Splitting Off by Triny FinlaySplitting Off by Triny Finlay

Splitting Off

byTriny Finlay

Paperback | March 23, 2004

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Triny Finlay's debut collection of poetry is a meditation on the self's negotiation with the material world. Finlay pushes poetic form and language, creating images of love and loss that are at once playful and profoundly disturbing. The poems in this collection are rife with metaphorical leaps and unexpected associations: the troubled self as conjoined twins or as a flatiron building; the predatory lover as axe-wielding gardener; coming-of-age as a surgical procedure. Blurring the line between subject and object, the voices in these poems explore individual experience from multiple points of view, never privileging any one possibility. These voices fill the book with startling discoveries of conflict and hope, simultaneously stitching and ripping the fabric of female identity.
Triny Finlay was born in Melbourne, Australia and grew up in Toronto. She is the author of Splitting Off (Nightwood, 2004), Histories Haunt Us (Nightwood, 2010), and the chapbook Phobic (Gaspereau, 2006). Her poetry has been anthologized in Breathing Fire 2: Canada's New Poets, Qwerty Decade, and Gaspereau Gloriatur: Book of the Blesse...
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Title:Splitting OffFormat:PaperbackDimensions:88 pages, 7.5 × 5.25 × 0.25 inPublished:March 23, 2004Publisher:Nightwood EditionsLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0889711984

ISBN - 13:9780889711983

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Reviews

Read from the Book

Self-Portrait as Ekphrastic TensionLet's call it what it is: desire,or hope, or chaos. Somethingsublime--a gilded frieze you touchedin Brussels, for love, in the public square; a vase you carried on your back through Asia because, though it cracked along the way, you thought it was sacred.What you should know about hopeis that it can't be pinned down. Eitheryou feel it or you don't and don'tmistake it for desperation. The oldstone will shift because of your fingers; sugar peas snap. The morning light in your livingroom will catch every gapin the vase if you glue it back together.HammerI was looking for a way into him,a point like a piano key that couldbe struck, or played, followed through with a finger stroke or the full force heel of my hand and still transmit its tonal pulse to the intended string. He found his way into me as if there were no feltat all covering my small, embodied hammers. Maybe, like a harpsichord, my strings were simply plucked, with a quillor some incised thorn of leather. Musicwas never a direct hit with him: somedays the tune could resonate for hours,others he lay mute, naked and controlled.Temple on the Gore RoadWe don't have wordsfor this kind of incongruity,ancient beauty replicatedon Canadian soil, plunkedat the edge of the subdivision,postcard ziggurat.We drive south into the city on a Thanksgiving Mondaywhile the cars going northqueue along the Gore Road, idlingas if caught mid-parade. We are goingthe wrong way for worship--a lineup we will never join, not for the pantheonic rush, not for the budget homes, not for the wonder.But we will stop for fresh corn at the sideof the road, for funeral processions, red lights.We've chosen our temples, our gods, and now their resplendence defies us.

Editorial Reviews

"This is the work of poetry; this is the kind of talent I require to hold attention; this is the debut that seems as if it could have been written instead by a pseudonymous ten-book poet; this is poetry that seems so shaped, so aged, so ripe, so playful, so idiosyncratic (save for the snake in the grass cliché) that it can only come from one consciousness -- splitting off, as it were. With this book, Triny Finlay has made her mark."-Shane Neilson, PotryReviews.ca