Carnival: a Scream in High Park Reader by Peter McPhee PDF

By Peter McPhee

A set of poetry, prose and brief fiction via authors either recognized and up and coming who played at in the course of the first 3 years of the famed Toronto literary pageant.

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Additional resources for Carnival: a Scream in High Park Reader

Example text

Writing is not a profession any more than bleeding is. Those who do it for money are much bigger liars than I. That's why they get hired by Reuters and AP. — The sky is bloated with sky-descriptions, signifying a general cultural unwillingness to look at the immediate materiality of, say, our hands, — My hands... hmmm. My hands are my hands. I learned to type in a class taught by a nun. No secular textbooks were allowed. The exercises were taken from prayers. Sister Evangelica barked out the letters and directions for arranging the prayer on the page: CAP Hail SPACECAP Mary COMMASPACE full RETURN of SPACE grace COMMASPACE the SPACECAP Lord RETURN is SPACE with SPACE thee PERIODSPACERETURN CAP Blessed SPACE art SPACE thou SPACE among RETURN women COMMASPACE and SPACE blessed SPACE is RETURN the SPACE fruit SPACE of SPACE thy SPACE womb RETURN CAP Jesus PERIODSPACESPACECAP Holy RETURN CAP Mary COMMASPACECAP Mother SPACE of RETURN CAP God COMMASPACE pray SPACE for SPACE us RETURN sinners COMMASPACE now SPACE and SPACE at RETURN the SPACE hour SPACE of SPACE our RETURN death PERIODRETURNTWICE By the end of that year the opening exercise of each typing class was the every-letter-in-the-alphabet drill: Saint Zoe sang that Jesus leaps down from the crucifix whenever the martyrs beckon the quick to love.

Matthew Retnsfa 25 65. The long bow of my body, left by a mute hunter who's retreated to caves to nurse a lonely hunger. I lean against the stone-cold drywall and look out through the kitchen window. The cup of my shoulder turns to metal and siphons the ice. The fires of winter smoulder in trash cans. All the lawyers are hard at work. Today is a bad day for tv. Yesterday, however, I saw this nature show. It was about songbirds. I thought it was totally appropriate that the ornithologists just can't figure out why songbirds migrate.

There weren't any words to describe it. I knew it in the finest detail without words. It appeared to me as an image. It was so brightly illuminated that it was agonizing for me to look at. There was nothing I could have said to him then. Not one thing. And anyway, it was all in the past. I continued to stand there, smiling. I was in shock. He too smiled. He radiated good health. It was obvious that he'd never been more cheerful. We both acted perfectly friendly toward each other. He a bit more so than me.

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