In these poems, the foreign world encountered is filtered through the perspective of home. Distances are measured in prairie miles; an Austrian hayfield is felt through the itch of Saskatchewan foxtail. The traveller arrives at unexpected destinations, and home is seen in a new and unfamiliar light upon return.
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About the Author
One of Canada's most revered poets, Glen Sorestad has been writing for over 30 years from his Saskatchewan home. Also the co-founder and president of Thistledown Press, he helps to expose the talent of emerging western poets. Sorestad's work has appeared in countless journals across Canada, in the United States, Australia and Europe. Recently one of his stories was produced for the Bravo! cable network and another was broadcast on CBC Radio One. He holds a master's degree in education and has edited many short story and poetry anthologies.
Read an Excerpt
In a Montreal Bistro
We were all on verbal flights winging on myths of our own.
She said her pen could fly
(as she served us another drink).
I liked the image, tipped to excess.
I told her only poems could fly,
quoted a colleague of mine as proof.
She doubted my sincerity. And said so.
Her proof employed no artifice.
Just a spring-loaded ballpoint pen.
And when she jammed it on the table it flew on the wall of the fluorescent sun,
came to rest at my feet --
left me to ponder the merits of myth-making in a world that worships technology.
The dogs own Nice. Everywhere the evidence lies. Dogshit grows on sidewalks, steets and grass.
The dogs of Nice are impartial,
indiscriminate. At the entrance of the park a sign warns owners of penalties against this burst of flower-turds. The dogs scorn the sign and consequences,
pretend they do not recognize the artist's graphic depiction of "Dog Squatting Over Turd"
The dog Xed out in heavy black like a victim on a Mafia hit list.
When the dogs assume control over the rest of the world, will they address the human problem with similar signs?
In Paris, Texas, Christ rises above the final rest of Willet Babcock.
The long-dead rancher is well anchored for fierce winds. He cares little
about the three of us, drawn here not for prayers over Babcock's bones,
but to stare, as we do now, up at this sculpted Christ astride
Babcock's massive headstone that derricks twenty feet against the wintry Texas sky, His shoulder against the cross, flowing robe
to His feet. We are poets all, two fled south from a frozen country to follow our Texas colleague here.
to scuff the stoney path to Babcock
though the pebbles we dislodge above are bootless to his ears as we assume the perfect vantage point to see beneath the robe of Jesus -- His left foot,
His cowboy boot. Why shouldn't I believe that in Texas even He would wear boots?
For the moment we are silent as Babcock,
gathered here around the feet of Christ.