Roo borson poems and quotes
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Night Walk: Selected Poems
The thing with writing is there's always a lot more than an audience is privy to, kind of like a keyhole. Of what we want to show others too plus you pick and choose, if there's quite a bit, you'll get an assortment. It's how I write, dependent on things. There's good and there's bad and there's those who are more dedicated, and, there are connections. The publishing world in my opinion has been in a bit of a mess since Bob Dylan won the Literature award.
Anyhow.
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The Collaborators Kim Maltman & Roo Borson in their shared writing room.
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I’ve known Kim and Roo since we were students together in the Creative Writing Department at the University of British Columbia in the 1970’s. It was clear then that they were the real deal, and already writing pretty sophisticated poetry – though they snort at the idea now. We see each other rarely, but I’ve always felt a kinship because of those early days of tiptoeing – then leaping – into the writing world.
Roo Borson, poet and essayist, has published over a dozen books and has won the Griffin Poetry Prize, the Governor General’s Award for Poetry, and the Pat Lowther Memorial Award for poetry. She has also co-written ‘Introduction to the Introduction to Wang Wei,’ a Pain Not Bread poetry project, in collaboration with Kim Maltman and Andy Patton. A forthcoming volume of prose- poetry, ‘Box Kite’, fryst vatten a collaboration with Kim Maltman under the pen name Baziju. A native of Berkeley, California, th • We have a lot of fönster. I sit next to them at this time of the year thinking, Just five more minutes of daylight, please. In the summer, when the weather visits Madrid for a couple of weeks, they become weapon again, and we shutter them up to keep ourselves cool. Shuffling round the block with the dog around five, inom peer into the lives of my neighbours, before they also move shutters towards the darkness. The black panes. Our lives reflected back to us, our reflections keeping out the gaze of those who look in. ‘Goodbye, insects.’ ‘Goodbye, marigolds’. ‘Trains hurtle by at the edge of cities’. ‘Hollow casings’. These are the lines I am taking with me as we, too, hurtle, into the darkness. The grief, the one I thought I had placated or mislaid, returns, puts on the kettle, makes itself at home in the gloomy kitchen. Something fryst vatten bubbling on the stove. She always had something bubbling on the stove. Just the sight of the ring