Black Suede Cave First Poets Series David Reibetanz Books
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The poems in Black Suede Cave meditate on the space inside us, where darkness and imagination animate the unknowable. They illuminate the shadows of memory that slip into our darker corners, reveal by lamplight the furtive nightscape of Toronto, and ponder how loss creates its own places of reflection about what we have loved.
Black Suede Cave First Poets Series David Reibetanz Books
Encountering a new poet for the first time, especially if his or her poetry resonates with oneself, is exciting. I find that the pleasure is even greater when that poet is young and recently published, thus promising more poetry and interesting development in the years ahead. David Reibetanz, who lives in Toronto where he teaches English and French, recently published this first full book of poems, some of which have previously appeared alone in literary journals. I found this present collection fascinating.The forty-three poems follow a chronological progression, illuminating the poet’s experiences and feelings from childhood to the present. Reading them in order provides an interesting perspective on the author’s personal development. In addition, the reader begins to discern patterns that link the poems into groups not otherwise directly specified. In some of the first several poems, for example, the recurrence of words like “touch” and “blood” suggest the exploration of common themes. One also finds a rhythm within and between poems, a rhythm that alternates between immediacy and memory. Reibetanz selects and develops metaphors creatively and convincingly, and his poems are filled with apt and fascinating allusions – to the work of other poets like Don McKay, Yeats, Wallace Stevens, and Philip Larkin, to Buddhist meditation, to the making of poetry itself. His poetry is subtle and nuanced, more suggestive than directive. His use of form is skillful. He shows mastery of the sonnet form, both Petrarchan and Shakespearean, although most of the time he works more freely. His gradually developing themes include issues of aloneness and interiority, love and loss, and the interrelationship of mindfully experienced external reality, often at it most subtle and unprepossessing, and the interior life of stillness and wordless awareness.
Let me share just two poems that might suggest the range and delicacy of Reibetanz’s writing:
Heartwood
I climbed the apple tree
all the way up
to Eden.
Fresh cuts
scoring a boy’s knees,
limbs grappling
against the warp.
Feel of the womb’s nest
in the branched hollow
called
back into quiet
the heartwood.
Mothering leaves whisper the sunlight,
knitted branches
cradle the beat
hanging
on goldfinch wings.
And apple bark
takes me
up
into a floating
of pale-cheeked blossoms,
finches
dipping and singing
the way to the nest.
Orientation
Oh,I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
- Stanley Kunitz
By skimming
hands over soil that
wrote itself into us
when we wrapped
Shadow Star
around us,
just as Cora wanted when she bound
the bright cloth to dark and sewed
a star whose
patchwork smelled like
cigarettes and farm cats,
like her.
Ground remembered:
by a young woman quiet
with homethirst, her hands stroking
an empty jar,
brimmed sunshine cast by
her memory of the
Seville orange marmalade
she spread over toast,
by a waved albatross
far from the island Española that birthed
a first fast glide into the wind,
his dying island that daily grows seaward.
Soon, desert, it will dissolve beneath his
wholly webbed feet
and by me.
The world tugs, points me back
to sideroad 12/13
off Airport Road.
Along its slopes,
blades of grass
sharpen our minds, trees mark
places our backs laid
while we read, impressed by notches,
where we once played off gravity and
bark. Fallow fields bare their skin
and gather us to lie on their furrows.
Ground that witnessed us,
waited while our hearts seeded themselves
into its dark. Called our names
clearly from its straight dirt road
while we boarded
trains, cars, boats
to loss and
its field of many flavoured fruit:
flesh that clarifies, love that obscures,
joy steeping in sadness.
These are poems that invite themselves to be read aloud, again and again. And I shall do exactly that while I wait not so patiently for more works by this gifted poet.
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Black Suede Cave First Poets Series David Reibetanz Books Reviews
Encountering a new poet for the first time, especially if his or her poetry resonates with oneself, is exciting. I find that the pleasure is even greater when that poet is young and recently published, thus promising more poetry and interesting development in the years ahead. David Reibetanz, who lives in Toronto where he teaches English and French, recently published this first full book of poems, some of which have previously appeared alone in literary journals. I found this present collection fascinating.
The forty-three poems follow a chronological progression, illuminating the poet’s experiences and feelings from childhood to the present. Reading them in order provides an interesting perspective on the author’s personal development. In addition, the reader begins to discern patterns that link the poems into groups not otherwise directly specified. In some of the first several poems, for example, the recurrence of words like “touch” and “blood” suggest the exploration of common themes. One also finds a rhythm within and between poems, a rhythm that alternates between immediacy and memory. Reibetanz selects and develops metaphors creatively and convincingly, and his poems are filled with apt and fascinating allusions – to the work of other poets like Don McKay, Yeats, Wallace Stevens, and Philip Larkin, to Buddhist meditation, to the making of poetry itself. His poetry is subtle and nuanced, more suggestive than directive. His use of form is skillful. He shows mastery of the sonnet form, both Petrarchan and Shakespearean, although most of the time he works more freely. His gradually developing themes include issues of aloneness and interiority, love and loss, and the interrelationship of mindfully experienced external reality, often at it most subtle and unprepossessing, and the interior life of stillness and wordless awareness.
Let me share just two poems that might suggest the range and delicacy of Reibetanz’s writing
Heartwood
I climbed the apple tree
all the way up
to Eden.
Fresh cuts
scoring a boy’s knees,
limbs grappling
against the warp.
Feel of the womb’s nest
in the branched hollow
called
back into quiet
the heartwood.
Mothering leaves whisper the sunlight,
knitted branches
cradle the beat
hanging
on goldfinch wings.
And apple bark
takes me
up
into a floating
of pale-cheeked blossoms,
finches
dipping and singing
the way to the nest.
Orientation
Oh,I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
- Stanley Kunitz
By skimming
hands over soil that
wrote itself into us
when we wrapped
Shadow Star
around us,
just as Cora wanted when she bound
the bright cloth to dark and sewed
a star whose
patchwork smelled like
cigarettes and farm cats,
like her.
Ground remembered
by a young woman quiet
with homethirst, her hands stroking
an empty jar,
brimmed sunshine cast by
her memory of the
Seville orange marmalade
she spread over toast,
by a waved albatross
far from the island Española that birthed
a first fast glide into the wind,
his dying island that daily grows seaward.
Soon, desert, it will dissolve beneath his
wholly webbed feet
and by me.
The world tugs, points me back
to sideroad 12/13
off Airport Road.
Along its slopes,
blades of grass
sharpen our minds, trees mark
places our backs laid
while we read, impressed by notches,
where we once played off gravity and
bark. Fallow fields bare their skin
and gather us to lie on their furrows.
Ground that witnessed us,
waited while our hearts seeded themselves
into its dark. Called our names
clearly from its straight dirt road
while we boarded
trains, cars, boats
to loss and
its field of many flavoured fruit
flesh that clarifies, love that obscures,
joy steeping in sadness.
These are poems that invite themselves to be read aloud, again and again. And I shall do exactly that while I wait not so patiently for more works by this gifted poet.
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