False Spring

By Darren Bifford

Poems about commitment and catastrophe, / from a voice of intense lyrical skepticism and wonderful tonal mobility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brick Books
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781771314770

Darren Bifford

Darren Bifford is the author of the chapbooks Wolf Hunter (Cactus Press, 2010), Hermit Crab (Baseline Press, 2014), and The Age of Revolution (Anstruther Press, 2017). His first full-length collection was Wedding in Fire Country (Nightwood Editions, 2012). He co-edited (with Warren Heiti) Chamber Music: The Poetry of Jan Zwicky (Wilfrid Laurier Press, 2015). Originally from Summerland, BC, he lived and taught in Montreal for many years, where he also coordinated the Atwater Poetry Project.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

LETTER OF INTENT

Somehow the end comes nearer when you’re not looking.

To dissolve all problems would mean a clearer way of living into the future.

I for one desire those very bright and well-positioned days bequeathed to baby boomers.

When you’re not looking is when it’s commonly said the end comes nearer.

Uncommonly, it’s said: exactly when you’re looking it arrives, which is a real issue.

However well everything seems to be going, you attend also to the darkening sky.

The Pixies’ Stormy Weather is an end-of-the-party sing-a-long track for my generation.

In my own life and in the lives of my friends is the way I begin my sentences.

The end comes knocking, as in the joke.

Unlike the joke, it doesn’t knock.

Does the weather mirror the soul or Vice Versa?

By Vice Versa I mean the pub in Montreal.

I can’t breathe when the sky turns black, which suggests the priority of the weather.

Physiological changes precede the insights that might result in new therapies or pills.

I’m off topic, however. However else you might put the essential matter.

The spirit of the thing, I mean.

I wish it were the great age of rereading but that is simply how it is for me.

May I take a number, you a prescription?

Sell me something. My hopes are very great.

I get the precedents

but not the thing by its face.

How I speak with a voice

its voice would erase.

THE BIRTH OF REVOLUTIONARY DESIRE

When Hiero descended into those old word-

Worlds I stayed awake all night; what would

Be in contrary circumstances a bloodbath looks

For us a lot like getting along as well as we can.

Now everything worth doing takes longer than

Before. To despair that things in general would

Be better if one simply stopped being

Around — is from Hiero’s point of view a small-

Scale worry, the likes of which are easy to feel

Nostalgic about. O Christ don’t go getting Hiero

Sidetracked. His temptations are not Satan’s

Sweet nothings and his uh-uh’s are not so simply

Uttered. His character does little to protect his heart.

It’s all on the table, as if a table. Hiero says

The bad cough I can’t kick was picked up in 1789.

A revolution made to fit helium-inflated nouns,

Occupying wide open spaces, filled the blue

Sky with floating white balloons. Of course,

Of course they will say rivers burned through the night;

That the women all wailed, their children sold.

OF FIRST AND LAST THINGS

Do you recall when, late in the film Time Bandits,

The adventurers collided with an invisible wall?

They smacked against their world’s limit, against

The limit of all possible worlds, suddenly arrested

Not by the end of time but that of space.

In the wall’s illusion, the transparence of further

Country, more wandering in and out of history.

They shattered the wall as if it were made of glass,

Threw a rock against its side: it collapsed,

Revealing the backstage of