If, as Robert Creeley said, form is never more than an extension of content, what happens when we lose form? Does content retreat into its ruins, its absences? Can we never go home because it retreats from us as relentlessly and unfathomably as our future? Is the imagination of our future as illusory and unreliable as the memory of our past? If, for the young man, going home is the first defeat, the first violation of a burgeoning automy, is the very imagination of home an abrogation, a transgression? These are the questions that the deceptively simple lyrics of this book ask, that we encounter as we navigate our way, room to room through their stanzas--from the poet's New York childhood, his Montreal mentorship with Louis Dudek, to his volitionary adoptive home of Asia. The world changes in Going Home--9/11 happens. In that singular, extended historic moment all of our working models of representation on our North American Island turn to paper and dust, and w we kw history always had other plans for us. The whole manufactured unreality of our world falls away in these poems, leads us both toward and away from being at home in the moment. We're all here and t here, the poet reminds us: an index of time and the true nature of existence--a present impermanence.
Ken Norris Ken Norris was born in New York City in 1951. He immigrated to Canada in the early 1970s and quickly became one of Montreal's infamous Vehicule Poets. One of Canada's most prolific poets, Norris has always given his readers subtly capricious and edgy poetry that reveals unanticipated possibilities and explores new horizons. He is the author of two dozen books and chapbooks of poetry, and is the editor of eight anthologies of poetry and poetics.