Wayworn Wooden Floors by Mark LavoratoWayworn Wooden Floors by Mark Lavorato

Wayworn Wooden Floors

byMark Lavorato

Paperback | June 1, 2012

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Mark Lavorato's debut poetry collection, Wayworn Wooden Floors, is a striking piece of work, informed by an acute observer tuned to the everyday. These frank, thoughtful poems evoke both the tragedy and the comedy endemic to daily existence. Lavorato's poems are penned in accessible, unpretentious verse, which is as clear as it is varied in form, tone, and vantage.

The multi-talented Mark Lavorato was raised on the Canadian Prairies, but has spent most of his adult life living, working, and writing on his travels throughout Central and North America, the Caribbean, and Europe. He was inspired to begin writing while living in the Austrian Alps, reflecting on unsettling true stories he'd heard in t...
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Title:Wayworn Wooden FloorsFormat:PaperbackDimensions:96 pages, 8.7 × 5.55 × 0.4 inPublished:June 1, 2012Publisher:Porcupine's QuillLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0889843511

ISBN - 13:9780889843516

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Customer Reviews of Wayworn Wooden Floors

Reviews

From the Author

I am drawn to the idea that poetry is simply the everyday, which, as a matter of perspective, has become, unexpectedly, song-worthy. I have included a few lofty ideas in the collection, but the vast majority of it is comprised of fairly ordinary events that are examined and placed under the microscope in a lofty way. I would like to impress upon readers that their lives are filled with as much poetry as any other. It is simply the magnification and the Petri dish that make it verse.I am hopeful that someone who enjoys poetry will pick this book up and appreciate its forms and themes and construction. But I would also love to have someone who has never bought a collection of poetry before pick it up. I would love for someone to be turned onto poetry because of it. I know that's asking a lot. But I think that the poems throughout are really quite accessible, and for that reason, unintimidating. And I would love for that person to read Wayworn Wooden Floors, and in doing so, see that poetry -- arguably the world's oldest art form -- is something that has been around forever for a reason. Namely that it pervades everyone's life, including their own. Yes, I'd like this to be a book that people pass along, dog-ear its corners, spill tea over its cover, pull it out of a backpack, shake off the crumbs, read it again. I would like this book to become as worn as the wooden floors the collection is named after.

Read from the Book

A Handful of SeedsMy father teared at movies.His hobby, though, was taking life.He told me once, excitedly,convincing me to try it,having gently pulled me into a cornerwhere no one could hear,that it wasn't the hunt,or the challenge, or the meat.It was the killing.To take a life from this worldjust because you could.He broke his leg one September,so couldn't scour the hillsfor savage creatures.Instead, confounded, he whittled a branch atthe edge of the forest,his long cast pointing at the trees.The autumn windfluttered through the clinging leavesas they slowlylostgrip.And gradually, tenderly,conversely,he befriended the birds.He sat for dayswith a handful of seeds,waiting.And in time, though skittish with caution,they came. First to the table beside him,which was only a muffled drum roll awayfrom the safety of the branches,and then, edging forward with tiny hops, eyeing his cupped hand,suddenly crouching, ready to fly at the subtlest of movement. Light feathered bodiesdainty with hollow bones,hovering like spectators in a gallery,wrists clasped behind backs,scrutinizing this study of stillness, of patience, of silence;their shining black eyes solemnly judging.My father, like the graveyard statue of a saint, grinning at birds,in sunlight as crisp as stone.Later, his leg having healed,he plucked his rifle from the corner again,eager to tame the wild that had come unleashed unto the worldin his absence.Still, when I think of him,it is this image that rises first.A monument, honouring what he was,but couldn't be. Mouse(From `Five Perspectives of a Church')With her second litter of the year nursing        it was the teeming hunger that led hertoo far astray from her usual rounds       Which is where she found itblock of endlessly delicious poison        filling her cheeks to a stretch She didn't realize the mistake as much        as she did the drunkenness, thewobbling nave she found herself under        for the very first time, usually keeping to the dowdy edges of lint balls        and dust, skirting the hardwood trim in only the deepest candle flicker of night       But now there seemed to be stained-glass light everywhere above, a scraggly hunch of fur        breathing faster than a panicked pulseswimmingly lost in the holy wooden open       Her burgundy blood thinning to watershe feels herself spreading, blurring, dividing, as if        beside herself, there were another, equal presence there, easing her gently to her side How to Make a Cake from ScratchFirst you will need to take out your recipe, as well as every recipe you've ever been givenand burn them. It is critical you disregard anything anyone has ever told you about making cake. A jerry can of gasoline and match facilitate.The ingredients are complex. They will change when you wish they would not. Avoid gathering all your favourite tastes and textures. If you do sothe overall flavour will be bland and lack colour. A zest of lemon in some form or another is best.Your oven will need stoking, so you must leavethe comfort of your home, and go to the place that youhave been advised never to go. It is a place where the wood is hard, the soil precarious, the air volatile. Go there. Stand thin at its centre. Now close your eyes. And begin.

Table of Contents

This World
Woman Eating an Apple
Sorry
To You, Mrs. Woolf
Happiness
A Handful of Seeds
Plea
Three Colours
Oaxaca City
Postcards
Conflict Resolution
The Morning After the Canadiens Lost
Vézère
Five Perspectives of a Church
To Mrs. Koran
Google Earth
Dawn
Sundays
D
Maps of Antiquity
Rose
True Patriot Love
Vertigine
Recordar
There is a bench
Fingerpaintings
Arriving First
Geese
Aerial Calculations
Flight Path
Present
Harbour Seal
The Old Woman Living Opposite
Uschi
Sierra de Chuacús
Where He Put Them
Novembrance Day
Abandoned Farm
Abandoned Car
Abandoned Resort
Abandoned Toys
Abandoned Grave
Carpenter Ant
Discovering Smallness
Camino de Santiago
The Shades of your Black
Fireside Conversation
A Crab on Vargas Island
Ninth Street North
Nonna
Unearthing Another Temple
How to Make a Cake from Scratch
I Used to Believe

Editorial Reviews

Mark Lavorato's debut poetry collection, Wayworn Wooden Floors, is a striking piece of work, informed by an acute observer tuned to the everyday. These frank, thoughtful poems evoke both the tragedy and the comedy endemic to daily existence. Lavorato's poems are penned in accessible, unpretentious verse, which is as clear as it is varied in form, tone, and vantage.[For previous novel, Believing Cedric]`Believing Cedric is a marvellously strange novel that explores a marvellously normal phenomenon: everyone in our lives has a story. Mark Lavorato writes with great humanity, compassion and curiosity.'