Backache
The full bulk
of the dead maple
has finally weighed in
on your body
and cut you down,
if only for a few days.
Your trunk recalls
the outstretching of your own limbs
overhead
barely quivering
wrestling the unwieldy chainsaw
through dry wood,
already seasoned
for turning or burning,
cracking away
under it’s own weight
crashing just where you planned
with your precise angled cuts,
geometric falling success
jumping away just in time.
Only a failed cluster of
shriveled spring leaves
at the top of the thinning crown
denied the tree’s last hurrah.
Your whole body
a clenched fist
when you felled the tree
you could not save
hating the loss
as much as the heights
you had to climb,
fear present as anger
wound every muscle
into a solid coil of grim
demolition.
The columned trunk watches,
the still-standing stump
tall as a man
gnarled with burls
waiting these last days
for the final weighty
whine of the saw,
when your body fist unclenches
and lets you drop the last
remains of a departed friend.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Eight months: the square dance
This square may be all circle but I am getting sick of the dance
as I am do-si-do-ed from legs shoulder width apart
legs bent to take the bounce the strain of whatever may come
to tipping back and forth on the cradle of my hips
regulating your metronome spill your astronaut float
through my centre of gravity
to learning the best way to get up
when my legs have been kicked out from under me
my knuckles split not on an enemy’s glass jaw
or uncut teeth but on the kinks of mattress coils
couch cushions carpet piles as though they were soil
and you a seed to be carefully buried till spring
but what I know now restless before the big event
walking off your sucker punches your pile drives
is that even long green promises split the soil
as I am do-si-do-ed from legs shoulder width apart
legs bent to take the bounce the strain of whatever may come
to tipping back and forth on the cradle of my hips
regulating your metronome spill your astronaut float
through my centre of gravity
to learning the best way to get up
when my legs have been kicked out from under me
my knuckles split not on an enemy’s glass jaw
or uncut teeth but on the kinks of mattress coils
couch cushions carpet piles as though they were soil
and you a seed to be carefully buried till spring
but what I know now restless before the big event
walking off your sucker punches your pile drives
is that even long green promises split the soil
The Morning After Mayday Effects
we drink two oceans
commemorating the office of collegial graduations
& hidden associations
but we watch match point
set across the pond
labelled with the cape of good hope
round the horn of passage
how luck will have it
(& for accessorizing success --
a ring & a miss)
how will this go over
mmmmmmthe top
playing without a net
in darkest woody
africa gone south
tennis, any
mmdonjuan?
frankly, scarlett.
business base as usual
in that family way
(my mother leaves a message.
call about wedding.)
talk about your scattergun approaches!
in vino veritas.
spin the baby.
fortune favours the brave? the bold? the daring? the audacious
we got away with getting our parts
in each others' auditions
survived universal deceit
we've shaken the past &
what we've bagged has seasoned us.
carpe meum.
happy 5th, J.
commemorating the office of collegial graduations
& hidden associations
but we watch match point
set across the pond
labelled with the cape of good hope
round the horn of passage
how luck will have it
(& for accessorizing success --
a ring & a miss)
how will this go over
mmmmmmthe top
playing without a net
in darkest woody
africa gone south
tennis, any
mmdonjuan?
frankly, scarlett.
business base as usual
in that family way
(my mother leaves a message.
call about wedding.)
talk about your scattergun approaches!
in vino veritas.
spin the baby.
fortune favours the brave? the bold? the daring? the audacious
we got away with getting our parts
in each others' auditions
survived universal deceit
we've shaken the past &
what we've bagged has seasoned us.
carpe meum.
happy 5th, J.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Glaze drips like fired wine
dancing down the wet goblets.
Dishwater slips away
the whisper of friends’ lips,
washing away evidence
the simple lunch –
brown eggs cracked,
peeled away like hunger,
releasing wet whites,
tuna salad made by six hands
arranged just so on
red-tinged ruffled leaves,
just what we had on hand,
adorned with dark olives
no bread to break, so
crisp tortilla rounds
sat sunny on the mounds—
rinsing lunch from the kitchen air
with shining soap bubbles.
Plates catch reflections of
overhead track lighting
tracing smile shadows
caught in the departed meal
still attached to the vessels.
dancing down the wet goblets.
