Psychic Geographies and Other Topics

Psychic Geographies and Other Topics

by Gregory Betts

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Psychic Geographies is a tour de force, an ambitious exploration of the age, its physical and emotional permutations, its tragic contradictions, its joyful transformations. Gregory Betts takes a construct from the Situationists of the last Century as a means of exploring the language and rhetoric of the contemporary global moment as symptomatic of stasis and psychosis. How he does this is what sets Psychic Geographies apart, what makes this a book without precedent in Canadian letters.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781926802152
Publisher: Quattro Books
Publication date: 04/01/2010
Series: Poetry
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 80
File size: 240 KB

About the Author

Gregory Betts is a poet, editor, essayist, and teacher originally from Vancouver and Toronto. He is the author of If Language, Haikube, The Others Raisd in Me, as well as eight chapbooks and numerous bits of ephemera. He has edited editions of poetry by W.W. E. Ross, Raymond Knister, and Lawren Harris, and recently finished a critical edition of selected stories, essays, and manifestos by Bertram Brooker, Canada’s first avant-gardist. He is the co-editor of PRECIPICe literary magazine, and curates the Grey Borders Reading Series in St Catharines.

Read an Excerpt

Gabriel Bridge South Saskatchewan River

Wait for it, leave it, keep your
eye on it, slap it, drink it,
wait for it, get it, get it, take it
taste it, make it, naked, call it,
write it, remember it.
We’ll have to talk about it.
Let’s wait and see it out.
It’ll wait. It’ll have to.
We’ll get there, we’ll talk, just wait it out.
Emily Carr stands beside the train
feeling the swell of words drain away.
Her fingers trace the curve of obtrusions
on the horizon, each tree,
hill, house a blurred gesture carved
through diesel odour, smouldered iron.
This is that what this get there did that
that makes me fuck off you can’t he should
evening for shoes things haven’t changed much
going to Toronto.
Pemmican is a dream of brown like a cope worn clergy, a
strong dose of hell and damnation, a rose that entangles
pilsner gold drinks, the dancing gold around prohibition,
inhibition, the gambling gold, the gambol. There is a spiral
working its way through the train, like cosmic ants outside of
gravity, consuming metal. She can feel everything from fur
trimmed gauntlets to the cold hands of the unemployed on
the cool night roof to Ottawa. Her mother gave black beads
to new mothers in place of lace. Dark stars that shine of
home on train swept rivers.

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