The Sea with No One in It<\/i>
\nby Niki Koulouris
\nErin, ON: Porcupine\u2019s Quill, 2013
\n64 pp, $15<\/p>\n
Mirror Image<\/i>
\nby Len Gasparini
\nToronto, ON: Guernica Editions, 2014
\n78 pp, $15<\/p>\n
Niki Koulouris is just starting out as a poet. The Sea with No One<\/i> in It is her first collection. Len Gasparini\u2019s umpteenth poetry work is Mirror Image<\/i>.<\/p>\n
Both employ a Mediterranean heritage that reflects trans-oceanic influences, the Pacific for Koulouris and the Atlantic for Gasparini.<\/p>\n
Greek-Australian, now resident in Toronto, Koulouris presents 44 poems that look at the sea, the ocean, or rivers as canvases of sorts, or that look at paintings as fixed, miniature bodies of reflection.<\/p>\n
Her free-verse lyrics animate the classic, Greek rhetorical form\u2014metaphor, or the notion of \u201cDeep Image\u201d (as pioneered by Italian-Canadian poet Pier Giorgio Di Cicco), to attend to the ripples\u2014or tides\u2014of associations flowing out of water or maps or paint.<\/p>\n
The first poem offers this jumping-off point: \u201cI want to understand the voyage \/ these qualms beneath my feet.\u201d<\/p>\n
The ocean itself is restless travel, unending voyage. A poem addressed to Icarus concludes, \u201cnot wanting you, the sea \/ never closes \/ unlike the sun.\u201d<\/p>\n
Koulouris describes, charts, the seas that matter most to her\u2014the Aegean, the Pacific\u2014but these water bodies prompt meditations on the insubstantial, the insular, the indescribable, the surreal, the elements of mythology.<\/p>\n
\u201cin summer there are no \/ holidays for fish \/ perhaps they take them \/ in the spring \/\/ \u2026 still they must have \/ recollections \/ of the steak of Africa, \/ the broken comma \/ of New Zealand.\u201d<\/p>\n
The poems are suggestions, hints, as difficult to pin down as any fluid: \u201cIt was there all along \/ as if undiscovered \/ the modern sea \/ already alive, sawn off \/ craved by gravel \/ summoned by the populace \/ that salvaged pendants \/ from the surgery of tides.\u201d<\/p>\n
One can sight in Kouloris\u2019s work the surrealism of the Greek poet Yannis Ritsos, but also the fabulous imagination of Leonard Cohen\u2019s Greek-flavoured poems and songs of the 1960s. Indeed, almost any stanza from Koulouris could be inserted into Cohen\u2019s \u201cSuzanne.\u201d<\/p>\n
Koulouris\u2019s other major subject is visual art, and so there are lyrics conjured by viewing art by Jasper Johns, C\u00e9zanne, Jackson Pollock, Maurice Sendak, etc. Again, as with her focus on water, Koulouris is fascinated by the evident surfaces and fluid depths of paintings.<\/p>\n
The poem for Sendak wonders, \u201care these my parents \/ swinging from the trees?\u201d<\/p>\n
Koulouris\u2019 poems are not final; they remain more ink than print. One regards them as one regards the sea: Ever-shifting reflections.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve come to expect \/ Guernica on the \/ street,\u201d Koulouris writes, referring to the infamous, Nazi bombing of a marketplace during the Spanish Civil War, as well as to Picasso\u2019s famous, surrealistic painting of the atrocity.<\/p>\n
But she also provides an inadvertent segue to Gasparini\u2019s newest book, Mirror Image<\/i>, published by Guernica.<\/p>\n
Italian-Canadian, reared in Windsor, Ontario, tutored in New Orleans, and again a Windsor resident after many years a Torontonian, Gasparini has also been a traveller, but very much anchored in the real, the workaday, pop culture plus literature.<\/p>\n
Mirror Image<\/i> conjoins free-verse lyrics, a short story, and memoir vignettes. Gasparini writes about a \u201cjailbait blonde,\u201d a \u201cwhole lotta neckin\u2019 goin\u2019 on,\u201d losing virginity at a drive-in movie, and other rock\u2019n\u2019roll hoochie-koo in lines that are clear, fresh, and vigorous.<\/p>\n