Dishwater slips away
the whisper of friends’ lips,
washing away evidence
the simple lunch –
brown eggs cracked,
peeled away like hunger,
releasing wet whites,
tuna salad made by six hands
arranged just so on
red-tinged ruffled leaves,
just what we had on hand,
adorned with dark olives
no bread to break, so
crisp tortilla rounds
sat sunny on the mounds—
rinsing lunch from the kitchen air
with shining soap bubbles.
Plates catch reflections of
overhead track lighting
tracing smile shadows
caught in the departed meal
still attached to the vessels.
cat poem
Bajeebers, two poems behind already. *puts nose to grindstone*
Hang, we call it, her little
carry-on of fur and flab
pendulously swinging beneath
her belly. She's become too fat
or middle aged to be efficient - when
she jumps it's not athletic,
she doesn't make it look easy, you
can tell she's working hard, breaking
a sweat getting up to that chairseat.
Still, she's ageing gracefully, getting
greyer around the edges, making
no bones about her love of drowsing
in the sun. She's more likely to muscle
onto your lap than attack your feet.
When you pet her, she falls down,
turns over with a grunt, exposes the long
chubby line of belly. The move
is still endearing, the way she looks
at us, willing us to hold up
our end of the bargain.
Cats are not gods, Egyptian or
other, they aren't wise, they don't
know secrets we don't know, except
ones about the death of small squeakers.
This cat is foolish and silly, she is a terrible
shedder, she has kitty dandruff. Her tail
is too short. She is terrified of other cats,
even ones half her size. Every day
she teaches me
things I already know. Trust
is beautiful, love needs
no reason, and
surrendering dignity
is optional.
Hang, we call it, her little
carry-on of fur and flab
pendulously swinging beneath
her belly. She's become too fat
or middle aged to be efficient - when
she jumps it's not athletic,
she doesn't make it look easy, you
can tell she's working hard, breaking
a sweat getting up to that chairseat.
Still, she's ageing gracefully, getting
greyer around the edges, making
no bones about her love of drowsing
in the sun. She's more likely to muscle
onto your lap than attack your feet.
When you pet her, she falls down,
turns over with a grunt, exposes the long
chubby line of belly. The move
is still endearing, the way she looks
at us, willing us to hold up
our end of the bargain.
Cats are not gods, Egyptian or
other, they aren't wise, they don't
know secrets we don't know, except
ones about the death of small squeakers.
This cat is foolish and silly, she is a terrible
shedder, she has kitty dandruff. Her tail
is too short. She is terrified of other cats,
even ones half her size. Every day
she teaches me
things I already know. Trust
is beautiful, love needs
no reason, and
surrendering dignity
is optional.
Odd as in Ode
I will be away the rest of the weekend and unable to read/respond to any poems (unless I find a computer with internet access). Enjoy the weekend. I'm really enjoying all of the poems so far--you people kick poetry butt.
Bearded Bouquets—another od(e)ditty
Hops are a coarse bunch—
too smart for beer-bellies
they hang about in toughened packs,
all hairy armed, petiole,
and cordate, clutch dirt-
stiffened rhizomes and grin.
Leathered, they are wild ones
biting birds with bines looped on fences,
make grainy eyes at squirrels
and sharply comb serrated leaves
with palmated lobes. Hops form pacts,
bond together, train their own
green shoots each spring to preserve
their formations, create gang-
branched networks, herbaceous
ideas of their Brandoesque selves.
Bearded Bouquets—another od(e)ditty
Hops are a coarse bunch—
too smart for beer-bellies
they hang about in toughened packs,
all hairy armed, petiole,
and cordate, clutch dirt-
stiffened rhizomes and grin.
Leathered, they are wild ones
biting birds with bines looped on fences,
make grainy eyes at squirrels
and sharply comb serrated leaves
with palmated lobes. Hops form pacts,
bond together, train their own
green shoots each spring to preserve
their formations, create gang-
branched networks, herbaceous
ideas of their Brandoesque selves.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
lost poets
(a little bit of fluff for day 4.)
