The Blue Hour of the Day, by Lorna Crozier: A review

A series of reviews of books by authors featured at our 2010 May 9 through May 11 Veterinary Medicine and Literature conference. These books will be available at the Bookshelf in Guelph, Ontario for the conference.

The Blue Hour of the Day. By Lorna Crozier. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 2007. 252 pp. Paper $22.99.

Reviewed by Hilde Weisert, Society for Veterinary Medicine and Literature

“Non-human animal” – that’s what we say, these days, to show we know that a simple “animal” refers not only to “them,” but to all of us. No such qualified terms are needed in Lorna Crozier’s world. “Animals” in all their manifestations – two-footed or four, serpentine or feral; crawling out of the sea, grazing in the pasture, or dancing on the sand – are vividly present throughout the poems in Crozier’s wonderful The Blue Hour of the Day, a selection from eight major collections of her work over a distinguished career.

Where animals appear in these poems – which is on almost every page – it’s rarely for Crozier to contemplate anything as distant as our relationship with them. Instead, they give form to our own desire, delight, devotion, or sense of loss. “What Comes After” begins:

    I am my own big dog.
     Walk, and I’m at the door;
     eat, and I take what I offer,
     lie down, and I curl on the floor,
     my heavy head between my paws…

As in Denise Levertov’s “Talking to Grief” (“Ah, grief, I should not treat you / like a homeless dog”) the dog is the – dogification? – of loss, but the poem’s dogness is so true that it honors both the real canines in our lives, and what we make of them.

These are poems teeming with life and its constant transformations, a lush shape-shifting where the fox travels across the night and “One minute he’s a cat, the next a coyote” (“It Is Night”). The heart is “a winter hare. Soft-pawed and quick” (“Remember the Heart, Little Mole”); a snake is “the first saxophone / in the world” (“The Start of the Blues”); the soul is “bright-eyed / and feline, each paw placed/so carefully” (“Evolution in Moonlight”). Light – another constant presence – is also physical (in this case, equine!), needing a “shape to move inside, / a likeness tawny and thick-maned” (“Apocrypha of Light”).

Crozier’s metaphors are no mere literary device to show how two disparate things are alike, but the rich reality revealed by her glorious imagination. In the whimsical and memorable series, “The Sex Lives of Vegetables”, even vegetables are sentient and sensual. I urge you to read “Cauliflower” or “Brussels Sprouts” aloud tonight while you prepare dinner.

Like that time of day the book is named for, the creatures in The Blue Hour of the Day are always on the verge of turning into something else, being and becoming their inner and other selves one paw or mouth at a time. When you read this book, you will know again why the word “animal” has its origins in “anima – breath, soul”. You’ll also understand something new about poetry, the tame, and the wild, and have had much pleasure in the process.

     If a Poem Could Walk

     It would have paws, not feet,
     four of them
     to sink into the moss
     when humans blunder up the path.

     Or hooves, small ones,
     leaving half-moons in the sand.
     Something to make you stop
             and wonder
     what kind of animal this is,
     where it came from, where it’s going.

     It draws nearest when you are most alone.
     You lay red plums on your blanket,
     a glass of cool cider, two sugar cubes,

     knowing it is tame and wild –
     the perfect animal –
     knowing it will stop for nothing
         as it walks
     with its four new legs
     right off the page


If, indeed!


Lorna Crozier will be doing a public reading the evening of May 8 at the Bookshelf in Guelph, Ontario, and speaking at the Veterinary Medicine and Literature Symposium

Dog Years: A Memoir, by Mark Doty: A review

A series of reviews of books by authors featured at our 2010 May 9 through May 11 Veterinary Medicine and Literature conference. These books will be available at the Bookshelf in Guelph, Ontario for the conference.

Dog Years: A Memoir. By Mark Doty. HarperCollins, 2007. 224 pp.

Reviewed by Dr. Elizabeth Stone, Dean, Ontario Veterinary College

“One of the things that being a vet is about is the continual restoration of hope, bringing back the possibility of companionship, making a stage upon which love can continue.” Thus, Mark Doty explains his view of veterinarians and their work in his New York Times bestseller, Dog Years. Doty has written a memoir from a time in his life when his dogs, Arden and Beau, gave him the will to live after the dying of his partner, the disaster of September 11 in NYC, the persistent awareness of mortality. The dogs were always “a door toward feeling and understanding”, and were their own source of joy and sadness. Throughout the lives of his dogs, he interacted with veterinarians who made the situation better or worse depending on their own abilities and talents and the moment in time on the life continuum of the dogs.

