Published February 5, 2018
JAKE KENNEDY is the author of four collections of poetry and lives in Kelowna, British Columbia.
The bird that meets itself in the window too rapidly:
so serious are the convergences that the artist must
break her neck for us. The writer never knows how to
address the reader when it should be the easiest thing.
In the artist there’s a wanting to live but only as that
living is tied to her art; she doesn’t care how meager
the thread—because it’s as if, for her, only art
banishes the misery. With their shadows stretching
out across the grass the people appear to be plinths
for Giacometti sculptures; the narrator says, “nothing
is more beautiful than Paris, except the memory of
Paris” and so the people and the people-shadows are
also time-comets moving backward into lost years. If
you switch on the table-fan then the schooner in the
painting will—with these new gusts—leave the scene.
Fisherman sitting on a rock and smoking a pipe
(about 1835), self-representation. Portrait of the artist
with a cane possibly drawn by Oei, the artist’s daughter...