\u201cFrom Sputnik to beatnik \u2026 those lunatic days\u2026. \/\/ When the fifties ended there was nothing but \/ leftover life to live.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gasparini brings to verse the Beat-bravura style of Keroauc, but also the resolute, classical clarity of Dante\u2019s \u201cLa Vita Nuova\u201d: \u201cWhen a woman looks at herself in the mirror \/ she is two different women.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s easy to overlook Gasparini\u2019s excellence because he pens seemingly simple lyrics about diurnal reality. But, look closer, and one finds simplicity that has been zealously won.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s sweet imagism, daddy-o: \u201cBreasted with ripeness, \/ the orchard oozes apples\u2026. \/\/ Perched on a ladder\u2026. \/\/ a girl\u2019s bare legs \/ peep through the foliage.\u201d<\/p>\n
The short story and the prose vignettes are wistful meditations on the insatiable fascination with sexuality, even when it is nothing but vague yearnings and lonesome romanticism. The tales are fine renderings, evocations, limning, again, that specific, Gasparini combo of grace and guts.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Re:Union<\/i>
\nby Geordie Miller
\nSnare, 2014
\n80 pp, $15<\/p>\n
Bourbon & Eventide<\/i>
\nby Mike Spry
\nSnare, 2014
\n72 pp, $15<\/p>\n
Between September 1967 and September 1978, or from child to teen, I lived on Halifax\u2019s Maynard Street, and so I have to notice Invisible Publishing, which is based there.<\/p>\n
And the press issues fascinating poets, such as Geordie Miller and Mike Spry, whose first books emphasize a self-conscious, irony-heavy vibe.<\/p>\n
Re:Union<\/i> reveals Miller\u2019s indebtedness to graduate tudies and stand-up comedy. The title reads as \u201creunion\u201d and \u201cRegarding Union,\u201d and this punning use of \u201cre:\u201d recurs (I should write, \u201cre:curs\u201d) throughout the unpaginated, unhefty volume.<\/p>\n
Miller\u2019s verses are smart, insider-outsider mash-ups of pop culture and undergraduate classes, or of Facebook \u201csharing\u201d and by-the-book (or buy-the-textbook) knowledge.<\/p>\n
One example is \u201cNeolettrism,\u201d which mocks the conjunction between Ayn Rand\u2019s literate \u201cphilosophy\u201d of greed and neoliberalism, which frees the rich to loot the poor: \u201cI have shored these lines against an expensive grave\u2026. \/ Business won\u2019t go out of business.\u201d<\/p>\n
Understanding \u201cI\u2019m from St. Catharines\u201d requires knowledge of the French and Mahaffy homicides in that Ontario city, nigh 25 years ago: \u201cHow a Missing poster was next to \/ the \u2018No Backpacks Allowed\u2019 sign \/ on the door of the Victoria variety \/ where we bought our candy\u2026. \/ How they tortured her to Bowie \/ How I don\u2019t listen to Bowie.\u201d<\/p>\n
Black comic irony is the deadpan humour of this collection: \u201cThere used to be a barbershop \/ by the bus station at (Toronto\u2019s) Bay and Dundas \/ called \u2018Terminal Cuts.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
One poem revisits the textbook, The Elements of Style<\/i>, by William Strunk and E.B. (Charlotte\u2019s Web)<\/i> White: \u201c\u2018Use the active voice\u2019 \/\/ Roland Barthes was struck by a laundry truck. Death he did do. \/\/ A laundry truck struck Roland Barthes. He died.\u201d To \u201cget\u201d this jest, one must know that Barthes was a critic famed\u2014or notorious\u2014for declaring \u201cthe death of the author\u201d\u2014i.e., that a writer is less vital than his\/her writing.<\/p>\n
For insiders \u201cin the know,\u201d there is pleasure in deconstructing such wit. But such classroom jests can seem sophomoric.<\/p>\n
Miller\u2019s objective \u201coutsider\u201d stance distances writer from reader: \u201cBringing a black eye to my first protest \/ in the food court of the Mic Mac mall \/ to call a genocide a genocide.\u201d Yet, the poem ends nicely: \u201cLola saw her first snow this afternoon \/ her head upturned as if grateful \/ could she know where anything comes from.\u201d<\/p>\n
