Iron Mountain
Of one of Mark Frutkin's previous books of verse, Poetry Canada Review said it provided "a supernatural fusion of the earthbound with the heavenly to forge the lightning of poetry." Divided into two sections, one inspired by ancient Chinese art, the other limning the ambiguities and incongruities of the contemporary human condition, Frutkin's new volume of poetry, Iron Mountain, often presents human beings wandering in the wilderness between two abysses while still appreciating the smell of pines, the softness of the rain, the brilliance of the stars, the hum of the computer, and the jostle of the crowd on the bus.
These are poems of translucent delicacy harbouring hard truths where "A Taoist priest gulps the elixir/of immortality and blows away/in the dust, /a young Chinese girl/bumps me in the crowd/prompting a shiver/like a startled phoenix/dressed in my skin." In Frutkin's vision the entire world is a written landscape that speaks to us of time, of change, of immutability, of radiant emptiness.
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