Susan Glickman
Susan Glickman Poems
Night draws its plough through the fields.
A fine mist: the breath
of a black horse, dreaming.
...
When you laugh it is all the unsynchronized clocks
in the watchmaker's shop
striking their dissident hours.
...
Once at the breakfast table when that harsh bitching
that passes for a stab but is really more like sawing away
with a rusty breadknife, leaving a jaggedy scar,
...
The little boy's hand, his hand full of trust,
trustingly offered to the bigger boy
as, without looking back, he walked away
...
The woman beside the lake
is reading; is trying to read
the same page of the same book
...
I don't believe in it myself, that lost world
of absolute coherence:
Vermeer's The Kitchen Maid where light glazes the jug
and the milk of paradise pours into the basin.
...
Because it is sullen and slope-shouldered and mumbles
because it hoards secrets
because it is more stylish than you
...
Susan Glickman Biography
Susan Glickman (born 1953) is a Canadian writer and critic. She is teacher of literature and creative writing, teaching at Ryerson University and the University of Toronto. Glickman was formerly an English professor at the University of Toronto, where she wrote her doctoral dissertation on Shakespeare's dramaturgy. She also works as an freelance editor, primarily of academic texts. Glickman's first novel, The Violin Lover, won the Canadian Jewish Book Award for Fiction and was listed as one of the best books of 2006 by The National Post and The Picturesque & the Sublime: A Poetics of the Canadian Landscape (1998) won both the Gabrielle Roy prize for the year's best work of literary criticism and the Raymond Klibansky prize for the year's best work in the humanities. Her essays and reviews have appeared in magazines including Maisonneuve, Brick, Essays on Canadian Writing, The Journal of Canadian Poetry and The University of Toronto Quarterly among others, and her poetry has been translated into French and Greek.)
The Best Poem Of Susan Glickman
The Glassblowers, 6 A.M.
Night draws its plough through the fields.
A fine mist: the breath
of a black horse, dreaming.
Under its eyelid, the moon.
This early no one wakes
but the glassblowers
secretive insects in their hive.
At the end of each sting
a dollop of luminous honey.
Mostly they are just boys,
lean shadows aping the maestros.
When nobody's looking they clown around
swapping greasy sombreros, goosing each other,
then lapse from play so quickly it seems
a mirage
the after-image of that childhood
they've long since left behind.
Muscles steaming with sweat
eyes glazed by smoke
how they dance round the furnace
transforming night's lead into gold!
Even while eating they circle the fire.
The ordinary sun cannot draw them
outside, where the black horse churns the furrow
and girls in flowering blouses
stroll to the dairy.
No magnet beyond this centre
and the girls know it
crowding the doorway for a glimpse
of ruddy flesh,
scattering at the first sight
of those burning, devoted eyes.
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