I am currently reading To the Place of Trumpets by Brigit Pegeen Kelly, her first poetry book. I was going to buy it so that I would have her whole collection. I currently have Song (her second poetry book) and Orchard (her third poetry book). Both incredible books. To my surprise, To the Place of Trumpets costs over $100; it must be a collector's item now. So, I checked it out from the Elliot Pratt Library and conscientiously turn the pages gently.
Here is a poem from the book (I was not able to do some indentations correctly in the first part due to formatting problems):
Those Who Wrestle with the Angel for Us
i.
My brother flies
A plane,
windhover, night-lover,
Flies too low
Over the belled
and furrowed fields,
The coiled creeks,
The slow streams of cars
spilling
Like lust into the summer
Towns. And he flies
when he
Should not, when
The hot, heavy air
breaks
In storms, in high
Winds, when the clouds
like trees
Unload their stony fruit
And batter his slender
wings and tail.
But like the magician's
Dove, he appears home safely
every time,
Carrying in his worn white
Bag all the dark
elements
That flight knows,
The dark that makes
his own soul
Dark with sight.
ii.
Even when he was a child, his skin was the white
Of something buffed by winds at high altitudes
Or lit by arctic lights--it gleamed like fish scales
Or oiled tin, and even then he wished to be alone,
Disappearing into the long grasses of the Ipperwash dunes
Where the gulls nested and where one afternoon
He fell asleep and was almost carried off by the sun--
In his dream he was running, leaping well, leaping
High as the hunted deer, and almost leaping free,
But like the tide, my gentle-handed mother hauled him back
With cold compresses and tea, and after that he favored
The dark, the ghostly hours, a small boy whistling in our yard
As he dragged a stick along the fence rails, and listened
To the slatted rattle of railroad cars, and knew by
Instinct how railroad lines look from the air, like ladders
Running northward to the stars, to the great constellations.
And he began then tracking his way through the names
Of all our fears, Cassiopeia, Andromeda, the shining Ram,
Tracking the miles and years he logs now, the lonely stretches
Where he finds the souvenirs that light our narrow kitchens--
Buckles and pins, watches and rings--the booty
That makes our land-locked, land-bound souls feel the compass
In our feet, and see in those who never speak, who
Slouch in with the dust of the northern wind on their backs,
The face of the angel we ourselves must wrestle with.
Here is a poem from the book (I was not able to do some indentations correctly in the first part due to formatting problems):
Those Who Wrestle with the Angel for Us
i.
My brother flies
A plane,
windhover, night-lover,
Flies too low
Over the belled
and furrowed fields,
The coiled creeks,
The slow streams of cars
spilling
Like lust into the summer
Towns. And he flies
when he
Should not, when
The hot, heavy air
breaks
In storms, in high
Winds, when the clouds
like trees
Unload their stony fruit
And batter his slender
wings and tail.
But like the magician's
Dove, he appears home safely
every time,
Carrying in his worn white
Bag all the dark
elements
That flight knows,
The dark that makes
his own soul
Dark with sight.
ii.
Even when he was a child, his skin was the white
Of something buffed by winds at high altitudes
Or lit by arctic lights--it gleamed like fish scales
Or oiled tin, and even then he wished to be alone,
Disappearing into the long grasses of the Ipperwash dunes
Where the gulls nested and where one afternoon
He fell asleep and was almost carried off by the sun--
In his dream he was running, leaping well, leaping
High as the hunted deer, and almost leaping free,
But like the tide, my gentle-handed mother hauled him back
With cold compresses and tea, and after that he favored
The dark, the ghostly hours, a small boy whistling in our yard
As he dragged a stick along the fence rails, and listened
To the slatted rattle of railroad cars, and knew by
Instinct how railroad lines look from the air, like ladders
Running northward to the stars, to the great constellations.
And he began then tracking his way through the names
Of all our fears, Cassiopeia, Andromeda, the shining Ram,
Tracking the miles and years he logs now, the lonely stretches
Where he finds the souvenirs that light our narrow kitchens--
Buckles and pins, watches and rings--the booty
That makes our land-locked, land-bound souls feel the compass
In our feet, and see in those who never speak, who
Slouch in with the dust of the northern wind on their backs,
The face of the angel we ourselves must wrestle with.
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