Distillō, Basma Kavanagh
2012,
Gaspereau Press, Kentville
NS
$19.95,
978-1-55447-115-7, 96 pages
reviewed by rob mclennan
Kentville, Nova Scotia poet,
painter and letterpress printer Basma Kavanagh’s first trade poetry collection, Distillō (Kentville
NS: Gaspereau Press, 2012), is a self-described
“poetics of description,” a collection she dedicates to her father, as well as
“the people, places, plants, animals and energies of the North Island.” The “poetics
of description” is an interesting one, and I’m not entirely clear if the
strength of her poems lay in the descriptive lyric she claims to favour, over the point where description gives way to an
abstract essence, writing instead of the natural world in a way that isn’t
descriptive. But self-description is a funny, deceptive thing; it can function
as argument, eventual goal or steel trap, preventing either author or reader
from ever seeing past it. Even her opening line contradicts the description, writing
“Blood is mostly water.” Is this description, or
something other?
False Hellebore, Devil’s Bite
Lily-like pleated leaves,
parallel-veined, clasp
an elegant wand of stalk
dangling blossoms, holding
your gaze, sussing
you out,
fibrous fingers probing organs
fine roots testing throat.
Are you ill?
The woods are full
of dangerous medicine.
It shakes its rattle of leaves,
whispers something, offers
its right hand, its left—
a gift.
There
is an element to her poems composed as small studies, each one written as a
short essay on or around a particular subject/topic, along the lines of Anne
Carson’s Short Talks (London ON: Brick Books, 1992), as though her poems
are not only exploring the lines between nature and poetry, but the very nature
of nature itself. The first poem of the collection, for example, “TAXONOMY,” is
a short sequence of poems, each with a title in Latin, with explanation. The poems skim along the stretch of definition before diving in,
and deepening, beyond description into something further, exploring the idea as
well as certain facts. One could even see that her letterpress work
might make her aware of each impression, and the weight of each word, each
letter, and there is an economy of language here, one that appears to be her
strength, and one that hopefully will develop.
Born
in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives
in Ottawa. The author of more than twenty trade books of poetry, fiction and
non-fiction, he won the John Newlove Poetry Award in 2011, and his most recent
titles are the poetry collections Songs for little sleep, (Obvious
Epiphanies, 2012), grief notes: (BlazeVOX
[books], 2012), A (short) history of l. (BuschekBooks,
2011), Glengarry (Talonbooks, 2011) and kate street (Moira, 2011), and a second
novel, missing persons (2009). An editor and publisher, he runs
above/ground press, Chaudiere Books (with Jennifer Mulligan), The Garneau Review (ottawater.com/garneaureview),
seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics (ottawater.com/seventeenseconds) and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater (ottawater.com).
He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University
of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other notices
at robmclennan.blogspot.com