Poetry
Rhea Tregebov is the author of seven collections of poetry, most recently All Souls’, which was released by Signal Editions/Véhicule Press in September 2012. Her poetry has received a number of awards, including the Pat Lowther Award for her first book, Remembering History, as well as The Malahat Review Long Poem Award, honorary mention in the National Magazine Awards, and the Prairie Schooner Reader’s Choice Prize. For a statement on her approach to poetry, see her translation of Pablo Neruda’s “Poetry”.
Signal Editions/Véhicule Press
September 2012
ISBN: 978-1-55065-338-0 $18.00
ISBN: 9-780919-897984
$15
The Strength of Materials
Wolsak and Wynn (2001)
ISBN: 0919897762
Mapping the Chaos
Signal Editions, Véhicule Press (1995)
ISBN: 155065070X
The Proving Grounds
Signal Editions, Véhicule Press (1991)
Mercury/ Aya Press (1986)
ISBN: 0920544444
Remembering History
Guernica Edition (1982)
Read “Gender, Jewish Identity and Cultural Memory in the Poetry of Rhea Tregebov” by Donna Hollenberg.
Listen to Tregebov reading at Toronto’s Scream in the Park spoken word festival (1998).







The translation of the Neruda poem above is about as close as I can come to how poetry has affected my life. For those to whom it sounds familiar, a different translation was featured in the 1994 Italian film about Neruda, Il Postino (The Postman).RT
Poetry
And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, don’t know where
it came from – winter, a river.
Don’t know how or when,
no, not voices, not
words, or silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of night,
suddenly among others,
among violent fires
or going home alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
– Pablo Neruda
From the poem, “Poetry” [Poesía] originally published in Pablo Neruda’s 1964 collection, Memorial de Isla Negra.
Translation © Rhea Tregebov
LA POESÍA
Y fue a esa edad… Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.