born and grow
Rarely have we read with so much poetic precision the future of a fetus than in We the lake. From the first poem, the voice unfolds around this placental liquidity which will expand like a vast overflow until it becomes the center of the world: “At night everything is light from the bones / the dust falls among things / a finger sinks into the infinite unfolding of shadows — the waters sleep”. Starting from this premise, Emmanuelle Tremblay extends her vision by slowly clarifying her penetration of family things, to recognize herself, until she can affirm: “in my name alone the word has a visible body”. Also take into account these family ties which draw an encirclement that must be pierced: “in each tear there is a lake to cry out”. The title of one of the parts of the collection is enlightening in this respect: “Le lac, et après? And in order to fully grasp the diversity of this project, the language of the poet becomes more complex as the collection develops, breaks, breaks with linearity. This collection is in many respects a great achievement.
We the lake
★★★ 1/2
Emmanuelle Tremblay, Noroît, Montreal, 2022, 144 pages
Hugues Corriveau
Slip to live
“An uneven magnification of the voices”, is this how one could best define the hoarse, overexcited writing of Any reason to love me is necessarily good ? Perhaps, if we agree to accompany Orane Thibaud (known elsewhere as Greta Ziegenhagen) in her desire for love, ” […] even if the fire digs and cooks / the good little corpses of [s] has tenderness”. Josée Yvon is not far away when we read these confidences: “I stand with street mourners / I have their mouths chlorinated”. But something there perhaps insists too much on the side of “provocation” to be entirely convincing. Also, perplexingly, reads: “tell me at least / that you won’t let me go / without turning my belly / on the side of the steak / the most expensive of the butter”. Elsewhere, a different tone leads to other areas: “in the puberty movie / she had white shorts / and hair on her buttocks / and she was crying / because she had / eaten the moon too quickly”. If “the women of [s]a vie / die of being a woman”, from these deaths is born a poetic word that must be followed.
Any reason to love me is bound to be good
★★★ 1/2
Orane Thibaud, The Goose of Cravan “Tantôt”, Montreal, 2022, 114 pages
Hugues Corriveau
Joyful strangeness
The fourth collection of poetry by Frédéric Dumont, Minimum room, swimming in a freedom tormented with anguish. Mired in his “stationary melancholy”, the poet “jumps far enough to reach [s] es forces”, ready to face the repetitions of everyday life: “eat food die food / as usual / do as usual”. However, nothing is won, because “the story will never progress if I stay in it”. Far from lyricism—turned into derision—camped by astonishing images that extricate the poem far from self-pity, this confidence laden with despair offers itself rather like a vertigo where irony, sadness and virtuosity compete: “I lost my hard work in front of the intubated statue. / I need discreet human contact. » A sustained rhythm, a digressive narration and an airy, sometimes playful tone, pull the strings of this resolutely original universe, where a complex sensibility is deaf: « the heart is a benevolent crumb / we can distinguish the suburbs / by dint of joy or of intruding”.
Minimum room
★★★★
Frédéric Dumont, Red Herbs, Montreal, 2022, 152 pages
Yannick Marcoux
Swallow the cup
The first collection of Alexandre Dostie, Shenley, dates back eight years. Eight years, what it took, perhaps, to recover from this stormy sea stretching behind him: “I discovered that drowning is sometimes only a necessary dive towards oneself. » His new collection, May those who love me save me, is a poetry of apnea, which lands after a long crossing: “I flee / I want to say / I save myself”. It must be said that he started from afar: “I’m planting a tree / and I can’t wait for it to grow / to hang myself”. Willing heart but clumsy reflexes, he “does the worst of[s] we better”. In an urgent, sometimes irreverent language, Dostie invests raw words with a disarming tenderness: “I want to tell them to water tabarnak / that it’s alive in there / worse than it wants”. The collection suffers from a few too many poems, but, carried by a strong voice and a panting breath, his quest takes us by the guts and makes a poignant brotherly love beat. We grow out of it: “falling one foot in front of the other from being a man”.
May those who love me save me
★★★ 1/2
Alexandre Dostie, Your mother, Montreal, 2022, 127 pages
Yannick Marcoux