Miller is readily readable\u2014as is Spry. His book, Bourbon & Eventide<\/i> is a 56-page, page-turning, verse-novella about a couple\u2019s miscommunications. This experimental work consists of two prosy verses\u2014usually totaling six lines\u2014per page.<\/p>\n
The manner is he-said, she-said; he-misinterprets, she-misinterprets. She\u2019s a jade\u2014and he\u2019s jaded; or she\u2019s intelligent and he\u2019s just a gent; or one drinks whiskey and the other is off-key. It\u2019s Archie-as-Jughead and Betty-as-Veronica.<\/p>\n
The narrative is arch, fey, twee, ironic, and, above all, intriguing. \u201che hadn\u2019t meant to sleep with her friend, who had the name of a stripper \/ and the eyes of the terrorist, but it was late, and he was weak, \/ and her bed was just upstairs from his last drink.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey went for coffee, and she ordered gin. She said, \/ \u2018It\u2019s easy to duplicate mistakes, but near impossible to perfect them.\u2019 \/ He said, \u2018I may not be fearless enough to keep you happy.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
The couple dynamic of misunderstandings\u2014if not misdeeds\u2014is replicated in these couplets of triplets, per page, emphasizing how each speaker recalls events or calls out definitions differently.<\/p>\n
\u201c\u2018Is the coathanger in your shower for abortions?\u2019 she asked\u2026. \/ \u2018The drain clogs,\u2019 he replied. \/ She didn\u2019t tell him she\u2019d visit the clinic alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHis smile, when it wanted to be, was monsterful. There were days he was handsome. \/ But he rested on the laurels of his flaws, and saw their end in country songs. \/ \u2018Sometimes I wear cologne,\u2019 she told him, \u2018so I don\u2019t wake up thinking of you.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
Ending his book, Spry offers shout outs to Montreal poets David McGimpsey and Jon Paul Fiorentino, two masters of the (postmodern) poetic of the pathetic, such as is exemplified in Spry\u2019s saga of two lovelorn, heterosexual intellectuals. His playful narrative echoes a True Confessions<\/i> magazine story\u2014but one edited by a poet.<\/p>\n
\nBelieving the Line: The Jack Siegel Poems<\/i>
\nby Mark Silverberg
\nCape Breton, NS: Breton Books, 2013
\n142 pp, $18<\/p>\n
Variations on Blue<\/i>
\nby Pam F. Martin
\nHalifax, NS: Acorn Press, 2013
\n74 pp, $18<\/p>\n
Cape Breton University professor and poet Mark Silverberg won the 2014 Eric Hoffer Award, a prestigious, U.S. prize presented to authors published by small\u2014or independent\u2014presses.<\/p>\n
His debut book, Believing the Line: The Jack Siegel Poems<\/i>, is thus a prized, small-press book of poetry issued in English-speaking North America last year.<\/p>\n
The distinction is good for Wreck Cove, Cape Breton-based Breton Books\u2014and merited by Silverberg. However, the brilliance of Siegel\u2019s art outshines Silverberg\u2019s poetry \u2014sometimes.<\/i><\/p>\n
Arguably, Silverberg means for the art to take centre stage, for the poetry enacts a homage to Siegel and his oeuvre, both of which lapsed into critical obscurity when Siegel (1915-2007) returned to Toronto in 1970 after star turns in NYC and London, became a vagabond artist \u201cliving on bagels and sardines,\u201d and then, by 1988, lost his vision and, following debilitating falls, his mobility, becoming confined to a nursing home.<\/p>\n
The bio of the Romanian-Canadian artist is crucial to Silverberg\u2019s project, which is to dust off Siegel\u2019s reputation, intermittently recognized in Greenwich Village and Soho, and renew his fame, especially in Canada.<\/p>\n
Siegel\u2019s pencil and ink drawings and occasional watercolour and oil paintings (reproduced in full colour) render Believing the Line<\/i> a handsome book and inspire Silverberg\u2019s own lines: Each of his poems, most untitled, respond to art prominently positioned on right-hand pages.<\/p>\n
