By Troy Jollimore
This can be an eagerly awaited selection of new poems from the writer of Tom Thomson in Purgatory, which gained the nationwide e-book Critics Circle Award and used to be hailed by way of the hot York instances as a "snappy, unique book." A victorious follow-up to that acclaimed debut, At Lake Scugog demonstrates why the San Francisco Chronicle has referred to as Troy Jollimore "a new and fascinating voice in American poetry."
Jollimore is a qualified thinker, and in witty and profound methods his officially playful poems dramatize philosophical subjects--especially the individual’s relation to the bigger global, and the permeable, consistently moving border among "inner" and "outer." for example, the speaker of "The Solipsist," suspecting that the whole international "lives inside your skull," wonders "why / God could make ear and eye / to stand outward, no longer in." And Tom Thomson--a personality who additionally seemed in Jollimore’s first book--finds himself touring like an astronaut during the a ways reaches of the distance that fills his head, an adventure that activates him to invite doorbell be put in "on the inside," in order that he can warn the realm sooner than "intruding on’t."
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Additional info for At Lake Scugog: poems
He gave me his second daughter as a consolation. 22 II TOM THOMSON IN FLIGHT Kent: Give me thy hand. Who’s there? Fool: A spirit, a spirit. He says his name’s Poor Tom. —King Lear This page intentionally left blank Prelude Of all the things that modern man does well there’s one above all else fills him with pride: he’s learned to minimize his prison cell and carries it with him always, on the inside. 25 Tom Thomson in Space Some nights, when Tom retires, he pretty much implodes: sucked back through nostril or an ear into the starry void that lies behind his sleep-blanked visage .
25 Tom Thomson in Space Some nights, when Tom retires, he pretty much implodes: sucked back through nostril or an ear into the starry void that lies behind his sleep-blanked visage . . Though his body crouch corpse-still, sunk in suspended animation, arid as freeze-dried food, his spirit finds no rest—a cosmonaut, it treks where no man (and even fewer women) have gone before: Tom’s Inner Self. Its never-ending mission: to seek out a new life—one not to bear, but live . . Out of range now of Ground Control, and hurtling straight through Ursa Major, Tom accelerates toward the inner wall —the universe’s limit—of his skull .
And so he trips the circuit, and flashbulbs light up the room as the echo bounces lightly off the moon and he (re)packs, makes ready to (re)do the endless circuit. Flashbulbs light up the room: Quiet on the set. Zapruder film, take two . . All progress has its equal opposite price. But what’s worth doing is worth doing twice. 38 Tom Thomson in Tune His radio receiver’s fixed on Mars. There, they play Pavement all the time. And Beck. And, on state holidays, the Flaming Lips. He thinks of when his own lips were on fire with tunes of longing, songs of burning want .