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Adamantine
About This Book
In Adamantine, award-winning poet Naomi Foyle demonstrates again her dazzling formal range, and broadens her stubborn commitment to the truths of female experience. Deploying visual poetry, free verse, sonnets, the ballad and spoken word rhythms, the book's opening sequence honours the achievements of outstanding women from Mohawk writer and performer Tekahionwake and Canadian painter Emily Carr to Anglo-Irish revolutionaries Eva Gore-Booth and Constance Markievicz; and eulogises unsung heroines including the prematurely deceased writer Emily Givner, the mothers and orators of West Belfast, and Pamela Jean George, a murdered young Aboriginal woman from Foyle's home province of Saskatchewan. Developing Foyle's concern with the Middle East, so evident in her acclaimed second collection The World Cup, from troubled reflections on political violence spring tributes to Palestinian and Israeli prisoners of conscience â and to Arabic poetry. Elsewhere, a vividly imagined conversation between Old Testament wives imbues the collection with a deeper historical resonance, while personal pilgrimages lead the reader from chanteuse Nico's graveyard in Berlin to the mass crematorium of Grenfell Tower. In its riveting combination of theatrical flair and emotional vulnerability, the book's final sequence, The Cancer Breakthrough, recalls the imagistic pyrotechnics of Foyle's PBS Recommended debut collection The Night Pavilion, but also pays homage, not just to the poet's resilience and relentless creativity, but the power of loving community.
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ADAMANTINE
Two Emilys
i.m. Emily Givner
She stared at them so long
that everythingâforest, ocean, rainâ
carved pathways to the
infinite kinship she craved.
pearly shale rubbed raw.
Her trees swirl and bulge,
emerald, jade and lime
meringues she beat
until her arms were stiff,
folding in the dazzle
of the light beyond
the clouds.
But though
capture the tilt of totems
from Cumshewa
to Gitanyow,
they cannot show you
the true height or shapes
of those poles,
nor the long shadows
of their meaning
in languages broken
like salamander bones.
Empress of impossible questions . . .
how fear twitched like a fish in my belly
when youâd swivel round in class to hiss:
âWould you go back in time and kill Hitler?â
or, when I was still a shy virgin,
âSo, Ni. Would you have sex
with a black man?â
You went hunting for answersâ
not, like me, at university.
I glimpsed you before I left town,
sauntering down Albert St in a mini-skirt,
hand-in-hand with your Cree boyfriend,
sunlight licking the back of your legs,
a feather caressing your hair.
our paths should have criss-crossed later
in Toronto, Seoul, the wine-fuelled reunions
of prodigal daughters and journeying writersâ
but you secretly suffered from allergies,
died without warning on a hot day in Halifax,
leaving so many conversations unfinished.
than a Saskatchewan summer;
your small face still shines
like the moon in my waters.
as sap,
a poem
drips
down
the page.
Only
voiced
can it
soar
into
air.
wrote stories,
won a summer prize
for âCanadian Mintâ,
her slyly spooky tale
of enterprising
Eddie,
sittinâ out all day
on Bloor Street,
building pillars
from pennies . . .
to zigzag time
I researched
on the empty
shelves
of my first flat
in England,
but not a sight
Iâd ever seen
on sidewalksâ
morning, when,
back in Canada
at last, running
late to meet
Emilyâs parents
for the first time
since her death,
a woman kneeling
by a bus stop,
cracking open
rolls of coins,
a spilling
wealth
of pennies
copper forest
growing
on the concrete
that for a silver
moment
disappeared
beneath
my flying
feet
capricious spirit,
snatcher of children,
bestower of wealthâ
your predatory breasts
thrust like cougars
through a forest
few European women
penetrate alone.
In the stillness
of a long-deserted
Gwatâsinux village,
Carr, at last, perceived you
as benign. And though
that towering carving
was in fact a male
ancestor of the Chief,
as Emily spread the dark
paint on her canvas
a dawn of feral cats,
eyes glinting
like gold planets,
came prowling
through the
undergrowth
to hiss she was
not entirely
wrong.
reQuesting
to a land I wasnât born in
a land my people took
from a people who know
that no-one owns the Earth
How to return
that land?
to beadwork moccasins,
moo...
Table of contents
- Cover Page
- Title Page
- Copyright page
- Acknowledgments
- Contents
- Adamantine
- The Cancer Breakthrough
- Notes
- Back Cover