Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Susan Holbrook is the author of three poetry books, including Joy Is So Exhausting and Reading (and Writing About) Poetry (Broadview Press, 2015). She lives in Leamington, Ontario, and teaches at the University of Windsor.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781552453285 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Coach House Books |
| Publication date: | 05/03/2016 |
| Pages: | 88 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 7.80(h) x 0.40(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Throaty Wipes
By Susan Holbrook
COACH HOUSE BOOKS
Copyright © 2016 Susan HolbrookAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55245-328-5
CHAPTER 1
WHAT IS POETRY
(a twelve-tone poem)
trite yap show
rosy twit heap
posterity haw
a wept history
it's yawp rot, eh
a wisher potty
a power shitty
a whitey sport
poetry is what
whips yo tater
pets it awry, oh
oh, twisty pear
two hearts yip
it's paw theory
hi! try wet soap
ear whist typo
ape with story
or what ye spit
or what yeps it
throaty wipes
or what I types
LAYMAN'S TERMS
Okay, say the tower
is bathwater, the dish
is your drainpipe, your
computer a septic tank,
the trees a cracked
waste shoe. Okay,
the tower is a gas
tank, the dish is a crank-case,
the trees a leaky
fuel injector and your
computer a rough or
hesitant idler. The tower
is your brain, okay? Your
dish is your mouth,
the trees the inhibitory
neurotransmitter gamma-aminobutyric
acid, your
computer slurring, 'This
time make it a double.'
The tower is power,
your computer is a hair
dryer, your dish
a plug, the trees
insulation under the screw.
Trees are a slotted spoon,
okay? The tower is a dish,
your computer a leaky
mouth, your dish
another dish. Say
the tower's a red
fish, your dish
a spawning pool.
Your trees are too
shallow. Your computer
is a cobble riffle, a forest is a pinball
machine, a tree is a cotton ball, okay?
Your arms slur and plug,
there are dishes
in the tub. The sun
flash-broils the moon,
but your computer
is Earth under a messy
blue sky of trees.
A viper
appears to chew
the rat, but
in reality it
is toothing in
more venom
so it can swallow
its prey whole okay that's
what you want
MUST WE LEARN THESE THINGS FOR OURSELVES
The body
rejects surplus
vodka, scabdug
knees sprout
burls, credit-card debt
never stops interesting,
they shellac the display cakes. Lust
that could flay an Airbus to tinsel, spatter all matter with singe-holes
which dilate rapidly until they meet and the universe
puckers into rope ladders in various states of dissolve, does not
bode well. You can't call
Information to get
information. I needed
the name of that Walter
Crane painting, you know,
where rearing horses
form the foam? Surf,
yes, a weird bronco and
weird is spelt that way.
Spelt spelled that way.
Her warning not to touch
the orange coil at eye
level in the kitchen
of 646 Gordon Street
proved nontheoretical.
Get the fingering right
the first time because
your hands are hands-on
learners and stubborn
elephants. Lopped
lollipop to wind-pipe
as bung is
to bottle, as the shout
not to run and suck's
stuck. Now I get my
information from the Internet.
There's a pamphlet on how to dress
without a corset and
seahorses on the brain
floor, where all
we know
goes.
MY FELLOW CONTRANYM
We overlooked
the ocean, trimming
itself.
I devoured the pitted
plums. You prefer
the pitted kind.
The cookies had
been dusted. Love
garnished.
I was chuffed
but you were
chuffed.
I tabled my
apology. You
tabled your apology.
We agreed
to sanction
aught.
Our transparent
desires cleaved
and buckled.
We overlooked
the ocean, trimming
itself.
Fast ravel.
The alarm went
off. Nobody left.
BETTER BLOWING
It's better to use both hands. It's better to leave the hands out of it. It's better to introduce saliva. It's better to encourage it to go left if you want it to fall to the right. Better to cover the hole with your thumb to trap air inside. Better to go for the good old-fashioned pink doughy kind. Better to consider that the emperor and his family cannot partake. Better to let the leaves dry first. Better to make a deeper dimple for the punty, punty coming from the French or Italian term for bridge. Better to keep the tongue engaged. Better to think of it as honey on the tip of a butter knife. Better to separate it into three sections, securing with a ponytail holder. Better to keep the wind at your back. Better to avoid larger ones, which will cause problems for you. Better to swell into a menacing spiky ball, leaving predators unable to swallow it. Better to think of it as a red lentil in a pea shooter. Better to go slow or it will pop too soon. Better to remember that while it may be fine in your mouth, it will stick to your face. Better use a 12' x 12' tarp. Better to roll it on a steel table, called a marver, into an even cylinder. Better to work with wet roots. Better to press one nostril tight shut. Better to check behind you. Better to have it go shiko-shiko in the mouth. Better to attach a nozzle. Better to heat the part we want to move, flash the part we want to keep warm. Better to think of it as a bundle of corks tied together with string. Better practise in your driveway with a paper cup. It's better to keep it in the glory hole, as hot as you can handle, just to the point when you lose control, count to five, then bring it back to the bench and start shaping the glass.
