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[book cover] Musing

sonnets by Jonathan Locke Hart

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April 2011

9781897425909 (Paperback)
9781897425916 (PDF)
9781926836386 (ePub)

$16.95

Series
Mingling Voices

Subject
Literature

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Complete audio book
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Be drawn into the poetry of Jonathan Locke Hart as he reads sonnets from his book, Musing. Simply click on the tab below marked "Audiobook" and choose from the list of poems to open the audio file.

 

 

 

About the Book

Musing is a book of sonnets. Working within the framework of a classic poetic form, Jonathan Locke Hart embarks on an extended meditation on our rootedness in landscape and in the past. As sonnets, the poems are a mixture of tradition and innovation. Throughout, Hart deftly interweaves European culture with North American settings and experience.

The collection opens with a foreword by noted literary scholar Gordon Teskey, who reflects on the themes that have marked the evolution of Hart's poetry. Of Musing, Teskey writes: "These deeply thoughtful poems bring layered historical consciousness into the sonnet. They also touch and stir the heart through all its levels."


About the Author

Jonathan Locke Hart's poetry has appeared in many prestigious literary journals, and translations of his poems have been published in Estonian, French, and Greek. He teaches at the University of Alberta, and his recent books include Dream China, Dream Salvage, and Dreamwork.

 

 

Download the eBook

Copyright: This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License (CC BY-NC-ND 2.5 CA). It may be reproduced for non-commercial purposes, provided that the original author is credited.

MARC

Download the entire book


Contents

DownloadFront Matter

DownloadIntroduction: The Poetry of Jonathan Hart

DownloadMusing

DownloadAcknowledgements

DownloadIndex of First Lines

DownloadAbout the Author

 

 

 

sonnets by Jonathan Locke Hart

musing

Index of First Lines

[order sonnets numerically | alphabetically]

The boughs lay withered beyond the brow 1

What is not said in the garden 2

The sparrow on the trough is world enough 3

The garden in the ruined abbey brims 4

Your face was the chalk in these hills 5

The fen stretches out like prairie, the canals 6

They married looking out to sea, the west 7

All from the stars the shards fell, light condensed 8

The winter of our breath was the blue 9

So the wind was on your sleeve: you asked me 10

Taboo in the stem of my skull, the danger 11

You sang, black Madonna, your breasts more perfect 12

The cusp of the dark falls on Central Park 13

Breath, too, can plummet, magic rougher 14

The aspersion she cast cuts deep: the times 15

Impostors shape fictions of marrow and soul 16

Son, you were allergic to filberts then 17

Daughter, you are more delicate 18

Vexation burned when the sun beat on the waves 19

The tongue is spare: the wind lifts on the dirt road 20

This harvest is the sap that moves in us, 21

The dog beyond the gate barked, as if 22

If joy could screeve from lung and marrow 23

You sculch my secret signs, as though I illude 24

The scree on the beach was lost in your breath 25

The renitency of the will opposes all 26

The sea scrubs the rock, the clouds on the cape 27

The turquoise water is not faked on a postcard. 28

The windows of the moon have cast 29

They were quartering us in these streets 30

There was a window on the stars, the cusp 31

Keel, mast, sail in wind, sea, sky shake and bend 32

Her pale hair stumbled in the wood, and he rode 33

There was jazz playing in a room away 34

The winds rise over the plain outside Paris 35

Till we fled Calais these two terrains 36

Window night-frame time of the moon 37

I have washed too many I have watched 38

There were stones there were knives 39

It's not custom to begin with the couplet 40

The angles of the moon over, through those trees, 41

The absence of your breath heats my marrow 42

The embarrassment of words abandons us 43

The hawthorn trembles in rain and ice 44

Just when it seems she will sing deport 45

Through the threshold the pollen draws, the light 46

And yet the morning light held you, the cuts 47

When I was young the world was young: you know 48

It would be as the wind, but some force 49

This night, like the vanity of death, 50

Palm trees came to France in 1864 51

Freezing to death is not an act of love 52

Your arms are not a trope, and hyperbole 53

Flint, outcrop, overhang: I made my way 54

So much depends on the glibness of words, 55

I am not certain: je ne suis pas s?r 56

When Venus moved her headquarters, she sighed 57

The closer to the ground, the more fictional 58

Silent devotion at first light, wind 59

Those catacombs, stacked with skulls and bones 60

The way trains move, poetry moves 61

I have a whole cache I will one day 62

You see before you a man more ridiculous 63

In your eyes along the streets can I see 64

A Romanesque bridge joins one hill 65

Dusk falls over a land cut and crossed, 66

The country is not pastoral: it was 67

Nostalgia and utopia, past and future, 68

The nuclear power plants smoke over the land 69

The clouds lie over the land near Avignon 70

The cars on the rail line are stacked up 71

Another poet scoffed when I said 72

Why is it the poplar leaves turn in the sun 73

Made of systems? Love and justice have lost out 74

The warehouses, spills, heaps, strews, broken waste 75

On an outcrop in Central Park, we talk 76

Girders and glass roofs extend at round 77

Who would hear me above the surf, the remains 78

The dead stars rise over the ridge, the garden 79

My heart is even lonelier than my face 80

Winter has its verges, not a green snow 81

Roses are more gorgeous than us: we are as birds 82

Remember our mothers who bore us 83

The season of our wooing, a stillness now, 84

World, breath, disinherited us, even 85

A certain happiness exists despite 86

Ropes, planks, cups, lines, buckets, tiles, fieldstones 87

Pain like bread breaks and tears, and in France 88

Our whatever is an asymptote and not 89

It is not as if the sun and I 90

The white cliffs above Cassis 91

The shadows of the evening still across 92

For him, there is only one poet: his wife. 93

Something rebarbative lives in this life 94

These eyes, joints, gums ache with an age 95

You watch the dying light after the star 96

There's something about a train that is like 97

On the brink of simile I faced 98

Your heart is knapped flint, or is it mine? 99

Love is a Stonehenge, virtual to some, 100

The hills are burial mounds: the oaks drape 101

The Georgian calms the world about, hills slant 102

The speculation of music has 103

We rose from dust on a day not of our 104

The wind was slapping the water, and the surf 105

What of the furtive thief of love stealing 106

You don't have to be Richard the Third 107

How to keep the deep fluster and rush 108

The barges slip along the Seine, the wind has died 109