Kerry Gilbert
[Author Name]
Biography
Kerry Gilbert lives in the Okanagan, the unceded territory of the Syilx People, where she teaches Creative Writing at Okanagan College. Her first book, (kerplnk): a verse novel of development, was published in 2005 with Kalamalka Press. Her second book of poetry, Tight Wire, was published in 2016 with Mother Tongue Publishing. Little Red, is Gilbert’s newest poetry collection with Mother Tongue, released in 2019.
Gilbert has won the Gwendolyn MacEwen Poetry Award for Best Suite by an Emerging Writer and has been shortlisted for ReLit, for the Ralph Gustafson Prize for the Best Poem, for the Pacific Spirit Poetry Contest and for the Gwendolyn MacEwen Poetry for Best Suite by an Established Writer.
She is currently part of the poetry/in/canada project (with of some amazing writerly people). www.kerrygilbert.ca
Poetics Statement
“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath—F. Scott Fitzgerald
And that’s it really, isn’t it? An act of faith. An instinct. An impulse. I don’t always know what it is, but I know it in its absence. When I’m not seeing the world poetically (lines arriving, images that stick, connections that surprise, a kind of spatial awareness that is outside of ourselves) then I feel flat—imbalanced. Not whole. Half alive. I don’t want the literal. I crave the figurative, always. I want to say the hidden things stuck deep (shhhh, always be a good girl). I want someone to read a line of mine and share in my version of being human—somehow understand my strange, fragmented thinking process. I want to understand theirs/I want to understand mine. This secret handshake of poetry that cracks things open—that makes things possible—when we look at the world in a poetic way, is magic. It is a privilege to be part of the conversation with all of you and here I am, happily holding my breath.
”
Sample of Poet's Work
Two Poems from Tight Wire
published with Mother Tongue Publishing 2016
No. 1
funambulism. barefoot—no leather-soled slippers. her big and second toe cut deep in between by braided tight wire. no props—just freehand. fully aware of her center of mass and of her core. fully aware of the shallow tank of hammerheads below. circling. fully aware of the ringmaster with the sawed-off shotgun pointed at her back—aimed behind the curtains at her amateur heart—and the black worn suitcase full of crumpled up cash at his feet.
the audience is unaware. they see beauty. sequins. perfection. poise.
to add to this spectacle, an assistant with a painted smile waits at the side with her children. he will add them one by one while she shifts her weight, and with her arms she sways side to side with grace, even though blood drips to the tank from her feet. she pushes against gravity because. because she loves her children more than herself.
sweat cuts a new river through her clay makeup, but that too goes unnoticed.
No. 2
with a tiny scalpel, she carefully cuts the skin just underneath her blouse line. down the sides to her hips. to her ankles. around and up her inner thighs—both sides. not her face. not her hands. not her feet. when the cuts are symmetrical and thorough, she begins to peel, slow and methodical. it has to be just right. when completely off, she pulls and stretches and pins each edge perfectly to a sapling tanning frame. she lights it from behind with soft spotlights and stands in the far corner.
people come from all around to see her art. they debate over what it is. awe over the translucent stretch marks. speculate that the nipples are marks painted to show a stained patriarchal society. they touch it gently, hoping the texture will offer clues to what it is. no one admits they do not know. then they shake her hand, framed delicately by a tiny pearl bracelet and ivory blouse, they kiss her on the cheek and say amazing—how—do you do it?
From Little Red
published with Mother Tongue Publishing 2019
II
Mama asks Scarlet by text
to walk to the store and pick
up some gala apples for Nana
she says: wear your purse
across your body. always
hold your phone close. look
both ways before you cross
bring bear spray. avoid alleys
don’t make eye contact
watch out for the man with
hairy fingers. he does not
have the best of intentions
V
This is what Scarlet would look like now
notice how the artist has rendered crow’s feet
and smudged dark shades around her eyes that
are now sunk deep. how her mouth has curled
slightly in on itself. she’s lost baby fat which crisps
cheekbones. but her eyes. her eyes are the same
curious, independent of this whole aging process