Clink David - The Role of Lightning in Evolution
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- Book:The Role of Lightning in Evolution
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- Year:2016
- City:Peterborough;Canada
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The Role of Lightning in Evolution is the fifth book of poetry from Aurora Award winner David Clink, and his first book-length collection of speculative poetry since 2010s Monster.
This is speculative poetry at its best. Found in these pages are award winners and finalists: A Sea Monster Tells His Story, The Perfect Library, A City of Buried Rivers, and The Machine. Every poem goes beyond monsters and time travel and post-apocalyptic visions. There is heart here, a love of family (no matter how strange that family may be), ghosts, a seance, shapeshifters, a dragon made of words, an insect caught between dimensions, and a road that can feel your every footfall. Every poem is a journey beyond, a slice of another reality that lets us see our own existence in a different way.
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Worth the price of admission by itself. Terence M. Green, author of the acclaimed Ashland saga One quality I do enjoy in Clinks verse is his ability to say volumes with an economy of words. Speculative and diverse, the collection is divided into five sections. Among my favorites is The Roc who spends his waking hours searching for another and ends with the image of him snapping trees into brushwood to build a nest / in that rock-strewn hill of our imaginings. To my mind, once youve read a poem by David Clink, you know youll be looking for more by him, and heres a wonderful new collection, just waiting to be relishedbuy it now, youll not be disappointed! Marge Simon, winner of the Bram Stoker Award for Poetry When David Clink uses the first-person pronoun in a poem (and he does this often) do not assume that the speaker is David Clink himself or The Poet or even another human being.
It may be a human being but it might equally well be an animal, an insect, a monster, a ghost, the zeitgeist, or an alien being of some sort or other. Or it could be an earth spirit: I become the detail in an acorn, / veins in a leaf, / form of ever-changing clouds. He is quite versatile, and inventive, and the world that David Clink inhabits is a lot livelier than the one in which the rest of us live. John Robert Colombo, poet and author
Maureen Scott Harris, Winner of the Trillium Book Award for Poetry While reading Eating Fruit Out of Season you feel as though time, space and the continuum are gathering to view the world in a whole new way. Clink does this so well, we are willing to follow along accepting every shift in tone, voice and perspective standing right by his side for the entire ride. Poets Quarterly, January 2011 Beyond the shapeshifters, the aliens, and the other monsters that go bump in the night, Clink is drawing out the mischief and the darkness within each of us. A review of Monster at savvyverseandwit.com Monster is a brilliant, dark collection, and its vivid poignancy is related to its precision in diction and form. George Elliott Clarke, Halifax Chronicle Herald
The moon has come out. The wind brings natures fragrance trees and blossoms the salt of the sea. You say low tide is coming. I say I know but I dont want to go. You say you dont want me to go but low tide is coming. I say let it come.
In the morning the water is gone. I can hear the ancient creek of my bones my skin getting crispy. People from all around are coming to help. I tell them with my eyes that I dont need their help but they come anyways. They are pouring water on me. They have started a bucket brigade.
They are trying to save me. And I tell them with my eyes I dont want to be saved but they are not listening the sun is baking my skin I feel weak I cant think strait. When it is clear there is nothing to be done you look into my eyes and ask why I didnt leave before low tide why I couldnt be happy visiting for a few hours each night. I tell you I have been hated and hunted my whole life and the sea held me until I found you and I will not return to the sea. I can see it from the beach and I can taste it in the air along with the scent of flowers and you but the sea has nothing for me.
Moritz And when I woke again the earth was underfoot and the sky had ceased to be the sky, it was cowering behind a large rock. The rock isnt a rock, it is a stone the Word Dragon said, so the sky (it was the sky, in fact) had been hiding behind a stone. Behind the stone I glimpsed the ocean. Behind the ocean, the tropical island where I grew up, the memory of those I loved, my mother and father in the backyard reclining on lawn furniture, the ridiculous hats they wore, the wood fence torn down in later years, replaced by an aluminum one, my brothers and sisters playing with the water hose beneath the date and palm trees, the birds and paper wasps on about their business, a birdbath brimming with cold, clean water, the house where I learned to tie laces. Annoyed he once flew through something so cowardly, the Word Dragon grabbed the sky by the throat and drop kicked it heavenward, his wings an angry unfurling of letters forming complex words and phrases, his scaly neck convulsing an opinion, his vertebrae a list of connecting words, his snout a W, his feet capital Is as were his eyes, his sex forming the word need. A boulder? I asked. A boulder? I asked.
And the Word Dragon smiled and said, Yes. I could smell the ocean behind it.
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