lost poets
let's round up all the lost poets
who shuffle their pyrrhic feet
through this neighbourhood
while we work or sleep,
who hunker under foreign porches
in the rain and pull up flowers
they haven't planted but deem
sublime and worthy
of only their own unique attention
they roam with open notebooks,
trailing feral rhyme and unbroken lines
no one has posted their photos
on streetlamps, no handbills list
their publishing histories or nervous tics --
there's no reward
but we'll recognize them by the jackets
of out-of-print books and lure them
to the back door with talk
of free verse or wine
we'll line them up, flush left,
and sharpen their pencils
lost poets
let's round up all the lost poets
who shuffle their pyrrhic feet
through this neighbourhood
while we work or sleep,
who hunker under foreign porches
in the rain and pull up flowers
they haven't planted but deem
sublime and worthy
of only their own unique attention
they roam with open notebooks,
trailing feral rhyme and unbroken lines
no one has posted their photos
on streetlamps, no handbills list
their publishing histories or nervous tics --
there's no reward
but we'll recognize them by the jackets
of out-of-print books and lure them
to the back door with talk
of free verse or wine
we'll line them up, flush left,
and sharpen their pencils
Fade To Blank
Fade To Blank
They have your teacher locked
away with copies of his work
displayed in a glass cabinet
outside his door,
so he can recognize the room
assigned as home.
They say he can cuss a streak.
He hates noise,
wants quiet,
but loves Frank Sinatra.
If he’s awake he’s
looking for someone to kick—
Don’t get too close—
All the workers know to be
careful ‘cause he is one
strong kicker.
My friend calls
from the still darkness
when the patients sleep,
staying up all night tired
after cleaning houses, in need
of conversation with someone
who remembers who they are.
Remember him? You told me his name.
Your teacher’s halo hair and beard
were still as wild as I recall
in a café where poets drank
and smoked and roared –
so says my friend in her latest
report, grabbing a smoke
outside the view of the cameras
outside the oven warm building.
Your teacher has no memory
of being
anyone we would recognize.
We would be strangers to him
even after many introductions.
But the staff reminds him
he is a poet, a man of words,
a teacher.
My friend told them
this is important.
He hears the truth like news,
sometimes pretending
he believes, because
my friend wakes him
most mornings,
And her brown face smiling
is more familiar than
lost realities.
No expense is spared
to tend the man,
the father, the teacher—
yet time blinks in his eyes—
Expired.
The rhythms of forgotten verse
play angry in his vacant head.
No wonder
he kicks the others
in the shins,
strangers
trying to intrude
into his private stanza.
They have your teacher locked
away with copies of his work
displayed in a glass cabinet
outside his door,
so he can recognize the room
assigned as home.
They say he can cuss a streak.
He hates noise,
wants quiet,
but loves Frank Sinatra.
If he’s awake he’s
looking for someone to kick—
Don’t get too close—
All the workers know to be
careful ‘cause he is one
strong kicker.
My friend calls
from the still darkness
when the patients sleep,
staying up all night tired
after cleaning houses, in need
of conversation with someone
who remembers who they are.
Remember him? You told me his name.
Your teacher’s halo hair and beard
were still as wild as I recall
in a café where poets drank
and smoked and roared –
so says my friend in her latest
report, grabbing a smoke
outside the view of the cameras
outside the oven warm building.
Your teacher has no memory
of being
anyone we would recognize.
We would be strangers to him
even after many introductions.
But the staff reminds him
he is a poet, a man of words,
a teacher.
My friend told them
this is important.
He hears the truth like news,
sometimes pretending
he believes, because
my friend wakes him
most mornings,
And her brown face smiling
is more familiar than
lost realities.
No expense is spared
to tend the man,
the father, the teacher—
yet time blinks in his eyes—
Expired.
The rhythms of forgotten verse
play angry in his vacant head.
No wonder
he kicks the others
in the shins,
strangers
trying to intrude
into his private stanza.
Refusing Heaven
This poem takes the title of Jack Gilbert's latest book, Refusing Heaven, as a starting point and jumps off from there. It was a great exercise, but his title poem kicks ass, so please check it out when you get a chance.
Refusing Heaven
after Jack Gilbert
The man at the turnstile is taking tickets.
I search my pockets and find none–
I’m wearing a hospital gown.
He shakes his head with the practiced
half-smile of a bureaucrat, as if to say
what did you expect?
Even God has to make a living.
Over twenty years of working the gates
and still no raise. So much for the union.
His former life forgotten: taxi driver
steering white collar drunks home on Friday nights,
women with plastic hips to the airport.
The seated weight of his daughter
on his shoulders, heels knocking his chest,
gone the way of twelve-hour shifts.
It’s not our time I say, wishing I had remembered
to scoop the kitty litter before I left.
