Another poetry collection I purchased recently at Pulp Fiction Books: Bren Simmers's Hastings-Sunrise (Gibsons: Nightwood Editions, 2015).
Named after an East Vancouver neighbourhood whose name was deemed too unfriendly by its BIA, Simmers's poet walks us past houses, parks and businesses, "[l]earning new streets by foot," mapping, logging, wondering aloud the difference between what is looked at and what is seen.
Like so much of what was written pre-Covid, I check its imagery against our current moment. A trip to the race track -- imagine that!
Here's the opening stanza of a poem on Page 28:
Friday night at Hastings Park.
Our beer in plastic cups. Pre-race,
the announcer tells us to look for
a big ass, a line of muscle along the abs
as horses bounce and prance past
patio tables, retirees with circled stats,
hipsters in fedoras, weekend warriors,
families and first-timers craving novelty.
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