Rutting Season
Ariel Gordon, Michael Lithgow, Linda Besner
poetry
isbn: 978-0-9811434-1-5
72 pages, 5 x 7.5
$10
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"The concept is super-simple: a generous selection of poems by three young poets, bookended by some shop talk as the poets discuss each other's work. Definitely worth my time." -Carmine Starnino
"Moves the poets from the land of hovery, lovely, heartbreaky, wordsmiths to people you can curl around tea with, and wonder about everything with" –Indyish.com
"Gordon, Besner, and Lithgow are poets to watch." -Montreal Review of Books
Rutting Season
Rutting Season is an engaging and accessible mini-anthology that features the poetry of three fresh voices in Canadian poetry and places these poets into a critical conversation with each other. Ariel Gordon, Michael Lithgow, and Linda Besner put their heads together in this unique collection. (Cover and interior illustrations by Jamie Ashforth)
Where to find the book
Montréal: The Word, 469 rue Milton
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ARIEL GORDON
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excerpt from "Substitutions"
The mushroom cap’s white curve
kicked up overturned
for my breast’s porous slope.
Its musky gills for the frills
the furbelows the wet morsel
that is your ear
in this colony of similar individuals.
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MICHAEL LITHGOW
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excerpt from "I was only passing. Actually, I was in a rush"
It was the way her thighs looked in the light,
and the way the ambulance flickered,
and the man in the crowd, about her age,
how he jammed his hands in his pockets
hard and moaned a little, angrily, helplessly,
her ample girth spread on the cement step,
the awful ruined geometry of collapse.
It was his cane and his business shirt and his slacks,
still crisp at that late hour, the way his cane
marked an uneven retreat. And then her horrible
cry when they moved her body, how a body resists
and collapses with a million little shifts.
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LINDA BESNER
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excerpt from "Umbrella"
The blueprints promised an introvert:
rain-stammered dotted lines. Pleat
here, punch out
into bell-shaped firmament,
collapsible blue idea.
Featherweights of human ingenuity tricked out
in canvas, oilcloth,
a springloaded halo of interiority
tossed aloft with fanfare, or a private click.
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