Body Rain

By J. A. Hamilton

Shortlisted for the 1991 Pat Lowther Award

In J.A. Hamilton's poems blood is red, black hearts are black. There is no flinching from things as bad as they can be, especially but not only for women. And yet, this passionate powerful writing radiates affirmation. "his good o, good old world" is livable still in acts of pure verbal magic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brick Books
• Release date: Oct 15, 1991
• ISBN: 9781771311748

J. A. Hamilton

Jane Eaton Hamilton is the author of eight books of fiction and poetry. Her memoir Mondays are Yellow, Sundays are Grey, retitled No More Hurt, was a Sunday Times bestseller in the UK, shortlisted for the MIND Book Award and the VanCity Book Prize, and appeared on the Guardian's books of the year list. Her short story collection July Nights was shortlisted for the BC Book Prizes and her short fiction collection Hunger was shortlisted for the Ferro Grumley Award. Body Rain, her first book of poetry, was shortlisted for the Pat Lowther Award. She has published in the NY Times, Seventeen magazine, Salon, Maclean’s, VIDA, Numero Cinq, the Globe and Mail, the Missouri Review, Ms. blog, the Alaska Quarterly Review and many other places. She has been a recipient of arts awards from the BC Arts Council and the Canada Council. Jane is also a photographer and visual artist and was a litigant in Canada’s same-sex marriage case. She lives in Vancouver. Jane has written as J.A. Hamilton.

Book preview

Bloodline

Mad Mad

Good morning.

It is 10:06    :07    :08

in my house and in

my jungle chair.

The mad mad.

I pull wings

from my scalp

and flex them.

I served ants

at the dinner table

pinioned as cloves

in the ham.

The voices.

The children and

the husband

and the mother-in-law.

The eyes.

It is true.

I remember my hands

in the garden and

the ants' stinging.

Good morning.

It is 10:09    10:10 and

my jungle chair

levitates.

The mad mad.

I warble and

my red wings

beat back the night.

Amaranth

I am cold as the fires of hell

and I am licking,

licking with my dozen

tongues, licking my way

to you.

I am your fantasy,

your amanuensis,

your Scheherazade.

I am the snap crackle pop

of your breakfast cereal.

I am the iceberg of time.

My tongue is a scimitar

to pierce you with longing.

I pierce you with promise.

I pierce you with immortality.

Whisper in my fossil ear.

Tell me your dreams

and your hopes and

your mother's first name.

Hear the din of a thousand winds

in my skull.

Poultice me with scented oil.

Boil me in butter.

Lift me, lift me.

My kiss is not death.

Love Canal

Medical waste

and the spawned babies

of industrial parks

are starting to talk back.

It's not the terrible two's –

it's adolescent urges with

wet dreams and blood.

We thought they would sink

wrapped in flags forever

– Stars and Stripes –

but they are moaning

with headache, their

mouths say it's the

morning after.

We are just people.

We are only people

who didn't realize.

So now they are hormonal

– want to fuck –

want to hang out in poolhalls,

drive souped-up cars

and smoke crack.

They roam the oceans and deserts

like phosphorus knives,

flammable with rage

at our desertion,

riding the waves and hillocks

home

for a party of destruction.

Look out.

Pink

This is a sensational poem.

Avoid it.

Think of a sweet pea.

There are different sorts

but this