"Nival (ni-vel): of or growing in or under snow," a poem sequence from Torchwood published in Harp & Altar.
Space is not necessarily peace, but it usually is. Grace is a form of space and we're the better off for it—and it's remembered in this book not as a sort of habit but as a space to turn from—a space in which the particular finds itself (and finds itself quickening itself to itself as well). It's a glorious kind of roominess really—one in which we can become recumbant if we wish. The thing about these spaces is that they turn upon themselves (as needed) and leave nothing wasted. It's space that becomes an economy of form. This is ecological faith—the faith itself is ecological, living in a system (of values, perhaps, and of what can be created, certainly) that sustains it and where it can sustain itself. Nothing is gratuitous. Everywhere grace.
In Jill Magi’s Torchwood, various forms are employed, including a set titled “Religious Sonnets” and the “sudden silk” of a looser more disarranged writing in which “whorled/ imbricate prayers/imagine edges.” She writes, “writing grafts onto a life” and working itself out in the space provided, Magi’s thread-like capillary tracings proceed from “flipping gold-edged pages, the perfume wafts up” toward the enveloping horizon of “what has eclipsed us.” With echoes of Stein and Scalapino, these poems have an integrity and intensity and seem scraped and tinted from a private repository of tonal “responses to migration.”