An educator in Africa, Asia, and Canada, Silverberg is an expert in American poetry, visual arts, and poetic experimentation. His knowledge becomes know-how here, prefacing the reproduced art with usually abbreviated lyrics that attain the openness of William Blake and the humaneness of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes.<\/p>\n
A Siegel drawing of a curly-haired head is, for Silverberg, \u201ca mountainous doubt \/ of hair.\u201d Period.<\/p>\n
A drawing of an old man whose face has disappeared\u2014vanished\u2014into the crook of his arm is described thus: \u201cTo test \/ the limits \/ of emptiness\/ emerging \/ from scrawl.\u201d<\/p>\n
A man on a park bench, his back turned to us, one leg folded over the other, is rendered nicely: \u201cBacks in desperate \/ unforgiving lines, \/ loudly needing nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n
The image of a woman with a sorrowful\u2014or questioning\u2014expression wins the bluesy rhyme, \u201cI asked for the truth \/ yesterday \/ And when morning came \/ you\u2019d gone away.\u201d<\/p>\n
Though some poems try to mirror the laconic poignancy or piquancy of Siegel\u2019s art, they become prosaic sentiments. So, the picture of a schoolboy in formal dress is written up as \u201can image \/ of painful constraint: \/ hands clenched \/ vest tightened \/ everything fixed \/ on a point.\u201d<\/p>\n
A pun comes to mind: I get the picture.<\/p>\n
Weak passages aside, Believing the Line is a treasury of Siegel\u2019s art and the now-and-then consummation effected by Silverberg\u2019s words. If one poem is particularly well-matched to the art, it is \u201cOn blindness\u201d: The violence of the face \/ came out of nowhere \/ \u2026 a face emerging \/ from a river of scribbles.\u201d<\/p>\n
Formerly a barista, model, tree-planter, grocer, bookseller, foster parent, student, and social worker, Pam F. Martin is now a poet. Her first book is Variations on Blue,\/i>.<\/i><\/p>\n
Martin has lived in Ottawa, Victoria (BC), and La Ronge (SK), but now calls Charlottetown (PEI) home.<\/p>\n
Her lyrics are simple, deceptively so: \u201cHer kindly memory \/ strips away \/ the flesh of truth \/\/ leaving us to fill \/ spaces \/ between the bones.\u201d<\/p>\n
They are bare statements\u2014reports or memories\u2014enlivened by imagery: I sat down \/ beside Alice Munro \/ on the bus in Victoria \/\/ \u2026 to shy \/ to speak, \/ I flared my nostrils \/ to extract \/ every bit \/ of Alice Munro \/ from the stuffy \/ public transport air \/ but there was \/ no scent, \/ save the lingering smell \/ of (her jacket\u2019s) old leather.\u201d<\/p>\n
Martin limns fine images (\u201ccolours sharp as wine\u201d), but chokes some poems with clich\u00e9s or dull prose. But she is just getting started.<\/p>\n
The finest of these short and\/or skinny lyrics is \u201cPreacher Man\u201d: \u201chis hands fall free \/ from his sleeves \/ like a mountain waterfall \u2026 \/\/ and who knows \/ what those hands \/ get up to \/ when they aren\u2019t \/ at church.\u201d<\/p>\n
Nice to see socially conscious poetry.<\/p>\n
\nAgainst the Light<\/i>
\nby Tiziano Broggiato
\nToronto, ON: Guernica Editions, 2012
\n112 pp, $20<\/p>\n
Snow Drifts, I Sing: Selected Poems<\/i>
\nby Juhan Liiv
\nToronto, ON: Guernica Editions, 2013
\n104 pp, $20<\/p>\n
Throughout its decades-long history as a small press, Guernica Editions has frequently elected to publish poetry in translation. Originally based in Montreal, the press was keen to produce bilingual work as well as texts translated into\u2014or from\u2014Italian.<\/p>\n
(Two other English-language presses that routinely offer poetry in translation are Exile Editions and KCLF-21, both based in Toronto.)<\/p>\n
Now based in Toronto, Guernica continues this tradition, and it\u2019s an important one, for as poet-translators like Charles Baudelaire and Ezra Pound have proven, the poetry of the host language is improved by exposure to the import verse.<\/p>\n
Recently, Guernica has released Tiziano Broggiato\u2019s Against the Light<\/i> (2012) and Juhan Liiv\u2019s Snow Drifts, I Sing: Selected Poems (2013).<\/p>\n
