Griffin Award-winner returns with new poems that are spacious with interiority, alive with a hard-earned lightness.

Waves carried a glass float—designed to hold up a fishing net—across the Pacific. Beached it safely. Someone's breath is inside it.

In Glass Float, her seventh collection, award-winning poet Jane Munro considers the widening of horizons that border and shape our lives, the familiarity and mystery of conscious experience, and the deepening awareness that comes with a dedicated practice such as yoga. This book is about connections: mind and body; self and others; physical and metaphysical; art and nature; west and east, north and south.

In "Convexities," the book's opening poem, Munro quotes the grandfather who taught her to paint: "art is suggestion; art is not representation." No concavities, he said. Only the "little hummocks" that her pencil outlined as she did contour drawings. Munro's deft suggestion, her tracing of convexities, conveys underlying complexities, not by explication, but by looking with eyes and heart open to where mysteries almost surface.

US

bubbles
says the baby, looking
out the window at snowflakes

the old man tears up

two
characteristics
of the human animal—
to speak, to weep

both
move me
are you moved
by words—by tears

Jane Munro's sixth poetry collection Blue Sonoma (Brick Books) won the 2015 Griffin Poetry Prize. A member of the collaborative poetry group Yoko's Dogs, she has been a professor of Creative Writing at several universities in BC, taught many informal writing workshops, and read her poetry to audiences across Canada. For more than twenty years, she has studied (in Canada and in India) and practiced Iyengar Yoga. In 2012, she moved back to Vancouver--where she grew up and raised her children--after spending twenty years living rurally on the coast of Vancouver Island.

Jane Munro's profile page

"Like glass floats themselves, these neat, clear poems contain Munro's breath. They cross oceans. Jane Munro's Glass Float—part travelogue, part journal, part meditation—picks up where Blue Sonoma ends: the speaker finds herself alone, at the live edge of her life...You are not merely called on to look at yourself but to 'receive your face.' A gift." — Ian Williams, author of Reproduction