MEMO
re: ligion
see below
regarding
the above
GEST
This is the book of the generations of Adam. Winded by the squeeze after twelve hours, In the day that God created man, five minutes apart. Duck conversation, grip the table leg. in the likeness of God made he him; Freeze in the driveway. The jolting car is a relentless male and female created he them; and blessed midway ride you regret instantly. Why do them, and called their name those people arrange grocery bags in trunks? Why are they Adam, in the day when they were jogging? Why aren't they crouched over the pavement created. And Adam lived felled by the fierce shock of flesh clamping in on itself for an hundred and thirty years, and begat the longest minute every four minutes. After four a son in his own likeness, after his image; more hours, they hit three minutes apart. and called his name Cling to my neighbour's words: 'I wouldn't exactly call it pain.' But Seth: and the days of Adam after I would, I would exactly call it pain more exactly than he had begotten Seth were eight hundred years: I've ever called anything pain before. Gut and he begat sons and daughters: and all the days packed with tacks, demonic blood that Adam lived were nine hundred and pressure cuff around the belly, an imploding thirty years: and he died. And Seth lived an star, the instant vitrification of organs, a hundred and five years, and begat Enos: and cinderblock forced up the yin yang, a Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred thousand salmonella cramps in concert, and seven years, and begat sons and daughters: and reverse time-lapse peony unblooming all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve into a hot pink fist, a truck full of years; and he died. And Enos lived ninety rocks wheeling onto me, pausing a minute on years, and begat the bump. Treading water, then seized, treading, seized, the swimming Cainan: and Enos lived after girl in Jaws rewound, played a hundred times over. After he begat Cainan eight hundred and fifteen three hours, two minutes apart, each contraction years, and begat sons and daughters: ninety seconds long. Nobody told. Who ever said and all the days of Enos were nine hundred and a second hand 'sweeps.' The fine red five years: and he died. And Cainan lived seventy years, and blade on the school clock begat Mahalaleel: and Cainan lived after he begat Mahalaleel eight hundred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters: and all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years: and he snags on every fraction of the minute. With every fourth- half pie my life died. And Mahalaleel lived sixty and five years, and begat Jared: and Mahalaleel lifts. Billions lived after he begat Jared eight hundred and thirty years, of women have done this how. and begat sons and daughters: and all the days Done it more than once how. Pain inspires of Mahalaleel were eight hundred ninety and five unholy bestial noises but my animal years: and he died. And Jared is a cat, in the still dark under the porch steps. My mum lived an hundred sixty and two years, and he begat Enoch: and Jared lived birthed me, after he begat Enoch eight hundred years, and her mum birthed her and I birth you and begat sons and daughters: and all the days of Jared you will birth your daughter who were nine hundred sixty and two years: and will birth her daughter: together we are like he died. And Enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat those nesting Russian dolls you Methuselah: and Enoch walked with God after he crack open in the middle. Even today begat Methuselah three hundred years, and begat half a million women die in childbirth, sons and daughters: and all the days of Enoch were one a minute. In SubSaharan Africa three hundred sixty and five years: and Enoch a woman has a one in twenty chance of walked with God: and he was not; for God took dying. The cardiotocograph needles him. And Methuselah lived an hundred eighty and trace your heart and my contractions seven years, and begat Lamech: and Methuselah lived after in tandem, the sawtoothhe begat Lamech seven hundred eighty and two years, and begat scribbled paper sons and daughters: and all the days of Methuselah coming and coming, hour after hour, were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died. falling in tidy folds into a deep And Lamech lived an hundred eighty and open drawer. Billions of women. Feet planted two years, and begat a son: and he in soft dirt or on hieroglyphed birthing bricks or called his name Noah, saying, strapped into metal stirrups or held by midwife, sister, This same shall partner, mother. Push for as long as it takes the ant to climb over my comfort us concerning our toes and for six nods of the branch in the breeze and for work and toil of our six counts from the nurse. Push for one two three four five six hands, because of the one Come on now nice hard ground which the LORD hath cursed. And Lamech push for three four five lived after he begat Noah five six Thatta girl you can do this you can tear yourself a hundred ninety and five new one you can snap yourself in years, and begat half, so this is what they mean by 'torn limb from sons and daughters: and all the days of limb,' you can push a haystack through a Lamech were seven hundred needle you can force your insides outside seventy and seven four five six one two three with a big years: and he breath we can see her coming and three four died. And Noah with one more breath was five hundred years who is coming, who is old: and Noah begat Shem, Ham, my insides and Japheth. you emerge and for you I would do This is the book this of the generations fourteen billion times over.
COULD YOU LIFT A PIANO OFF A CHILD
Do you know what
pertussis is? Is
there a live chainsaw
lodged in the log
you're sleeping like?
Are you someone's very
personal pizza? You
blank, having
answered a thousand
questions since naptime
with a) interesting, I'm
not sure or b) bullshit
based on your sketchy
recall of the water cycle.