Broggiato, an Italian, was born in Vicenza in 1953, where he still lives. The winner of prestigious Italian awards, he has been translated into many languages, including Spanish, French, Croatian, Serbian, and Greek.<\/p>\n
His English translators\u2014Patricia Hanley and Maria Laura Mosco, both Torontonian\u2014stumbled upon Broggiato\u2019s verse by accident, lifting it from a Florence bookstore table \u201claden with contemporary Italian poetry.\u201d (That verb, \u201claden,\u201d suggests that, for them, the other books were leaden.)<\/p>\n
As fate would have it, the Broggiato book they picked, won a prize, and Hanley and Mosco became the official translators.<\/p>\n
They like Broggiato because he describes well modern disorientation and fills his poems with almost indiscernible traces of previous poets, who hearken back to classics. Broggiato\u2019s poetry projects, says Mario Luzi, \u201cforceful beauty,\u201d a fact also appealing to the translators.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s a truism that translation is like pressing grapes and throwing away the wine. But something is lost in the process of pressing Broggiato into English. Against the Light<\/i> is a fine read, but perhaps Broggiato sounds a bit too refined.<\/p>\n
His tone is Old Testament apocalyptic\u2014with a Renaissance gloss: T.S. Eliot in faux, peasant garb.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are no longer what we were before. \/ It has come to pass. \/ We have become spirits, both of us. \/ Only spirits\u2014.\u201d<\/p>\n
A poem on the Shoah\u2014the Holocaust\u2014is, again, good, but the imagery is d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu surrealism: \u201cThe night trains \/ are quick cracks of the whip \/ on the eyelids of the children\u2026. \/\/ In a while \/ strange identical moths will come \/ hurled into this womb of savagery \/ towards the end of their brief journeying\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n
But Broggiato does turn in excellent lines, such as, \u201cI beg of you \/ let me reach beyond my sight.\u201d<\/p>\n
Perhaps Broggiato tries too hard, at times, to be visionary, rather than to just \u201csee\u201d and say.<\/p>\n
In contrast, the reputation of Juhan Liiv (1864-1913) is based upon his elementary poetry, almost nursery-rhyme-like in look and sound, but which is only superficially simple. Rather, the Estonian poet\u2019s complexity is supple and resonant.<\/p>\n
According to Liiv\u2019s English translators, Juri Talvet and H.L. Hix, Liiv is \u201crecognized in Estonia as the epitome of its indigenous poetic genius\u201d and may be compared favourably with American poets like Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson as a poet-philosopher.<\/p>\n
But Liiv is too deliberately insular, involuted, to be Whitmanesque. No, his verses in these Selected Poems<\/i> resemble best Dickinson\u2014and, I will add, the English visionary poet William Blake (who is most profound when his \u201cvisions\u201d are clear).<\/p>\n
Anyway, Liiv is a discovery. His poems are generally short, use a lot of repetition, and ripple with profundity, despite his accessible images and scenarios.<\/p>\n
In one haunting poem, a kind housewife offers a starving, lonely, homeless man a table by a fire and \u201ca thick hunk of warm bread.\u201d She asks him to tell her of his life, and the bits that he reports are spare and sorrowful: \u201cI\u2019m alone. Truth is bitter, \/ my family is dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
But just as we absorb this bluesy revelation, the housewife answers, \u201c\u2018There, there, now. There, there.\u2014 \/ The biggest is still a chick, \/ I have four little ones, \/ awakened by our talk…\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
In a few deft lines, Liiv conjures up the human condition\u2014utter, universal irony. Snow Drifts<\/i>, I Sing, is a gift to English Canada. Merci, Guernica!<\/p>\n
\nThe Clockmaker<\/i>
\nby Thomas Chandler Haliburton
\nPeterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 2014
\n312 pp, $18<\/p>\n
