Wolf-Ladder

David E. Kemp is head of the Drama Department at Queen’s University.

Domanski was born and raised on Cape Breton Island and currently lives
in Halifax. I have always thought that there was a singular and delicate
magic about Nova Scotia. It seemed to me to be a peninsula of silence,
of empty space, of moonlight, and, above all, of mystery. The poems in
this, Domanski’s fifth collection, most certainly reflect that
landscape and express its power and attraction in a beautiful and
mystical way. Their fairy-tale quality invites us into a world of
shadows, a world of dangers that are hard to comprehend, a world where
even the grotesque and disgusting are transformed into the enchanting by
the lyricism of the language.

Domanski’s world is one of winter—of frozen earth, scalded pines,
and the loneliness of the wind. It is above all a savage place, where
civilization and the niceties of twentieth-century living come into an
abrupt and at times violent conflict with the elemental forces of nature
and the remaining vestiges of a far more primitive society than our own.

This is poetry that disturbs: poems such as “Dead Dog: Bras d’Or
1962” and phrases such as, “You take off your clothes and lie in bed
/ placing the city under your pillow / the countryside between your
legs” stay firmly lodged in the mind and resist all attempts to expel
them. Domanski’s poetry makes one’s hair stand on end. It smells of
the earth and the sea and the sky—and while it may not be comfortable
and reassuring, it is nevertheless unique and quite unforgettable.