Poor cat. We do the best we can.
Someone else will have to wash the sheets
in our absence. Let’s go for a drink I say.
Put up a sign that says back in thirty minutes.
But he doesn’t move, just squints at the stadium lights.
By now he realizes it’s all fiber optics, special effects,
but just once, he’d like to be invited backstage.
Refusing Heaven
after Jack Gilbert
The man at the turnstile is taking tickets.
I search my pockets and find none–
I’m wearing a hospital gown.
He shakes his head with the practiced
half-smile of a bureaucrat, as if to say
what did you expect?
Even God has to make a living.
Over twenty years of working the gates
and still no raise. So much for the union.
His former life forgotten: taxi driver
steering white collar drunks home on Friday nights,
women with plastic hips to the airport.
The seated weight of his daughter
on his shoulders, heels knocking his chest,
gone the way of twelve-hour shifts.
It’s not our time I say, wishing I had remembered
to scoop the kitty litter before I left.
Poor cat. We do the best we can.
Someone else will have to wash the sheets
in our absence. Let’s go for a drink I say.
Put up a sign that says back in thirty minutes.
But he doesn’t move, just squints at the stadium lights.
By now he realizes it’s all fiber optics, special effects,
but just once, he’d like to be invited backstage.
Auditions
Auditions will be held
for the next 50 years.
Here is the role
I'd like you to play.
Here are your lines.
Please learn to say them
properly.
If I don't like
your delivery,
I will correct you
until you get it right.
The script will change
over time.
Please be on the look-out
for your new lines.
Please note:
if you gain
too much weight
or too many grey hairs
I will have to put out
a new casting call.
And if you cannot fill
the role I've created for you
I will just have to find
a better actor.
for the next 50 years.
Here is the role
I'd like you to play.
Here are your lines.
Please learn to say them
properly.
If I don't like
your delivery,
I will correct you
until you get it right.
The script will change
over time.
Please be on the look-out
for your new lines.
Please note:
if you gain
too much weight
or too many grey hairs
I will have to put out
a new casting call.
And if you cannot fill
the role I've created for you
I will just have to find
a better actor.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
ok, i'd like to -- and will, someday -- spend a lot more time with this one.
sleeping with leonard cohen
i'm sleeping with leonard cohen again,
like all those old nights i curled
around his words, furtive with my own
i keep him in our sheets, tucked into my side
of the bed -- he's a small man and bent
now under the weight of his mind
he is courtly, polite, except for his hands
which are everywhere, busy with touching
or poems that last all night
i try to cover his mumble with my pillowcase,
but i can't muffle this old man in our bed, this relapse
and you lie, these nights, looking at the wall, listening
sleeping with leonard cohen
i'm sleeping with leonard cohen again,
like all those old nights i curled
around his words, furtive with my own
i keep him in our sheets, tucked into my side
of the bed -- he's a small man and bent
now under the weight of his mind
he is courtly, polite, except for his hands
which are everywhere, busy with touching
or poems that last all night
i try to cover his mumble with my pillowcase,
but i can't muffle this old man in our bed, this relapse
and you lie, these nights, looking at the wall, listening
Cloudburst
Sadie came back from the rez,
riding in front of the thunderstorm
moments before the sky broke loose,
banged on my door
and hollered my name —
never mind the two years
gone without even a parting
cup of black coffee
just grinned and said,
“I knew you’d be here.”
And she was right
as Red Lake when she laughed
and said, “We musta missed
each other down at the pow wow
last week.”
Didn’t I see her
in the bleachers or hear her
cussing the poor excuse
for fry bread they were
trying to pass off?
Her cousin will show ‘em
how to make it if they
can’t do no better than that.
Storms fly in on
the Doppler, green
blobs heading this way,
but no cable station
can tell when Sadie will
blow through and remind
me of the way rain tastes
when it’s laughing.
Sadie came back from the rez,
riding in front of the thunderstorm
moments before the sky broke loose,
banged on my door
and hollered my name —
never mind the two years
gone without even a parting
cup of black coffee
just grinned and said,
“I knew you’d be here.”
And she was right
as Red Lake when she laughed
and said, “We musta missed
each other down at the pow wow
last week.”
Didn’t I see her
in the bleachers or hear her
cussing the poor excuse
for fry bread they were
trying to pass off?
