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poetry

Elizabeth Brewster 1922-2012

By Chasity St. Louis.

In The Fiddlehead's spring issue, due back from the printers very soon, we commemorate Brewster's career by reprinting several of Brewster's early poems that appeared in The Fiddlehead. Also appearing in no. 255 is a thoughtful essay about Brewster written by current UNB graduate student Chasity St. Louis. We're pleased to reproduce Chasity's piece, "Where We Come From: Elizabeth Brewster's Literary Legacy" here. Photo of Elizabeth Brewster courtesy of Archives Canada. Used with permission.

Taking Leave: Mindful Self-Reproach & the Repudiation of Cultural Gender Expectations in Danielle Deveraux’s “Playthings”

By Phillip Crymble

A Review of Danielle Devereaux's Cardiogram (Baseline Press, 2011)

The accolades for “Cardiogram”, the eponymous poem of Danielle Devereaux’s 2011 Baseline Press debut short collection have been many. From "Cardiogram"'s initial publication in The Fiddlehead 244 and subsequent inclusion in The Best Canadian Poetry in English 2011, to the attention it has received from reviewers at Salty Ink, Literatured.com, and elsewhere, it’s abundantly clear that this little poem has legs.

Show Me the Way to Go Home: Place & Belonging in Shoshanna Wingate’s Homing Instinct

By Phillip Crymble

A Review of Shoshanna Wingate's Homing Extinct (Frog Hollow Press, 2011)

Home and all of its accoutrements, conventions, and cultural imperatives are made accountable in Wingate’s collection as it moves inexorably towards the final reckoning we encounter in the closing poem. “Neighbours” and “The Cotton Mill” come early in the book, and as companion pieces, work to both establish and entrench the prevailing thematic locus. . . .

The Kinaesthetics of Poetry: On Anne Carson and the Dancer I Never Was

By Chantelle Rideout

The gangly-legged childhood version of me wanted to be a figure skater. My parents, regrettably, acquiesced and, after getting me properly outfitted in a pair of Don Jacksons and some sparkles, sent me tottering off to the Sackville Arena. I spent hours rehearsing camel spins, Salchows, and Ina Bauers, went through endless pairs of flesh-coloured tights, but, in the end, I was always flutzing my Lutzes and gradually came to accept that I would never be an Olympian (let's face it, I was already older than Tara Lipinski. Also, I had better things to do after school than endure below-zero temperatures in the few months of t-shirt weather we got (and, those sequined dresses aren't cheap, you guys).

Reading Forugh Farrokhzad in December

By Kayla Geitzler

As the weather grows colder and academic deadlines collide with the hectic holiday season, the urge to procrastinate mounts. At some point I eventually give in and spend a few of these long, gray afternoons with the poetry of Forugh Farrokhzad. Her intricate manoeuvring of abstraction, visceral imagery and dense metaphor remind me why, like her, “I respect poetry in the very same way religious people respect religion” (Collected Works).

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