Karen Solie Biography

The perspective is unfamiliar.
We hadn't looked back going in,
and lingered too long
at the viewpoint. It was a prime-of-life
...

Warmth activates the sugars,
and sugars rally
in the gorse, in the flowers
it sees with, the scent
that is its voice,
the nontoxic fragrant wood
good for cutlery, and for burning,
though it flares out quickly,
unlike smoldering peat. Are they converting

sugars of their loneliness
to conviction? Burning
their sugars on the wicks
of their frailty,
one can nearly read by them,

as Fillan in his own cave read
by the light of  his broken arm,
one of the horrible miracles
of the times — 
St. Fillan, the Human Flashlight,
patron of the mentally ill — 

an unenviable between-worlds
position.
Whereas marsh orchids,
fully in this one,
change their clothes
out in the open, hard candy
in their mouths,
the sugars plump, round, smooth,
unlike seawater's jagged molecules,
which when drunk like anger
will tear through you.
Like bitterness, desiccate you.

To survive, suffering burns
the strength of the afflicted. If,
left in Fillan's cave,
bonds of the stricken
were loosened by morning,
his spirit had intervened to convert

the molecules of their madness,
and still later did smugglers stash there
some of those little things
that make life worth living.

The highly edible
sweet gorse flowers
produce a coconut-flavored wine
if one enjoys the luxury of time,
and a tea prescribed in cases
of uncertainty,
for those who appear
to have lost all hope.
...

The sea is neither animal
nor god. Won't be tamed or appeased.
Aidan gave his young priest oil
to calm the waves, but myth is most useful
when it rouses a body
to work harder. Body, spirit, fire and water
having been absorbed into the world
of commerce in which even
the seabirds participate. Their convergence
a sign of herring in the Haikes. Profit
unites great distances, yet its heart
beats inside us. But Evelyn,
whatever counts me truly among the living
resides with you. The rest just
perseverance and good gear.



Ran 30 minutes from Fife Ness, all nets shot
by 9, sky looks like wind. Soon,
heavy swell, the underwater cables
writhing. This foul coastline
laced in wrecks. We'll take tea with the black squad
while we can, and your fine bread,
Evelyn. The ‘38 winter herring
overspilled box and barrel, silvered the piers
at St. Monans, and the market so strong
fish girls' fingernails dissolved
in brine. No one can predict how herring run.
They are a tender species, easily
influenced. Luck brought them in
with money circulating freely
as the Germans prepared for war.
...

Appearing as though they originate in spiritual rather
than material seed, as proof

we don't know how to properly celebrate
or mourn - bindweed and ox-eye daisy, cranesbill, harebell,

haresfoot clover, whose ideology is fragrant
and sticky, the underside of thinking blooming

across centuries. Bountiful arguments
for belief, in equal profusion against it.

My many regrets have become the great passion of my life.
One may also grow fond of what there isn't

much of. Grass of Parnassus -
and when you finally find it, it's just okay.

But look for lies and you will see them everywhere, like
the melancholy thistle, an erect spineless herb

of the sunflower family. That the eradication of desire
promotes peace and lengthens life

is not uncommon advice; still, you can't simply wait
until you feel like it. The beauty of the campions,

bladder and sea, the tough little sea rocket,
is their effort in spite of, I want to say, everything,

though they know nothing of what we mean
when we say everything, it is a sentiment referring only

to itself. Purple toadflax, common mouse-ear,
orchids, trefoils, buttercup, self-heal,

the Adoxa moschatellina it's too late in the year for,
I can hardly stand to look at them.

And all identified after the fact
but for the banks of wild roses, the poppies you loved

parked like an ambulance by the barley field.
...

- pour Cathy

La neige tombe, accrochant ses flocons
sur les surfaces effilochées. Il y a des éclairs
au-dessus du lac Ontario, Erie. Dans les grandes
villes centrales, une dette accumulée le long des plinthes,
comme des cheveux. Beaucoup de choses étaient bonnes
tant qu'elles duraient. Les longues pistes de danse
des voisinages sous les arbres,
l'authentique sentiment du prochain, pas moins authentique
pour autant. Dans l'Ouest il y a des champs silencieux et gelés, des tourbillons
de vent. Dans le nord, le gel se mesure
en mètres, et tu dors assise parce que ça fait moins
mal. L'hiver ne dure pas. En avril
le collecteur d'impôt fleurira et le langage,
retournera le papier pour chercher une entrée adéquate
à l'odeur découpée des peupliers
qui bourgeonnent. Le livreur de saucisses trouvera bien une fois de plus
le moyen de bloquer le trottoir avec son camion,
et même s'il est interdit de laisser ronronner son moteur
durant plus de trois minutes, chacun de nous va ronronner
en diable. Après tout ce qui est arrivé. Nous sommes tout
ce qui reste. À l'automne, la sterne arctique va voler une distance de
12 500 miles vers l'Antarctique comme elle l'a fait chaque année
où tu étais vivant. Elle navigue grâce au soleil et aux étoiles.
Elle est guidée par les champs magnétiques
aussi sensiblement que l'aiguille d'une boussole, et vit
de ce qu'elle trouve. Je ne comprends pas cela non plus.

traduit par Hélène Dorion,
...