Mapping the Chaos

Signal Editions/Véhicule Press, 1995 ISBN: 155065070X

For Tregebov, writing is ‘mapping’-tracing the outlines of what is there with humour, wonder, bemusement, and great clarity.

“Perhaps there is a beauty in the logic of mapping; or perhaps the beauty lies in the chaos. The most interesting art performs a simultaneous imposition of order and a resistance to it. This is what Tregebov’s book Mapping the Chaos achieves.”
                     —Catherine Hunter, Prairie Fire

Mapping the Chaos is daring and original – genuinely radical. [...] It is, in fact, a breakthrough: an evolutionary leap in style that exceeds the expectations her work has created until now.”
                     —Carmine Starnino, The Montreal Gazette.

 

Sample Poem

Country & Western 

 

 

My grandfather, absolutely foreign,

his sheared sealskin angular hat set right

straight on the middle of the top of his head. Not

cowboys, but his buffalo coat I saw only

thrown over the hood of the car to keep

the engine warm and thought he was wrong again,

in his Old Country fashion, but he was right,

you can keep the inanimate warm with something

that was once alive. “My country.” The stones

of Odessa, the Black Sea was a terrible thing,

black as oil and cold, I thought, steps went

straight down to it and the waves licked at them.

Terrible too the cold avenues of Winnipeg, where

the Jews slotted themselves into streets named

Selkirk and Salter. Tea with lemon,

sucked through a sugar cube, poppyseed roll

in the oven. And outside, the smell of wet wool,

clean city smell, the taste of the screen door

and my own blood – how our flesh loves metal

at that temperature, cold that sings in the brain

like a fever. And it wasn’t just winter,

it was the squeak, squeak of the swings

my father and his brothers made, the heart-

shaped, spade-shaped leaves of the lilac bush,

my father turning, turning, spading the black soil.

What does a Jew do with a garden? We grow beets

for the borscht, rhubarb, dill for the pickles,

cukes; we grow peas for the kids to pick and eat,

that never see the table. But when “Don Messer’s

Jubilee” came on TV, we turned it off. The family

rose as one and turned our backs because there

is no irony in country music; you have only

the one hand, not the other.

It’s pure and straight and true.

Unlike life on the outside, or life

on the inside. Unlike being both here

and there or neither here nor there.

Unlike the red, cold, sweet and

sour heart of beet soup.

 

© Rhea Tregebov

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