Broken Dawn Blessings: Poems

By Adam Sol

Trillium Book Award–winning poet Adam Sol’s newest collection is made up of poems that are loosely linked to the traditional Jewish morning prayers, the Birkhot haShachar, which try to find moments of blessing in the midst of personal and public pain, shame, and worry

How do we respond to others’ pain, both the pain of those we love and the larger global pain of those we don’t know? In a religious context, a witness can offer blessing when those in the midst of suffering cannot. Taking on the responsibility of blessing, then, is a way to shoulder that burden for the sufferer. This presupposes the idea that blessing is a necessity — which may be a point up for debate.

In the context of his wife’s recovery from surgery, and with civic violence prevalent in his city, the speaker of these poems leans on the structure of the Birkhot haShachar (dawn blessings) to carve out space for empathy, complaint, and occasional flashes of wonder. These poems showcase Sol’s trademark blend of humor and lyric virtuosity, and display his familiarity with Jewish texts and traditions, but add a new intimacy and urgency that break new ground for one of Canada’s most respected poets. It is his most risky and most accomplished collection to date.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ECW Press
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781773058184

Adam Sol

Adam Sol is the author of three collections of poetry, Jonah's Promise, which won the Mid-List Press's First Series Award for Poetry, and Crowd of Sounds, which won the Trillium Award, and Jeremiah, Ohio, which was shortlisted for the Trillium Prize. He is an Associate Professor of English at Laurentian University’s campus in Barrie, Ontario, and lives in Toronto.

Book preview

Author’s Note

These poems follow a trajectory that is roughly parallel to the Birkhot HaShachar (Blessings of the Dawn), a series of prayers recited by observant Jews immediately upon waking each morning.

Waiting

מי שברך אבותינו מקור הברכה לאמותנו…

It’s 8 am, she just went in, which I guess means the anesthesiologist is holding her hand, looking for a vein. I met him before I said goodbye, he said No trouble a lot while she asked her nervous questions. Five times in the five minutes we had with him before they shooed me away. He hadn’t shaved. How many of these does he do in a day?

There were two women in the holding area getting ready to go in, Y and an older white-haired lady whose husband had a look on his face like he was angry about the whole thing. Or maybe he was trying to keep from crying. We all have reason to be angry, though at what or whom I can’t say. At cancer, I guess. But how is a man supposed to express his anger at a thing that grows inside his wife? Even if it wants to eat her.

The attending nurse points me down the hall. I’m wearing her hair tie like a ring on my finger. Carrying her purse in my fist. The corridor walls are pasty green and the floors are that forgiving material that can be soiled and cleaned and soiled and cleaned forever, and will never look more or less than dingy. There’s the sign on a door, Family Waiting Room, but it’s locked, so what can I do, I sit on the floor and play FreeCell on my phone. Something I can put into order. Echoing footsteps from around corners like an old elementary school. The janitors and nurses and consultants keep passing by, and everyone says they’ll call the security guy to open up. They’re all giving me that same raised-eyebrow sympathy I’ve been fending off for weeks since the diagnosis, but at least here there’s something concrete they can do. Open the fucking door.

It’s 8:30 which means I guess she’s under by now, and the marks that they made on her chest with markers are starting to look like a map to the ones who can read it.

Packing a bag last night, Y insisted I bring lots of snacks, as if I were going on some trip. The hospital is downtown, there’s a food court downstairs and fifty restaurants within