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Nocturnal Rhythms
Ken Stange
Published by Penumbra Press (1979)

Poems exploring the night side of human nature, challenging demons found everywhere from Norse mythology to modern psychopathology.

These very ‘musical’ poems offer “delights and difficulties” (The Globe and Mail) while remaining accessible: “Stange can still blow me from the page with one of his easy sounding, chunky poems.” (Rubicon reviewer)

Penumbra Press (1979)
ISBN: 0-920806-03-I
Softcover (6x9 inches) 96 pages
Signed by author edition: $20
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Downloadable PDF Book
(104 pages plus original cover): $3

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Link to publisher unsigned edition:  $5.95

Nocturnal Rhythms (1979)

Excerpt (from introduction)

There is within me a harmony, a balance, and I thank my Gods for it. It is certainly not a pleasant consonance, but it is some kind of order, and that is better than chaos. I need it here, for I live far from cities, far from what has come to be termed civilization. I don't need these cities anymore, for I have my own primitive civilization here in my head. I have also my own icons and my own chapel. These help me through the shimmering transition into madman that comes perhaps every fortnight. Yes, it is best that I am here, away from other forms of madness, for I am shy as a wolf.  I am not ugly. In fact, I am fairly young and reasonably attractive. The only obvious abnormality in my appearance is my white hair. I am no albino, but my hair turned completely white when I was only seventeen.

(There was an experiential reason for this sudden whitening, but it need not concern you.) My fingers are long and tapering. So are my days.  Why do I tell you these things? Well, why does one do any particular thing? We try so hard to find reasons for all our behaviour, but reasons are just the lies we tell ourselves to keep order in the universe. Still if one insists on being "reasonable," it is more so to inquire of me as to why I wrote these poems. (And this permits me to tie a knot.) I wrote these poems because my hair is white and my fingers are long and tapering. And that, too, is why I tell you these things. You see, this is magic: The primitive, magical belief that this sort of information will somehow make my poems more comprehensible. This is what critics call the “biographical fallacy”.

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