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Dismemberment - Reviews & Extracts


Kapka Kassabova is a poet who, in her volume Dismemberment, does not spare the reader…. What lurks behind this collection is the belief that no matter how hard we try, we will be torn asunder. This is what gives these poems their intransigent terror. In the first section, Sculpting, fourteen separate poems are very skilfully linked. They chart the failure and limitations of love/desire in a set relationship….The relentless way each poem in Dismemberment adheres to that initial disclosure makes this book both unsettling and disturbing. Kassabova offers no relief from that terrible breach, that existential dislocation she perceives at the heart of desire. But Dismemberment is unforgettable for its intensity, for its presentation of unsalvageable moments of bleakness, and for its inventive and powerful metaphors.
- Judith Beveridge, HEAT (Australia)

'Whereas Kapka Kassabova's first collection of poetry All roads lead to the sea dealt with the nature of exile in a largely literal geographic sense, Dismemberment is a far less restricted exploration of similar terrain - this time focusing on exile as a feature of the human condition….Octavio Paz was once described as 'a poet in love with silence who can't stop talking.' Judging by this collection, the same could be said of Kassabova.'
- Bede Scott, NZ Sunday Star Times


And they were both right

           There is so much violence yet to be done.
           He falls into her body
           blind because desire makes him blind
           deaf and limbless for the same reason.

But what is love?

And is this a question or a statement?

           He will be
           undone by it, she shudders in jubilation,
           and pulls him to her night - like a dress
           to be undone.

Love will be made and unmade - naturally,
unnaturally. It will be invoked
like a reason, like a form of life.
It will be forgotten.

What if love is no more than
a tangle of muscles
aching to be untied
by knowing fingers?

What if love is made and nothing else -
asked Narcissus, leaning over the green iris of water.

Nothing else,
cried Echo from the green cochlea of the woods.

And they were both right.
And they were both lonely.


The Door


One day you'll see:
you've been knocking on a door
without a house.
You've been waiting, shivering, yelling
words of daring and hope.

One day you'll see:
there is no-one on the other side
except as ever, the jubilant ocean
that won't shatter ceramically like a dream
when you and I shatter.

But not yet. Now
you wait outside, watching
the blue arches of mornings
that will break
but are now perfect.

Underneath on tip-toe
pass the faces, speaking to you,
saying 'you', 'you', 'you',
smiling, waving, arriving
in unfailing chronology.

One day you'll doubt your movements,
you will shudder
at the accuracy of your sudden age.
You will ache for slow beauty
to save you from your quick, quick life.

But not yet. Now hope
fills the yawn of time.
Blue surrounds you. Now let's say
you see a door and knock,
and wait for someone to hear.

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