Her cousin will show ‘em
how to make it if they
can’t do no better than that.
Storms fly in on
the Doppler, green
blobs heading this way,
but no cable station
can tell when Sadie will
blow through and remind
me of the way rain tastes
when it’s laughing.
spread e-go'ld: a tale of two stephens -- even?
it's all about the eagle
whether the stephen is roasting the george à la colbert
or the harpooner is skewering kyoto
thousands of hits daily says something
about either nesting or nested values.
follow the blood to the head.
bald faced lies
when is the brain not a muscle
wait i know this one
but i'm a bundle of nerves
when it loves being hustled
when i opened the robot's rebellion
a brain at war with itself was the first thing
that leapt out
as chapters go
capitals & accipiters
the brain is a bloody thing
but by george that rugous gorge
can be healed with holy spackle
this has been a synapshot
now that i know the scope
i just need to work towards the automatic
rifling through my responses
is not option
let your hip do the talkin'
you can raise your sights later
a little truth
can push the necessary lies
a long, long way
down their gullets
the future is a hybrid of the purists
whether the stephen is roasting the george à la colbert
or the harpooner is skewering kyoto
thousands of hits daily says something
about either nesting or nested values.
follow the blood to the head.
bald faced lies
when is the brain not a muscle
wait i know this one
but i'm a bundle of nerves
when it loves being hustled
when i opened the robot's rebellion
a brain at war with itself was the first thing
that leapt out
as chapters go
capitals & accipiters
the brain is a bloody thing
but by george that rugous gorge
can be healed with holy spackle
this has been a synapshot
now that i know the scope
i just need to work towards the automatic
rifling through my responses
is not option
let your hip do the talkin'
you can raise your sights later
a little truth
can push the necessary lies
a long, long way
down their gullets
the future is a hybrid of the purists
Seven months: the ultrasound
I am the fork-scarred sink the utility the water table
you are the warming goldfish
he is the big eye anxious on your domestic bulge
the wet magnification of dorsal flicker ventral thrum
They all should have known better –
you might circle my drain
showing fin and bony ripple on each grainy pass
but I’m the only one likely to go belly up
you are the warming goldfish
he is the big eye anxious on your domestic bulge
the wet magnification of dorsal flicker ventral thrum
They all should have known better –
you might circle my drain
showing fin and bony ripple on each grainy pass
but I’m the only one likely to go belly up
Cunning Conversations
Clematis understands the organ of speech
could befall her name, learns sprawl—
the need of the body to fold
itself in to boundaries placed beside
and beyond, fenced lines she straddles
legs she roots, her progress a pioneering
of paths not settled by anyone.
Clematis stretches her arms to hold
more than herself, an offering—
sky’s taut body unused above,
his clouded washboard abdomen
horizon of leanness, a word smoothing
her cheek, one significant sigh
released in a long-winded draught,
the slip of a hybrid tongue shirring
pink-furrowed petals.
Clematis understands the organ of speech
could befall her name, learns sprawl—
the need of the body to fold
itself in to boundaries placed beside
and beyond, fenced lines she straddles
legs she roots, her progress a pioneering
of paths not settled by anyone.
Clematis stretches her arms to hold
more than herself, an offering—
sky’s taut body unused above,
his clouded washboard abdomen
horizon of leanness, a word smoothing
her cheek, one significant sigh
released in a long-winded draught,
the slip of a hybrid tongue shirring
pink-furrowed petals.
Crush
Crush
At best a circus tent on stilts:
lopsided peaks boast illegible banners
over signature stripes. Maybe it reads asshole,
maybe future wife, who knows at the outset.
A rope ladder descends, the sturdiness of popsicle sticks.
Inside those darkened flaps, what waits?
An acrobatic marvel or the same contortionist
from the last top. We are ever hopeful, so we enter,
strong men into the freak show. Past lion tamers
and their dented hoops, to sit on a padded bench, watch
clowns play up their tricks like the one or two
stories we know will get us laid.
It’s all monkeys on bicycles. A cheap slide
from intermission to the end,
but we’ve paid good money, we’re tired of being alone, so
we clap till our hands smart, try hard to be amazed.
----
Note: I'm trying to get away from the three stanza wonder
(one of my default settings). I'm curious how the couplet form
is working here? Thoughts?
At best a circus tent on stilts:
lopsided peaks boast illegible banners
over signature stripes. Maybe it reads asshole,
maybe future wife, who knows at the outset.
