of poem; or 18 lines on desire this poem is about robinson’s want for his wife, or the person with the name beginning with the letter m, which is who he wrote the poem for. he is describing how much he desires her, how he wants to hold her gently, taste her subtly, and immerse himself in her. “i want to hold you like a new book of poems” this is a simile showing that he wants to hold her gently and how he would treasure it. “gently with the edges of my fingers tingling” this is imagery given to the reader to describe how holding her would make his fingers tingle. “i want to taste you subtly—like the whispered syllables of words read aloud and alone to yourself at night” this is a simile and imagery by comparing the way he wants to taste her, to the way she reads to herself, softly and gently. “i want to immerse myself in you as in new dishwasher” this is a simile comparing the way he wants to immerse himself in her to a new dishwasher.
analysis of poem; or 18 lines on desire “with the edges of my fingers tingling—echoing the new and important lines and their sensations” this is personification given to his fingers, he I saying that his fingers are echoing the important lines of poetry in the book of poems and the sensations that they give. the main theme of this poem is desire and want. throughout the poem he is saying how he wants her there, and why he wants her there.
apple: he said she did, but all things being equal, the high pitch of the front door’s hinges screeches into the maw of his attention. his esophagus slams shut. atrophies, like the snap of light invades and then retreats a room when a mum or dad checks up on you at night, and it is stuck—his bite; wedged at the difficult frontier between the tongue’s determination and the stomach’s stubborn pull. (he feels her watching him, her knowing he knows she is watching him.) and his breath is a sweet chore, whistling. caught, now his self-assurance—like mercury– is sweating
apple: he said she did, but from his brow and smattering into thousandths at his feet; squirming wet between his toes. curses breathe themselves like headaches, heavy, into his ear. he faints. and in the tumult of her rescue, the fiction of their affection—their love– is fractured, like a rib or some other internalized structure or support. (and later, with it left stabbing about: jagged, and poking—digging at him– as he lies there in their bed, waiting for the soup she’ll soon be bringing, he knows full well—already —how he’ll explain this. the exact wording of it rising in him, like bile: familiar, sharp.)
questions what do you think the apple stands for in the title ? what do you think this poem is about ? what do you think the theme of the poem is?
analysis of apple: he said she did, but i think this poem is about robinson’s divorce, and how his wife possibly cheated on him and he found out, but is not sure if it is true. a couple stanzas in the poem that could be associated to this is “he knows fully well—already—how he’ll explain this. the exact wording of it rising in him, like bile: familiar, sharp.” i think the title could have something to do with his wife possibly cheating on him as well, because he said she did, and he might of heard she did, but he is not sure if it is true. in my opinion the “apple” in the title stands for sin, because in the bible adam and eve took a bite of fruit from a tree they were not suppose to touch, and it resulted in them sinning, so the apple became a symbol for sin. “their love is fractured, like a rib or some other internalized structure or support.” this is a simile, where he is comparing their love to a fractured rib. this could also be personification, where their love is taking on the human characteristic of a fractured rib. “caught now his self-assurance—like mercury—is sweating from his brow and smattering into thousandths at his feet” this is a simile, where he is comparing his self assurance to mercury. the theme of this poem could be love because of the love he once had for his wife, or hurt because of his wife possibly cheating on him, which led them to a divorce.
bibliography _8CE7/snowflake3%5B3%5D.jpg vlinks_s#v=onepage&q=&f=false jpg wallpapers36/pen_and_paper.jpg how we play at it, matt robinson