Product Description

Salvage is a beautifully crafted new book of poems. It opens with a signpost alerting the reader to “Poems about Loss/ Next 100 Pages,” poems about loved ones, relationships, innocence, faith – all gone. But paradoxically people and events in Michael Crummey’s embrace are too vivid to fade away. Summer and winter visits to a Finnish cemetery in Northern Ontario, the aftermath of a mysterious act of arson in Kingston, Ontario, a run around fogged-in Quidi Vidi Lake, St. John’s, Newfoundland – these experiences and others are rendered indelible in spare, luminous poems infused with conscience and heightened attention. Michael Crummey will break your heart and mend it too.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #2289873 in Books
• Published on: 2002-03-26
• Released on: 2002-03-26
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 112 pages

From the Inside Flap
Salvage is a beautifully crafted new book of poems. It opens with a signpost alerting the reader to ?Poems about Loss/ Next 100 Pages,? poems about loved ones, relationships, innocence, faith ? all gone. But paradoxically people and events in Michael Crummey?s embrace are too vivid to fade away. Summer and winter visits to a Finnish cemetery in Northern Ontario, the aftermath of a mysterious act of arson in Kingston, Ontario, a run around fogged-in Quidi Vidi Lake, St. John?s, Newfoundland ? these experiences and others are rendered indelible in spare, luminous poems infused with conscience and heightened attention. Michael Crummey will break your heart and mend it too.

About the Author
Michael Crummey lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland. He is the author of two previous books of poetry including Arguments with Gravity, winner of the Writers’ Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador Book Award for Poetry, a book of short stories, Flesh & Blood; and a novel, River Thieves, a national bestseller and a finalist for The Giller Prize.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
HOW HE CARRIED IT

It hovered in the boy’s head pale
as a daylight moon

It lit him up like a field
under a hail of lightning,
it torched the buildings locked
and almost hidden under brush
in the unfenced backyard of his mind

It travelled in his blood like blooms
of silt stirred from a river bottom,
it ticked like a clock toward
some alarm his body
lay awake for,
it made him feel ancient and
unrecoverable and lonely
for his friends

It churned inside him
like the crankshaft of the planet,
darkness endlessly turning
toward a deeper darkness
he had no name for

It settled on him like squatters
claiming farmland lying fallow,
like summer dusk staining
the distant hills blue

A Word about the Poem by Michael Crummey
This one drives my mother crazy. What is the “it” that he carries, she wants to know, but I’m not telling. The “it” is a very particular thing to me, but I was interested in writing a poem that circled and circled the specific without nailing a name to it, which would allow a reader to make their own guess at what lies at the centre. I wanted the poem to have an incantatory feel, letting a progression of images build one upon the other with the hope that by the end something adhered. And I’m honestly not sure if anything does.