Is your life a ceaseless
thesis defence? How
do cows jump over
moos? Orange
who? Where
is the barrel for these
monkeys? Did you
water the lush chia
Shrek head? Do
you seriously think that
piano will collapse, perhaps
under a steady drip of
cartoon Steinways?
Would you rather b) sink
the credit line or
a) have a super sour
gummy horn growing
out of your cheek? I trip
over your heart; does
it b) jangle or c)
squeak? Why is it so
loud now and roving,
always underfoot?
Is Shrek not bald?
You explain that ants
can reach the size
of trombones, forgetting
the book is in French.
WITHOUT YOU
I wander lonely as a clod
in a bondless ble sky.
I'm living in a bbble,
the little engine
that cold.
I miss being a nit.
Me and my big
moth, devoring
every planet y'all
were in. Only
Mars and Earth
can sstain life now.
What a clsterfck!
I've lost ten ponds.
I've been hiding in the
hose reading The History
of Tom Jones, a Fondling.
I need my fond pot back.
I am ardor's American
neighbor. At the la,
grass skirts hla;
I slmp in a
mm.
I'm in the Salt.
I know I was sed
bt I miss that sing.
I THOUHT YOU WERE DIFFERENT
Like begins as a liquid
but closes to a quick stop,
voiceless. A lick
withdrawn. Lake
drained dry.
I didn't say I liked it.
I said I, like, liked it.
I wasn't all like, I liked it.
The Parker Street mansion
wheezed and moulted
but we liked
to show prospective
roommates the third-floor
shared kitchen view,
downtown glistering to the left
and straight ahead the dark heaps
of Grouse Mountain, furring
into night, and one, who informed
us her regimen included two
hours of grooming and who
dickered about price, just
glanced at the window
and said, I don't like
views.
I don't like vistas.
Hold the pie.
Don't care to look a deer in the eye.
I don't like the nightlife or to boogie or pina coladas.
I don't like that.
Like many Canadians, I am
like a bird on a wire. Like
many Americans I am like
a rhinestone cowboy. Like
many dual citizens I'm like
a two-timing, fence-sitting,
fusion-cuisine-eating flip-flopper,
entertaining two
unlike ideas at once
according to the fellow in
that rock crystal hat I like.
Please take a moment
to Like my page. Like
many Canadians, I am
likeable. Like many citizens of
the world I find the thumbs
up an obscene gesture. Careful
whom you Like.
Earn the respect of native speakers
by using English fillers such as uh,
like and um. You will likely
come across as more authentic
and, like, earn the respect of um.
And metaphor was all like,
you reflect similarities but
I actually, like, create them
and I was all like, you just
bash stuff together and don't
come clean about it and
metaphor was like, if you hate
metaphor so much why did you
just use one and I was like,
you're a pain in the ass and
metaphor was like, Ah! and
I said the like was implied there
and metaphor was like, why
do you have to be so
explicit it's like explaining
jokes and I was like
Ah! Really? Is it like that? and
metaphor was all like
Touché and we crossed
imaginary swords.
Do you adore red,
red you can't liken
to any love? Do you
admire the silk-like
lining of her trench
coat, row upon row
of items that could be
paired for curve, give,
the way the feathers
fall? Do you like
comparison
shopping?
Things are not really
the same. It's always
just as if
they were the same.
It's in the almost
that we ride. Why
everything's moving
all the time, like.
CALCULOGUE
BILL: hELLO, LIZ.
LIZ: hI.
BILL: Shh, LIZ. SEE LOIS?
LIZ: Eh?
BILL: LOIS. ShE'S LEZ.
LIZ: Eh?
BILL: ShE'S SLOBBISh. ShE BOOZES. ShE'S LEZ.
LIZ: Oh.
BILL: SEE ShE?
LIZ: hOLLIE?
BILL: LEZBO.
LIZ: Oh.
BILL: ShE OOZES LEZBO. ShE BOSSES. ShE LOBBIES. ShE'S BOLShIE. ShOE SIZE II. SEE LESLIE?
LIZ: LEZBO?
BILL: BI. SEE ShELLIE?
LIZ: ShELLIE'S LEZBO
BILL: Oh, ShELLIE'S LEZBO.
LIZ: ShELLIE?
BILL: Shh, ShIZZLE. ShE SELLS ShELL OIL, LOOB. ShE LOSES hOSES. ShE LOBS BIBLES.
LIZ: hELL'S BELLS, ShELLIE'S LEZ. ShE SOLO?
BILL: Eh?
LIZ: ShELLIE SIZZLES. ShE BOILS. ShE'S ShOBIZ! I SLOSh.
BILL: Eh?!
LIZ: I IS LEZ, BOZO. SO Shh. SEE LIZ? LIZ IS SO, SO LEZ.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Throaty Wipes by Susan Holbrook. Copyright © 2016 Susan Holbrook. Excerpted by permission of COACH HOUSE BOOKS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.