Passion Seeds<\/i>
\nby Suzanne Ondrus
\nNew London, CT: Little Red Tree Publishing, 2014
\n150 pp, $21<\/p>\n
Summertime Swamp-Love<\/i>
\nby Patricia Young
\nWindsor, ON: Palimpsest Press, 2014
\n80 pp, $19<\/p>\n
Remember Who You Are: Poems from Petpeswick<\/i>
\nby Philip K. Thompson
\nGoat Rock Press, 2013
\n$15<\/p>\n
Edited superbly by Acadia University Professor Emeritus Richard A. Davies, The Clockmaker<\/i>, by Thomas Chandler Haliburton (1796-1865). The Nova Scotian-born journalist, judge, essayist, humorist, historian, legislator, and Tory curmudgeon, is a must-read.<\/p>\n
Ranked with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain in his lifetime, Haliburton was a transatlantic bestseller whose political philosophy and economics was embedded in comic sketches.<\/p>\n
First published by Joseph Howe in 1835-36, The Clockmaker<\/i> uses the figure of an itinerant, Yankee clock pedlar\u2014Sam Slick\u2014to poke fun at \u201cBluenoses\u201d for failing to demonstrate business acumen.<\/p>\n
Haliburton might be the intellectual sire of \u201cRed Toryism.\u201d But he\u2019s also racist and sexist\u2014without apology. Caveat emptor\u2026<\/i>.<\/p>\n
Passion Seeds<\/i> is the debut collection of Suzanne Ondrus, an American poet, who has travelled in Africa and Europe and is fluent in English, French, Italian, and German. Her manuscript won the Vernice Quebodeaux \u201cPathways\u201d Poetry Prize.<\/p>\n
Ondrus inks poems about the love between a black, African man and a white woman, possibly American. Her style is visceral: \u201cBlackberry babies was the name \/ used to frame coitus\u2019 illegal results \/ \u2026 as if only blacks would grab \/ for something so ripe.\u201d<\/p>\n
But there\u2019s delicacy too: \u201cTogether we breathe \/ jasmine vines, honey dew, \/ black pearls, ochre snow \/ and thousands of little tendrils \/ fluttering.\u201d<\/p>\n
In her twelfth collection, Summertime Swamp-Love<\/i> , B.C. poet Patricia Young follows Peggy Atwood in writing up animals, but is un-Atwood-like in deciding to cover their sex practices\u2014from their own perspective. The result is quirky and witty.<\/p>\n
So the male angler fish, mating with the female, loses all of itself but the testes. Young imagines the male swooning, \u201cI was nothing before you. \/ I am nothing after. \/ if ever there was devotion, \/ it is mine: \/ I dissolve, \/ I atrophy, I never let go.\u201d<\/p>\n
Philip K. Thompson is a Nova Scotian poet of coastal locales. He\u2019s been kind enough to review my works; I\u2019m honest enough to say I\u2019ve sometimes dismissed his opinions\u2026.<\/p>\n
In looking at his Remember Who You Are: Poems from Petpeswick<\/i>, I\u2019m impressed by Thompson\u2019s stripped-down simplicity: \u201cwhen I paddle my kayak \/ Only the future matters.\u201d Behind is \u201cThe fading irrelevance \/ of my gentle wake.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019m reminded of Richard Brautigan\u2019s poems. Truthful, Unaffected.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Poetry and other Reviews The Sea with No One in It by Niki Koulouris Erin, ON: Porcupine\u2019s Quill, 2013 64 pp, $15 Mirror Image by Len Gasparini Toronto, ON: Guernica Editions, 2014 78 pp, $15 Niki Koulouris is just starting out as a poet. The Sea with No One in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2588,"parent":93,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-672","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/672","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=672"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/672\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2669,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/672\/revisions\/2669"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/93"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2588"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue19\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=672"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}