Kim Clark believes that before multiple sclerosis began its
insidious infiltration, there was no writing in her. That somehow
the damaging changes that shut down certain functions in her brain
also opened up other unused areas that housed a secret love affair
with language and all its possibilities, its delicious sights and
sounds and intimations.
The poems in "Sit You Waiting" are not about disease, but about
everyday occurrences that have allowed Clark the luxury of
contemplation through compulsory inertia and altered perceptions.
They vary in form and texture while maintaining a musicality, a
sense of playfulness within the words that carries you from BC's
beaches to Australia's Nullarbor Plain, from the neighbourhood pub
to the cemetery, from pot roast country to the passport
office--places where "breakfast/ doesn't matter/ any more/ than the
notion/ of romance."
Light and darkness can be found here. They are woven through the
rhythm and rhyme of the erotic "lips abandoned," the humourous
"self-propelled breasts," the thought-provoking "murmuration of
starlings," and the distressing "edge of pale comatose."
Come in. Sit down. Wet your whistle.
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