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    Congratulations, Rhododendrons
    Congratulations, Rhododendrons
    Congratulations, Rhododendrons
    Ebook86 pages39 minutes

    Congratulations, Rhododendrons

    By Mary Germaine

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    About this ebook

    In her debut collection, Congratulations, Rhododendrons, award-winning poet Mary Germaine offers love poems to an insistently unlovely world.

    Through poems that speak to plastic bags and drones as much as they admire roses and the moon, Germaine surfs the confluence of artificial and natural environments, technology, and our small but consequential feelings about them. At turns devotional and suspicious, these poems toe the boundaries of intimacy, responsibility, and reason.

    In anxious times, anything can be taken as a sign; a crow, a talking coin, and a news report are all sources of information whose truth (or “fake-ness”) demand investigation. Germaine’s poems scroll from a shrine in Lourdes to an augmented-reality sandbox, from a mall filled with loitering ex–love interests to a fairy-tale ending where all the men turn out to be chairs. Funny, provocative, sly, and melancholic, Congratulations, Rhododendrons makes a case for the hope that every apparent disaster of social investment might in the end be redeemed as meaningful, genuine, or at least in some way helpful.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Anansi Press
    Release dateApr 6, 2021
    ISBN9781487008697
    Congratulations, Rhododendrons
    Author

    Mary Germaine

    MARY GERMAINE is a poet, an educator, and a Ph.D. student at the University of New Brunswick in Fredericton. Her poems have appeared inThe Walrus Magazine, Riddle Fence, the ArtSci Effect, and Augur Magazine. She was the recipient of the Adam Penn Gilders Scholarship for Creative Writing from the University of Toronto and the Heaslip Award from Memorial University. Her special talents include finding lost items and having a face that reminds people of someone else they know.

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      Book preview

      Congratulations, Rhododendrons - Mary Germaine

      Part One

      Ode

      Congratulations, rhododendrons, on a job well done

      this year. I’m in love

      and your flagrant uptick in blooms has confirmed

      a kind of religious order in me:

      my inside and outside realms are identical.

      They completely agree

      in tense and tone, in depth, perimeter,

      economy, and attention to moisture.

      The humidity’s gotten to everything

      and everything I can imagine — useless questions

      I would voice, wishes I would rather not,

      worries — they’re all laid out in plain sight.

      From my place on the porch I can see

      exactly which way that love will go.

      There’s a thousand different routes but they’re all right

      in front of me. Today has taken the shape

      of a Möbius strip, soft as the porch breeze. As such,

      there is only one boundary

      and it divides what’s real from what isn’t.

      Just between us, I don’t think I’m the one

      projecting, rhododendrons. I think you are

      excelling at it. Which is fine with me.

      It’s not my job to calculate the difference between

      my nerves and the white daytime moths,

      or the gulp of sparrows tucked into the boxwood dark

      and my own throat or lap or the heat of the flock

      as it presses into the air. It’s July. It’s hot everywhere.

      The tiger lilies jostle and nod. Who here

      isn’t doing their best to demonstrate a truly botanical

      blind optimism? It’s almost six o’clock.

      Is it you or me, rhododendrons,

      waiting with our red and pink faces

      turned in all directions at once? Is it coincidence

      I was walking through this neighbourhood last night

      and my friend said rhododendrons were his favourite?

      Occasionally, I had to notice, he smiles as thoroughly

      as sunlight travels each vein of a leaf.

      And then he smiled at me,

      and offered to come by again tomorrow,

      which is now today. You ruffle, rhododendrons,

      and stick out all your necks. You wave as if

      winter will never happen. You’re right, it won’t.

      Winter is unthinkable now. A zillion flowers cover the sidewalk,

      and there’s way more still on the tree, to make sure something’s always

      looking up. And someone is crossing the street to me.

      Some History of This

      If properly wound, the robot friar will pace and kiss

      his cross, and clatter out a mea culpa. Then again pace, then kiss —

      Between an institution and a cliché, there’s a narrow kitchenette

      where a loose tooth and a hulking California strawberry try to reinvent the kiss.

      As if to prove nothing changes, we talk nose-to-nose and every word

      marks a new halfway point in the race to an infinitely distant kiss.

      How do we forgive the guy who’s out there on locust day, waiting to film

      the last shaft of wheat that rainbow will bend to kiss?

      Tonight’s a drag, thinks the bartender, dumping ice melt from half-empty cups.

      The sink’s littered with lemon husks and more than one iridescently drowned kiss.

      The price of barrels bobs and sinks. But a vending machine in Niagara Falls

      will still make a souvenir tightrope with an American dollar and your honest kiss.

      Lots of closets, and the view was stellar. We happily gave our first and last

      and lived the best we could afford inside a rented kiss.

      Coda in blue: a long line of Xs and Os I smeared under my name

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