A rope ladder descends, the sturdiness of popsicle sticks.
Inside those darkened flaps, what waits?
An acrobatic marvel or the same contortionist
from the last top. We are ever hopeful, so we enter,
strong men into the freak show. Past lion tamers
and their dented hoops, to sit on a padded bench, watch
clowns play up their tricks like the one or two
stories we know will get us laid.
It’s all monkeys on bicycles. A cheap slide
from intermission to the end,
but we’ve paid good money, we’re tired of being alone, so
we clap till our hands smart, try hard to be amazed.
----
Note: I'm trying to get away from the three stanza wonder
(one of my default settings). I'm curious how the couplet form
is working here? Thoughts?
Lost
This is actually yesterday's poem - too tired to input it last night.
==========================
Lost
Somewhere on my trip I lost
track of what month it is.
Then I misplaced the loonie I'd set aside
for the laundry machine's
precise monetary demands.
Luckily I found another
but in that load two socks
- one black, one white -
ran off together.
Never would've noticed
if they'd stuck to their own kind.
My uncle died a year ago
but I haven't changed
the entry in my Palm
or deleted him
from my recipient list -
I think he still likes
receiving updates.
The Yanks dropped another
last night to the Sox -
their 11th L this season.
I saw losses five and six live
in Minneapolis
only weeks ago
with the man who
only months ago
was my lifemate
and now is on hold,
status indefinite.
I could stand to lose
a few pounds -
I decided that a while ago.
And the stress and guilt
and a bit of cockiness
I'm sure.
And I sure as hell would
like to ditch this cough.
But the things we want
get lost sometimes
while a few things we don't
stick around.
==========================
Lost
Somewhere on my trip I lost
track of what month it is.
Then I misplaced the loonie I'd set aside
for the laundry machine's
precise monetary demands.
Luckily I found another
but in that load two socks
- one black, one white -
ran off together.
Never would've noticed
if they'd stuck to their own kind.
My uncle died a year ago
but I haven't changed
the entry in my Palm
or deleted him
from my recipient list -
I think he still likes
receiving updates.
The Yanks dropped another
last night to the Sox -
their 11th L this season.
I saw losses five and six live
in Minneapolis
only weeks ago
with the man who
only months ago
was my lifemate
and now is on hold,
status indefinite.
I could stand to lose
a few pounds -
I decided that a while ago.
And the stress and guilt
and a bit of cockiness
I'm sure.
And I sure as hell would
like to ditch this cough.
But the things we want
get lost sometimes
while a few things we don't
stick around.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
making a garden
we speak now
in this sweet green time,
before the roots are deep,
of the space
waking around us,
the possibilities
of lupin or liatris,
dianthus or delphinium
you plant meadow rue
and sweet woodruff
in my ears, along
the furrow of my spine
i show you
with my hands
the best spot
for columbine and thrift
your fingers white roots
unravelling in the night
we speak now
in this sweet green time,
before the roots are deep,
of the space
waking around us,
the possibilities
of lupin or liatris,
dianthus or delphinium
you plant meadow rue
and sweet woodruff
in my ears, along
the furrow of my spine
i show you
with my hands
the best spot
for columbine and thrift
your fingers white roots
unravelling in the night
Early Harvest
A nice delivery came today:
a friend, a gift, a treat to share.
It is so lovely when
so early in season
products of gardens
even ones so carefully
attended, indoors,
through the frozen months
the long dark months so pressed
for green so wanting in it’s absence.
Damp quilt chill in the recent air
the thawing’s only just begun
a whisper of green beginning.
But a smile and a small bag
walked past my own seedlings,
through my lavender door,
entered the rooms
that make a house
the size of a pocketbook
with barely room to lose a pair
of glasses, magnifying details
vital detecting realities
variant pungent delicious.
Taste buds wash hands,
and take their seats
anticipating the feast.
A nice delivery came today:
a friend, a gift, a treat to share.
It is so lovely when
so early in season
products of gardens
even ones so carefully
attended, indoors,
through the frozen months
the long dark months so pressed
for green so wanting in it’s absence.
Damp quilt chill in the recent air
the thawing’s only just begun
a whisper of green beginning.
But a smile and a small bag
walked past my own seedlings,
through my lavender door,
entered the rooms
that make a house
the size of a pocketbook
with barely room to lose a pair
of glasses, magnifying details
vital detecting realities
variant pungent delicious.