Young aspiring veterinarians choose their profession because they care about animals. However, in the eyes of the patient, the veterinarian may not be viewed as a friend – and the animals themselves may not be at their most lovable. Doty relates how veterinarians ‘never seem allowed to see his (Arden’s) charming side; in the doctor’s office, he’s nervous, exasperated and self-protective’. The challenge for the veterinarian is to create and sustain a relationship not only with the owner, but also with the patient - and at the same time take into account the nature of the bond between the human and the animal. The health and well-being of the patient and the satisfaction of the client is only possible when this triad of relationships is understood and honoured.

Of course, veterinarians are only one part of the life of dogs and their people. Doty’s stories of his own dogs are intertwined with his perceptive observations and insightful meditations on the lives of humans and lives of dogs. The daily needs of dogs keep us ‘tethered to the ordinary world of responsibility and schedules’, dragging us out of isolation and sorrow because their very lives depend on our reliability. At the same time, their unfettered devotion to us is part of their contract with us that ‘dogs take with ultimate seriousness’. As Doty so eloquently expresses, ‘being human is most likely a much lonelier endeavour than being a dog....they live in a state of connectedness, it seems, that we have lost, if indeed we ever possessed it....they are a sort of cure for our great, abiding loneliness. A temporary cure, but a real one.”

Mark Doty, a National Book Award winner for Fire to Fire: New and Selected Poems, will be doing a public reading the evening of May 9 at the University of Guelph, Ontario, and is a keynote speaker at the Veterinary Medicine and Literature Symposium.

Read Mark Doty's wonderful sonnet, Beau: Golden Retrievals at the Society for Veterinary Medicine and Literature website.

The Second Blush, by Molly Peacock: A review

A series of reviews of books by authors featured at our 2010 May 9 through May 11 Veterinary Medicine and Literature conference. These books will be available at the Bookshelf in Guelph, Ontario for the conference.

The Second Blush. By Molly Peacock. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 2008. 85 pp. Paper $17.99.

Reviewed by Marie-France Boissonneault, PhD, Ontario Veterinary College, University of Guelph, Guelph, Ontario, Canada

Molly Peacock’s The Second Blush is a collection of poems that captures life’s everyday routines with a reflective and emotional depth. The book is divided into four sections with each part exploring a socio-psychological or philosophical facet of relationships, love, and marriage. Peacock has a notable propensity for highlighting errors as is especially evident in The Cliffs of Mistake in the opening section to her closing poem The Flaw. Each section within Peacock’s quartet concentrates on a familiar emotional meeting point from loss, friendship, conflict, and devotion. Her poetry has an inspired quality that allows the reader to gain personal insight and perspective into matters that may haunt or illustrate their own lives.

In the first section of her book, Peacock addresses the theme of ‘a domesticated life’. From picnics to dishpans, she appears to question her own actions and that of others through a deep contextualisation of human behaviour. In The Cliffs of Mistake, Peacock paints a vivid metaphorical image to illustrate our inability to always gage the repercussions of our choices. She probes the reader to examine their own actions and contemplates the interpretative importance of allegorical reflection. As many readers and analysts invariably experience in their own lives, a seemingly mundane event can act as a trigger to explore underlying questions of one’s being, behaviours or relationships. Peacock eloquently manoeuvres through familiar liaisons and draws the reader to join in thought with her lyrical examinations of daily life. Ferocity in a Dishpan is an especially fine example of how Peacock takes a seemingly mundane event and transforms it into a moment of self-reflection.

The second section of The Second Blush invites the reader to examine the more intense nature and complexity of close relationships. Peacock highlights themes that are common to the individual experience such as personal conflict and its resolution, emotional pain or trauma, and the acknowledgment of one’s feelings and personal perceptions. In this part of the book, Peacock closely examines some more poignant experiences without the use of figurative language to veil the difficult subject matter that she confronts.

However, as we move into the third section, we are refreshed from the cathartic experience of the previous section, and travel into the security of moments and relationships that bring us comfort, remind us of the importance of our emotional bonds, and highlight the difficulties that make up the tapestry of our memories. Equally, Peacock’s fourth and final section offers solace in the act of remembrance as is evident in Quick Kiss and as is illustrated through the humour of passionate encounters in Our Minor Art. In Marriage, Peacock recognises the influence of people in our lives who may be overlooked or easily pushed to the wayside. She demonstrates how we are shaped by the presence of those who love us and who we love.

Peacock has the gift of enticing her readers to attach their own experiences and memories to the grace of her words. Her work is clever, rich, and delicate enough for her audience to either accept her illustrative language, or equally participate in sketching their own unique image, perceptions, experiences and memories. The Second Blush is a collection of works that tempts the reader beyond the role of spectator to personally engage and metaphorically sail away in search of meaning, and reel in the recollection of the events that mark, enrich, and contribute to the human condition.

