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145 kr
Skickas inom 7-10 vardagar
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The Months is a book of poems about time – not only the attritions of time, its ageings, conflicts and illnesses, but also, and more importantly, the kind of time the French philosopher Bergson called ‘duration’, a human time that speeds up or slows, expands and contracts, measured by perceptual rather than scientific laws.
At the centre of the collection, the long title-poem interweaves material from two pregnancies spanning two generations: these months open themselves up to insecurities and dreams, culture, myths, everyday realities and moments of fear or delight. The two births that end this compelling narrative take the book in a new direction, to a time and place where it is possible to stand still and watch a saucepan drying on a draining-board or cycle round a mountainous island at age sixty, laugh at oneself, or even begin again.
‘Wicks can be both a fearless and arrestingly tender kind of writer, unafraid of taking a thought into uncomfortable, raw or unexpected places… confessions and punishments, banishments and betrayals, all are rendered in the mouths of the past or looked at from the aftermath of the present. Seeming to rise darkly in pitch at the end of the collection, they adjust our sense of the easier poems, and further deepen the focus of this mysterious and powerful book.’ – Paul Farley, PBS Bulletin, on House of Tongues
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A giant crane appears at the back windows of a residential street, its beam swinging freely, its red ‘eye’ seeming to overlook the lives on the other side of the glass. In her eighth collection of poems, Susan Wicks writes searchingly about our ordinary existence, its serendipities and unreliable sense-impressions, its delight in a new generation, its brief escapes – but this earthbound perspective is also part of an implicit dialogue. Under the crane new buildings spring up, seasons shift, perspective varies, until, its work completed, the giant machine is ready to be driven away. By the time it leaves, the landscape we knew will have changed and we too will have moved on.
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“Together, the words and images here are a celebration of a fine aesthetic principle: that a tight, even exhaustive focus on the small thing, the simplest of stimuli, is not restriction but a liberation into a vast range of associations.” – Philip Gross
Lace is the result of a collaboration between poet Susan Wicks and artist Elizabeth Clayman.
The 13 images here are from a series of 50 charcoal drawings on gessoed wood panels and are a response to a collection of antique lace housed within the ‘hidden’ collections in the Tunbridge Wells Museum and Art Gallery store-rooms, opened up as part of the museum’s Re:Collections project.
The random way the lace had deteriorated, as well as the intricacy and variety of patterns, invited different responses from the artist: the journey of the lace, where it came from, who made it, who wore it… carefully drawing with soft vine charcoal, which is fugitive, like dust, onto something of substance mirrored the labor-intensive act of lace-making itself.
The meditation of Wick’s poem is an imaginative journey directly provoked by the frayed shapes and often defective patterns of the lace itself, as translated by Clayman’s drawings. At its centre is a ‘she’ – at times the imagined maker(s) of the original fabric, at times the artist, and at times simply a woman looking out at a strange world through the complex grey curtain the lace provides. The poem invites a study of, and eventual escape from, depression, but also reads as a study of the creative process itself, and the restraints female creators, particularly, have traditionally suffered from and overcome.