Taste buds wash hands,
and take their seats
anticipating the feast.
Lighthouse Park
Lighthouse Park
Children clamber over rocks slick
with algae, look no hands, talking
non-stop to parents, egging them to cross
the moss-licked log when–
scrape-palmed and sounding
like a ship’s horn, they’re surprised
the world can hurt them. Knees throb
as they crab-scuttle back
on all fours to solid ground, where
two minutes later, after a kiss to make it better,
they’ve forgotten.
But the body deals in compounds interest;
by the time they’re forty, it’ll be hours
before they can relax, unclench, believe
in ankles and elbows to hold them.
That sharp-scented relief after illness. At seventy,
they know a fall can break them.
But for now they turn back, run along on the outcrop,
while their parents watch, flinching,
fingers crossed.
Children clamber over rocks slick
with algae, look no hands, talking
non-stop to parents, egging them to cross
the moss-licked log when–
scrape-palmed and sounding
like a ship’s horn, they’re surprised
the world can hurt them. Knees throb
as they crab-scuttle back
on all fours to solid ground, where
two minutes later, after a kiss to make it better,
they’ve forgotten.
But the body deals in compounds interest;
by the time they’re forty, it’ll be hours
before they can relax, unclench, believe
in ankles and elbows to hold them.
That sharp-scented relief after illness. At seventy,
they know a fall can break them.
But for now they turn back, run along on the outcrop,
while their parents watch, flinching,
fingers crossed.
Monday, May 01, 2006
body
At last at age 29 I am
in love with myself again.
When I was five I knew this
feeling, this absolute love of body
and mind, this endless fascination
of skin and fingers and flex
and flex.
In bed I love my body with his,
arch and arch, the feeling that we
are driving forward into nothing,
making the universe as we go, and it is
his body and mine, my body arching
over the final crest of creation, oh,
I am me, right down to my toes.
Naked for the shower I stop
to watch myself in the mirror. Pose
and turn, hunch, straighten, glance
over the shoulder, Vrksasana,
Garudasana, all my bones straight
and strong.
in love with myself again.
When I was five I knew this
feeling, this absolute love of body
and mind, this endless fascination
of skin and fingers and flex
and flex.
In bed I love my body with his,
arch and arch, the feeling that we
are driving forward into nothing,
making the universe as we go, and it is
his body and mine, my body arching
over the final crest of creation, oh,
I am me, right down to my toes.
Naked for the shower I stop
to watch myself in the mirror. Pose
and turn, hunch, straighten, glance
over the shoulder, Vrksasana,
Garudasana, all my bones straight
and strong.
The melodic drip of a small fountain
so near at hand –
half full and amplified—
calls for replenishing
it’s copper pipes.
Raindrops from a felt gray sky
are all so dripping moist
on my sad ear.
The crying falls
universal on the very day
the season struggles
announcing
its wet self
to a swelling surge of soil
bound up in
all the growing, trembling
as the poppy pods burst
their green boundaries
and orange comes
falling out and out
crinkly as wet skin
all crepe and thin
in it’s newness
fragile as last moment’s
wet breath
sipping the damp sounds
fertility rejoicing makes.
Each damp petal
explodes
from its containment.
so near at hand –
half full and amplified—
calls for replenishing
it’s copper pipes.
Raindrops from a felt gray sky
are all so dripping moist
on my sad ear.
The crying falls
universal on the very day
the season struggles
announcing
its wet self
to a swelling surge of soil
bound up in
all the growing, trembling
as the poppy pods burst
their green boundaries
and orange comes
falling out and out
crinkly as wet skin
all crepe and thin
in it’s newness
fragile as last moment’s
wet breath
sipping the damp sounds
fertility rejoicing makes.
Each damp petal
explodes
from its containment.
Seven months: the ba da bump
In the shower my hair goes molten
liquid against my neck and shoulders
liquid against loamy curves of battered clay
with its igneous flaws and bulges
but my belly is still a radial tire
whose valve sucks and puckers
pulling the entire chassis to one side at speed
going warm and soft
when still
In the shower my back is a blown vase
spine fluting under the spray glowing red
each vertebrae an ember glowing red
but my belly is still a milk-fed melon on the vine
smelling of sugar and soil and green green rot
even half a summer away
from being man-handled home
* * *
As you can see from my first May Day poem, I'm giving myself a lot of leeway these days...which in purely logistical terms means that I've set myself the rather breezy schedule of posting here three days a week during the month of May.