Molly Peacock will be doing a public reading the evening of May 9 at the Veterinary Medicine and Literature Symposium, Ontario Veterinary College, University of Guelph.

Welcome to our veterinary medicine and literature discussion

Over the last seven years, we've had many discussions about veterinary medicine and literature -- in the yearly electives (at NC State University College of Veterinary Medicine from 2002 through 2005 and at Ontario Veterinary College in Guelph, Canada in 2007 and 2008), in college-wide reading groups bringing together students, faculty, and staff, in conferences like the 2004 Duke Poetry and Medicine Conference and the 2005 International Conference on Communication in Veterinary Medicine, in informal conversations with kindred spirits, and through emails with people responding to our website (Society for Veterinary Medicine and Literature). We realized some time ago that a broader discussion could be taking place online and are launching this blog as a place for that to happen. Our Society website lists the readings we've used in our classes and groups, provides our discussion questions, and reprints with author permission some of the wonderful poems, but doesn't provide for two-way conversation about those readings, or about the whole enterprise of bringing the discussion of literature into the veterinary medicine curriculum. We're going to kick off the discussion with an entry on one of our favorite poems, which we hope you'll comment on, and will add new posts on poems, fiction, and other topics a few times a month. Please suggest new topics! Elizabeth Stone and Hilde Weisert

Thomas Hardy's "Snow in the Suburbs"

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Snow in the Suburbs

Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.

A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eye
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.

The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.

Notes for reading and discussion

The first thing is just to read the poem aloud, which may take a few tries (after a silent read) because it can be a little bit of a tongue twister. If there is someone in the class who especially likes language, they might give it a try, reading slowly and carefully and enunciating each word, even exaggerating the rhythm somewhat – you can almost tap your foot to it.

Below are some questions for discussion of the poem. There may be people who really fall in love with the poem as I did and there may be people who find it a little arch or old-fashioned or affected – too much. That in itself can be an interesting discussion.

Q: Before considering the content, do you have any reactions just to the sound or feel or impression of the poem?
One response is just enjoyment of the language and playfulness – which really feels like what he is describing, in the way the snow descends, the turns of the language and the lines, and how the poem looks on the page. Hardy seems to be having such fun with the words, sounds, and form. You can almost see him smiling. I find the effect very visceral, physical, satisfying. But – as will be part of the point of the Icarus poem discussion – not everyone will have the same reaction.
Of course the content can’t be separated, especially in a poem that, to me, really does what it is talking about, makes you see what he is describing happening in front of your eyes and almost (to me, but maybe I got carried away) to you. It is so well observed.

Q: Have you seen the kind of scene that he describes, whether just the snow or the little events unfolding? When was the last time you took the time to stop and notice what the snowflakes were doing, or what a mere sparrow was doing in a tree in the snow?
People may have done this and noticed things just in the last day – or may have been so absorbed in their thoughts and “the next thing” as they went across campus etc that the snow and surroundings were just something to get through. Which of course is part of what we get from literature, its stopping us to notice.

Q: The cat only comes in in the last 2 lines, but what would the poem be without it? What does the cat on the doorstep, and then let in, do to the poem?
To me, it makes the poem – which otherwise was, however vivid, merely a description of the outside, of nature, winter – something more, suddenly bringing in the opposite, the inside, home. In the closing line “and we take him in” we can almost feel the door closing behind the cat and the warmth of the home – now with cat! – against the cold. (Not sure how we knew he was there, but we did, and opened the door to him – stood there in the next to the last line and looked at him standing there wide-eyed and thin– and then took him in.) The home is warmer and more homelike, and so are we, because of the cat. We have the satisfaction and comfort of giving comfort to this creature of “feeble hope”, something that captures some of the human-animal relationship, the mutual comfort.

Q: Anything else to say about “We take him in”? What does it make you think of, feel? How does that “taking in” change the poem?
I don’t want to push it too much but the “And we take him in” to me captures that act of taking in the animal – whether into our house, our life, our heart, our empathy, or our imagination. It changes us, just as it changes – I believe – the poem. And he, the cat, takes us (after all, he came here – without much hope, but with some), too.

Poem’s title: Looking at the title (and never forget to look at a poem’s title – sometimes we jump into reading without starting by reading and paying attention to the title) we can imagine that “the suburbs” were different in Hardy’s day – the end of the 19th/early 20th century, before ubiquitous cars and malls, probably with houses further away from each other, more separate.

Form: It’s two 8 line stanzas – rhyming couplets – followed by a short 4-liner, but the line lengths vary and so far as I know it’s Hardy’s invention or playing with form.

- Hilde Weisert