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Table of Contents
About The Book
From Gil Adamson, author of The Outlander and Ridgerunner, nominated for the Giller Prize
Neogothicism, the surrealist snapshot, feminist Western and postmodern parable are just some of the elements that feed Gil Adamson’s second collection of poems. Adamson creates a world fully awash in violence and history, the absurdities of the frontier, the gorgeous terrors of death. Everything is simple, and yet nothing is as it seems.
Moving easily from prose poem to lyric, verbal portrait to improbable biography, Ashland leads us on a macabre tour of our nightmares, perverse secrets, and death-focused mythologies: “In the end we see ourselves. We last longer. The night opens its mouth, and we step in.”
The poems in Ashland lay the groundwork for Adamson’s award-winning and internationally bestselling fiction.
We look away from his open mouth,
look instead at the corn, the crows
floating above the river in their private worries.
Tonight, when we turn in,
the candle will sputter and blow.
Pinched out easily, all flame
gives way to this wide black wing.
— excerpt from “Black Wing”
Neogothicism, the surrealist snapshot, feminist Western and postmodern parable are just some of the elements that feed Gil Adamson’s second collection of poems. Adamson creates a world fully awash in violence and history, the absurdities of the frontier, the gorgeous terrors of death. Everything is simple, and yet nothing is as it seems.
Moving easily from prose poem to lyric, verbal portrait to improbable biography, Ashland leads us on a macabre tour of our nightmares, perverse secrets, and death-focused mythologies: “In the end we see ourselves. We last longer. The night opens its mouth, and we step in.”
The poems in Ashland lay the groundwork for Adamson’s award-winning and internationally bestselling fiction.
We look away from his open mouth,
look instead at the corn, the crows
floating above the river in their private worries.
Tonight, when we turn in,
the candle will sputter and blow.
Pinched out easily, all flame
gives way to this wide black wing.
— excerpt from “Black Wing”
Excerpt
Vigil
The train was unable to stop until after the man named Verken was struck. Humming on its track of snow stars, it burst open the unhappy man, scraped up a new nightfall for us all.
Mrs. Dumont has slashed herself across her withered thigh. Two young people recently married are now indifferent to one another. 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. Verken’s mother died, followed by his entire herd of cattle and a wife. He is survived by no one.
Brother and Me
It’s a mad day to run away from home, brother. Trees fall drunk in the orchard, heads swarming with bees. Finally, the river has slapped the fields away, so no harvest, no singing, the roads all gobbled up.
Down in the city, women shoot darts, fed up with their lives, or so we’re 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.
We eat little crisp buns under the awning and peep out at the sun, the big white fury booming around in heaven.
Burning Field
We’re waiting, eating bread and beer by the gate while, inside, he tears at her clothes, demands reckless things.
All day ash floats in the air, coming from the brushfire.
He’s broken down the barn door, waved the horse out into the burning field. He’s 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. She moans, and we hold ourselves still, hold our breath, look away.
The train was unable to stop until after the man named Verken was struck. Humming on its track of snow stars, it burst open the unhappy man, scraped up a new nightfall for us all.
Mrs. Dumont has slashed herself across her withered thigh. Two young people recently married are now indifferent to one another. 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. Verken’s mother died, followed by his entire herd of cattle and a wife. He is survived by no one.
Brother and Me
It’s a mad day to run away from home, brother. Trees fall drunk in the orchard, heads swarming with bees. Finally, the river has slapped the fields away, so no harvest, no singing, the roads all gobbled up.
Down in the city, women shoot darts, fed up with their lives, or so we’re 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.
We eat little crisp buns under the awning and peep out at the sun, the big white fury booming around in heaven.
Burning Field
We’re waiting, eating bread and beer by the gate while, inside, he tears at her clothes, demands reckless things.
All day ash floats in the air, coming from the brushfire.
He’s broken down the barn door, waved the horse out into the burning field. He’s 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. She moans, and we hold ourselves still, hold our breath, look away.
Product Details
- Publisher: ECW Press (April 1, 2011)
- Length: 96 pages
- ISBN13: 9781770410152
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- Book Cover Image (jpg): Ashland 2nd Edition Trade Paperback 9781770410152
