[BOOKS] ✫ Crossing the Snowline By Pauline Stainer – Pdfr25.co

Crossing the Snowline Pauline Stainer Is A Poet Working At The Margins Of The Sacred , Conveying Sensations With An Economy Of Means That Is Breathtakingher Poems Are Not Merely Artifacts, They Have An Organic Life Of Their Own John Burnside Her New Collection Crossing The Snowline Charts Her Return To Life After Numbing Grief These Luminous Poems Are A Testament Of Recovery, Renewal And Redemption

6 thoughts on “Crossing the Snowline

  1. says:

    It took me a while to warm up to this collection I m not sure if the second half is indeed stronger, as I remarked to my husband last night, or if I grew accustomed to the rhythm of these diverse but connected poems midway through On reading the back cover description, I felt stunned to learn that Stainer had written them after a long fallow period in the wake of her daughter s death stunned by the depth and range and emotional weight of our experiences, and also by her decision to make the source of her pain, loss and, eventually, inspiration, explicit.This suggests that the reader s own experience of the poems benefits from this knowledge, as though Stainer takes us by the hand and leads us through them, pointing out with certain words how they relate But of course we grip that guiding hand just as firmly, giving her support and companionship and understanding and the warmth of the living as she heads back below the snowline she d crossed upon losing a child, articulating her path in words and observing the world anew, through fresh, sad so very sad open eyes.That fallow period was a cold one defined by blue the pale, otherworldly gleam of ice, of glaciers, and the indigo of night when the new moon reigns This spectrum overwhelmingly colored my appreciation of these spare poems, the beauty and challenge of new growth I would happily share any number of them, but let s keep it simple here are my three favorites.The Ship s Gardener I tend the garden on deckwhile under the keelforests of kelpmultiply.Melons, love apples, aubergines so far from landI have to pollinatewith a paintbrush.Exhausted birds blow inand sip from the nectar spursuntil an archipelagoopens in their throats.Conjunctions You lay with me in the bleached field,new moon, late sunthey hung like counterweights,first light, last lightno orient, except to kiss and grazeas if each moment were an open woundand when we separate, only heart s spectraindexing the dark.The Dancing Field This is the history of lightBarley tinged with purpleunder plover s egg bluescintillation of mirrorsto allure larkspale clouded yellowslifting under a hunter s moonleverets with large heartsin the liquid grassthe lovely litany of field namesguarding the flame.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *