Young Michael Ondaatje
There just is nothing more perfect for a lonesome summer night than Michael Ondaatje. I have been doing a bit more reading of literature & yesterday after an evening of thunderstorms & power outages the house got dark & humid & I retreated to bed with Secular Love.
I have an English degree but I am not a reviewer of literature. What I can tell you is that I like Ondaatje’s books a lot. I got to see him do a talk & a reading when Divisidero came out, and it was wonderful. Also it is none of my business but I get the distinct impression from reading Ondaatje that if you had sex with him it would probably be great sex. I’m not just talking about young Michael Ondaatje either.
Also I love listening to him read out loud.
Here’s the poem that stuck in my brain this morning:
(‘The space in which we have dissolved – does it taste of us?’)
Summer night came out of the water climbed into my car and drove home got out of the car still wet towel round me opened the gate and walked to the house Disintegration of the spirit no stars leaf being eaten by moonlight The small creatures who are blind who travel with the aid of petite white horns take over the world Sound of a moth The screen door in its suspicion allows nothing in, as I allow nothing in. The raspberries my son gave me wild, cold out of the fridge, a few I put in my mouth, some in my shirt pocket and forgot I sit here in a half dark kitchen the stain at my heart caused by this gift
As a bonus you should probably check out this Torontoist article about Shelly Grimson’s babely portraiture of Canada’s young poets. I’m talking about dreamgirl and role model young Margaret Atwood. Swoonsville.