Adamson - Ashland
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- Book:Ashland
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- Publisher:ECW Press;Misfit
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- Year:2011
- City:Toronto;Ont
- Rating:4 / 5
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Ashland / Gil Adamson.
Poems.
ISBN 978-1-55490-985-8
Also Issued As:
978-1-55490-939-1 (PDF); 978-1-77041-015-2 (PBK) I. Title. PS8551.D3256A78 2011 C811'.54 C2010-906739-8 Editor for the press: Michael Holmes / a misFit book
Cover design: David Gee
Text Design: Tania Craan
Typesetting: Troy Cunningham The publication of Ashland has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada, by the Ontario Arts Council, by the Government of Ontario through Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit, by the OMDC Book Fund, an initiative of the Ontario Media Development Corporation, and by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Far from it. Cormac McCarthy, Suttree
The oldest trees on our main street are dying, all five together. Half the mines are closing due to extreme cold. The men cry over their starved children, bludgeon their wives out of sheer pity, bury them in barrels and pillow cases. No man or woman is so dear that Ashland will suffer for long or that the townspeople will be convinced to think as one. Vigil as you like, old age takes care of itself. Violence does the rest.
On Easter of last year, Mr. Verkens mother died, followed by his entire herd of cattle and a wife. He is survived by no one.
Down in the city, women shoot darts, fed up with their lives, or so were told. They drown men in the river, sleep in movie theatres, sing the same song over and over until someone gets murderous. Today wind rushes the empty house, licks the dinner bell inside and out. We settle down to wait. Our lives are not what we expected.
All day ash floats in the air, coming from the brushfire. Hes broken down the barn door, waved the horse out into the burning field. Hes cut his arm open, shouting, Look at it! and we shuffle away, leave them to their drifting ship, pass a dry bit of meat from hand to hand. Soon, he has exhausted himself, fallen asleep, and she comes out. Her hands search our bodies, shaking with urgency.
I am her legs. I see forward with her eyes, while she buries her face in my long, wild hair. When I was young, she tied small gold bells to my bed to keep me awake. She ignored the neighbours like they were a truckload of pigeons. On the blackest evenings she took me to the railway tunnel to watch the burning eye of God coming. There are no stories, she warned me.
Everything is true.
All our sweaters are mossy. We sleep together and dislike strangers and walk backwards to erase our worries. Our ancestry goes back, we feel, to other planets, the melting of rock, the big bang. My father keeps journals. He sketches our wounds, records our memoirs. In one entry, we wander into ambush and are wiped out.
In other chapters, not so much blood. We cruise the pages slowly, hiss with laughter, slap each other saying, Look here, its you dying in this church, or, Ha ha, my horse got bit by a snake. We each see our own grim dispatch, demented and reeling or severed clean, our faces wavering in historys dim flashlight. My brother takes the book from me, sighs and blinks. And then he thumps it closed.
I resemble a cave, I go through myself. I tell myself that I exist, but basically: Ha! There is no bone in my arm, no maharajah playing god in the hallway, no dark toothpick in the thigh. There is no point even trying. Selling chocolates in the furls of a childs brain, Im a fine, evil thing, adoring hands reaching out to me from doorways. At night, the moon comes down like a sickle and does its savage work and the gloved historians rush in, with terrible whoops of joy.
How proud you are, going down to the soap shops and bakeries, shaved to a waxy sheen! Youre a plaster shrimp strutting across a blue plate, shouting, Bite away! A beer in the alleyway before you declare a ban on drinking. A packed lunch forgotten on a wall. Never mind, youll shake some merchant till he rains. Time for a change of gears in this town, you think, and youd be right. How many children are raped in the movie houses, their insides gone black? How many infants left outside to wander alone? Why, even the mayor has sacked his own intellect, sits in the cemetery singing, stuffing grass into his pockets. You smile into the sun, begin to compose a new anthem of strength, with yourself in the message.
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