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The Hotel Eden

Beverley Bie Brahic

The Hotel Eden
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This title is available for academic inspection (paperback only).
Paperback
ISBN: 978 1 784106 10 2
Categories: 21st Century, American, Canadian, War writings, Women
Imprint: Carcanet Poetry
Published: August 2018
216 x 135 x 12 mm
80 pages
Publisher: Carcanet Press
Also available in: eBook (Kindle), eBook (EPUB), eBook (PDF)
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  • ‘Madame Martin will throw back her shutters at eight…’ With these words Beverley Bie Brahic opens The Hotel Eden, a book about seeing the world. She moves through – Paris, the French provinces, the American west coast – in the spirit of a flâneur, going about her daily life alert to the variety and mystery of human experience: the soup kitchens, the Luxembourg Gardens and the Latin Quarter, the refugees, works of art and areas of damage. The title poem pays a debt to Joseph Cornell, the master of the assemblage, whose ‘The Hotel Eden’ discloses a stuffed parrot and other objects under glass. The eye – the poem – assembles them but cannot tell their intended story. It tells a story all the same. ‘On the tip of God’s tongue, the bird waits to be named.’ This is a book of revelatory indirections, of unexpected moons, creatures, passions, rituals and histories, of days rich in disclosures and in hints of revelation. One of the presiding spirits of her book is the Latin poet Horace, whose prayer she renders as her own:

    Grant me, Apollo, calm and contentment,
    A healthy body, a mind clear,
    And let my old age be spent
    Without dishonour nor the sound of my lyre.
    Beverley Bie Brahic is a poet, translator and occasional critic. Her collection White Sheets was a finalist for the 2012 Forward Prize; Hunting the Boar (2016) was a Poetry Book Society Recommendation, and her translation, Guillaume Apollinaire, The Little Auto, won the 2013 Scott Moncrieff Prize. Other translations include Francis ... read more
     'Fearlessly physical and observant (John Updike's fiction comes to mind), Brahic carries on writing where many poets would stop, and earns that space.' 
    Carol Rumens, Poetry Review
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