Torontoist (a poem by Emma Healey)

Wizardess of words Emma Healey reads from her latest collection, Begin With The End In Mind, at Type Books in Toronto this Friday. Here is an excerpt.


We have a lot of feelings about this. Always stood in the city for our own inner still it’s too up-reach too steeped in too slow to creep lakeward, there’s more greater in us than area here, what’s that thing they say? Older and wiser? And how. We’ve been serious now for a while; stopped making our favourite songs into mix CDs and started making them into bars we dress well without anyone’s permission our favourite colours are brick and glass and we love the parks, all of them. What’s the war over? Metonymy? Fine rent? Brushed litter? Whichever. Ditched the old mattress line-broke our buildings inched closer to Junction reclaimed floors our knees to them made our new anthem a tie between garbage trucks someone’s sad groaning poured concrete and slow winter playing your nerves. We’ve still got some questions an underground surfeit of grey into grey in that order. What is it again? Older and sorry? We’ve been up for weeks drafting this palindrome letterhead lawn signs we painted it onto your car so you won’t forget ever: Welcome home, and our name, with the stutter, you were missed. Is it love or is living the long con?

A short bio from Arbeiter Ring Publishing: Residing on the border between poetry and prose, Emma Healey masterfully navigates the tension and balance between the two forms. Her writing examines the animate qualities of seemingly inanimate things and explores personal relationships, collective and individual human experiences, as they are distilled through our encounters with such things as the CBC, chain bookstores, the contents of a kitchen, or the expanse of a whole city. Begin With the End in Mind tests the capabilities of the prose poem—the specific rhythmic, lyrical, and syntactic possibilities of the form, and the opportunities for play, renegotiating the more traditional/technical elements of lyric and line that are afforded the prose poet.

And, in her words, something far more revelatory in a definitely bad way: @emmafromtoronto