The Centre.

SELECTED POEMS. 1970-2000

 

I read Barry McKinnon like a grasshopper on a leaf, always ready to jump. He writes with such seriousness that one’s always being surprised. This makes a reader such as I very grateful; there is a lot of dull poetry around these days, so the appearance of a book by McKinnon is a welcome waker-upper. The poems snap, moment by moment. I don’t know how he does it, but I’m glad it’s there.

— George Bowering
 

The Centre.

Selected Poems 1970-2000
Talonbooks. 2004

 

Before moving to Prince George in 1969, Barry McKinnon was writing single narrative poems that, in terms of form, began to seem outworn and inadequate in his new environment. The emotional range of the lyric had become too personal and limiting. Starting with a poem based on a discarded fragment and a shoebox of photos his prairie grandfather had taken of the family homestead, he began to piece together his first long poem: “I Wanted to Say Something”. Though this story had nothing to do with Prince George, the form it generated was large enough and open enough to set the possibilities for writing in the larger dimensions of self and place he had been searching for: the political, the social, the institutional, the environmental—the layered and fragmented outside/inside he now found himself in.

Leaving “I Wanted to Say Something” behind as an absent precursor, The Centre: Poems 1970–2000 begins, appropriately, with “The Death of a Lyric Poet”—the sequence of poems that initiate his engagement of and life in the north with new and unavoidably present recognitions as sources for the work. The “centre” in this sequence of ten long poems thus shifts from a nostalgic, idealized and elegiac rural singularity to a new relentless multiplicity of the urban, where the centre constantly threatens not to hold. The “centre” in these books becomes simultaneously the shopping centre, the community centre, the industrial centre: a multiplicity of urban attentions reproducing itself as an articulate awareness of a fractured and fragmented self. Beauty appears in this wasteland only through glimpses of externalized objects of desire: a new, materialized “arrhythmia” of the heart, grounded in the scarlet fever of an ever-receding innocence of youth.

 
 

I am in a desert
of snow, each way
to go, presents an equal
choice, since the directions, &
what the eye sees is the same

if there were some sticks, you would
stay & build a house, or
a tree would give a place to climb
for perspective. if you had a match, when
the wind didn’t blow, you
would burn the tree for warmth, if
the wind didn’t blow & you had a match

there is this situation where love
would mean nothing. the sky is
possibly beautiful, yet the speculation
is impossible, & if you could sing, the song
is all that would go

anywhere

— Bushed.