The Gamekeeper: Selected Poems 1976 - 2011 by Michael HarrisThe Gamekeeper: Selected Poems 1976 - 2011 by Michael Harris

The Gamekeeper: Selected Poems 1976 - 2011

byMichael Harris

Paperback | October 15, 2017

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Michael Harris's first poetry collection since his Governor General's Award-nominated Circus (2010), The Gamekeeper assembles a thoughtful selection of the Montreal poet's accomplished verse. With evocative imagery and a natural sense of rhythm, Harris writes of illness, pain, marriage, death, imaginary fairy-tale monsters, and much else. The result, according to one reviewer, "straddles a position between the carnivalesque and the sensual."

Born in Glasgow Scotland and raised in Montreal, Michael Harris has enjoyed a varied career as an author, editor and educator. He has taught English and Creative Writing at McGill, Concordia, and Dawson College, and spent twenty years as poetry editor of the Véhicule Press imprint Signal Editions. He is the author of several well-rega...
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Title:The Gamekeeper: Selected Poems 1976 - 2011Format:PaperbackDimensions:176 pages, 8 × 5 × 0.5 inPublished:October 15, 2017Publisher:Porcupine's QuillLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0889844070

ISBN - 13:9780889844070

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The Cupboard Is Bare i.m. A.C. We have gone into the poet's house and found the kitchen bare.Not a mouse-turd of comma, not one peppercorn full-stop.He is bankrupt of the wherewithal to hear the penne drop. Gone the moths that flew like muses when he burned the midnight oil.Gone the sunlit daily bread of books on the windowsill,the tongue-loosening whisky of company come for a meal. Gone the bouillabaisse of gossip. The manly meat of talk.Not a simile left to dog us, nor any metaphoric cat. All his passioncobwebbed in the corner. All our pleasure dust on the floor. Elsewhere midwives tend to their glistening aubergines;jewellers' pomegranates gleam in a ruby of grenadine.Cauliflowers blanch under the neurosurgeons' care: but here- not a fork to poke nor a knife to slice nor a cleaver to cut things out.Not a skewer in the drawer to string them back together.Not a draught of thought left anywhere but it's gone down the kitchen sink.Gone back to Scotland, to cold rock and bare hilland pibrochs full and emptier than the grave. The table's an empty altarwith its supplicant of chair,when the cupboard is bare.