By Sonia Lamontagne
Leading recueil de poésie d'une jeune auteure originaire du Nord de l'Ontario.
L'écriture est un corps à corps avec un sentiment de vide et de désarroi familier du quotidien. Cette présence à soi et au milieu définit les enjeux d'une jeunesse qui se cherche. los angeles présence à l'autre évoque les dimensions du corps et du cœur avec une cost d'émotions et d'authenticité.
«le vent m'enlace comme une girouette en branle découpée dans un ciel dense de roches et d'aurores nuptiales mariage de terre et lumière économe en suspens je suis le coq qui s'éveille tête haute dans le chant des alouettes éperdues je suis le coq qui s'éveille dans le will pay de personne un soupir qui surveille le prochain battement »
A tire d'ailes découle du regard d'une jeune femme sur son quotidien, sur les élans ou les confusions du cœur, sur les vagues à l'âme ancrés dans de vagues paysages du Nord de l'Ontario, Fauquier, Sudbury, Blind River. Le texte hint un arc narratif autour de moments clés qui se déploient en quatre temps, menant cette femme d'une jeunesse incertaine du nord ontarien jusqu'à une prise de judgment of right and wrong identitaire et personnelle qui ouvre une point of view de changement sur le monde.
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Extra resources for A tire d'ailes
I was my own church. Except— scared, scared. ( 16 ) Diary of a Year without Pictures 5/13/06 Watching “Surviving the Icelandic Sea”— The ship is also the processor. There is a trough for spines, dumps to the ocean when he walks in the room like read it and weep. Somehow, I deserve this. The man who swam on his back for two days spoke to myself. Spoke to the gulls. Pulled his body to a shore of lava fields. No one believed him. They kept putting me back in. All my life, for research. Why have you not given up on us?
This is not so far. Look at the eye of an ape, a dog: looks enough like me. But try: fish. Lobe-fin, bone of coelacanth. Try new bodies for new lives. I’d make a fine suit of love and disappear. 8: IN WHICH THEY MEMORIZE. The crooked tooth who went first. The way something blew your scarf as you ran, tossing off musts. The tyranny of dawn, repeating. The snow-like window between us. The shouldering through. The cardinal that flew from a wound. ( 40 ) The spill of your hair-thin chain as it broke while we slept and the gold links became us, and the locket was swallowed.
Except— scared, scared. ( 16 ) Diary of a Year without Pictures 5/13/06 Watching “Surviving the Icelandic Sea”— The ship is also the processor. There is a trough for spines, dumps to the ocean when he walks in the room like read it and weep. Somehow, I deserve this. The man who swam on his back for two days spoke to myself. Spoke to the gulls. Pulled his body to a shore of lava fields. No one believed him. They kept putting me back in. All my life, for research. Why have you not given up on us?