I'm aiming for Mondays / Wednesdays / Fridays at this point.
Of late, I've been working on poems about my neighbourhood, about trains and storms and early morning demolitions. I've also been working on a series about being knocked up, mostly because it seems like a more legitimate form of complaining than, well, complaining.
Other than that, you should know that I'm from Winnipeg and that this is my third on-line poetry project.
liquid against my neck and shoulders
liquid against loamy curves of battered clay
with its igneous flaws and bulges
but my belly is still a radial tire
whose valve sucks and puckers
pulling the entire chassis to one side at speed
going warm and soft
when still
In the shower my back is a blown vase
spine fluting under the spray glowing red
each vertebrae an ember glowing red
but my belly is still a milk-fed melon on the vine
smelling of sugar and soil and green green rot
even half a summer away
from being man-handled home
* * *
As you can see from my first May Day poem, I'm giving myself a lot of leeway these days...which in purely logistical terms means that I've set myself the rather breezy schedule of posting here three days a week during the month of May.
I'm aiming for Mondays / Wednesdays / Fridays at this point.
Of late, I've been working on poems about my neighbourhood, about trains and storms and early morning demolitions. I've also been working on a series about being knocked up, mostly because it seems like a more legitimate form of complaining than, well, complaining.
Other than that, you should know that I'm from Winnipeg and that this is my third on-line poetry project.
I really did write this on Monday
Hey everyone. Happy May! Nice to be here and meet you all through your poems.
I admit to being a bit daunted by the poem-a-day concept, but I've been making a real effort lately to do more things that scare me. So, I'm going to give it a shot... and not beat myself up too much if I can't pull it off. I'm happy to receive any feedback you want to send my way.
Here goes...
sunday-sad
it isn't raining
but it has
rained and will
rain, you read it
in the grey lines
between whites
of the blind --
the same story
every time
you open your eyes
you feel rain turning
the hike to mud,
drowning hotdog buns
you hear rain
in your own voice
go back to sleep,
taste it in the laundry,
groceries, a day
of closed windows
swallowed before you
have even left the bed
but a chin scuffs
your shoulder, a palm
softens your nipples
and your neck
is wetted with
the words next weekend
you let go of the day
you'd wanted
I admit to being a bit daunted by the poem-a-day concept, but I've been making a real effort lately to do more things that scare me. So, I'm going to give it a shot... and not beat myself up too much if I can't pull it off. I'm happy to receive any feedback you want to send my way.
Here goes...
sunday-sad
it isn't raining
but it has
rained and will
rain, you read it
in the grey lines
between whites
of the blind --
the same story
every time
you open your eyes
you feel rain turning
the hike to mud,
drowning hotdog buns
you hear rain
in your own voice
go back to sleep,
taste it in the laundry,
groceries, a day
of closed windows
swallowed before you
have even left the bed
but a chin scuffs
your shoulder, a palm
softens your nipples
and your neck
is wetted with
the words next weekend
you let go of the day
you'd wanted
so it begins again for the first time
so it works mmmmmmmmm like gravity
got my invitation didn't know how to respond this commitment
targets make for run-ons.
my fletcher recycles commasmmmmmmi bought my object a stanza of adamant re-affection
got my invitation didn't know how to respond this commitment
thing is it commutative? if so, i'd better look
that word up again i'm better at commutilating.
maybe you've seen my work with headstonesisn't that what it's all about?mmmmmrhetorical
questions are not
questions are not
my favourite colour but all the other parachutes* sold out mmmmm the ground is it a good question mark will it interrogate me with impact by crater
targets make for run-ons.
my fletcher recycles commasmmmmmmi bought my object a stanza of adamant re-affection
& it became the subject of how to break up a greens tick sentence
this is just a suggestion to fill the void left by social convention mmm *i demanded the sale have no strings attached
the airplane is my afterthought balloon
Luminare
"Will you call out Open Window, Sir?"
she shouts out to the bus driver
"Just in Case I miss it."
The driver and I stare at her, no
clue what she could be talking about.
"It's a Senior Centre" she explains.
"Don't know it." he says.
"I'll watch out for it then," she says.
"Just before Super Valu
or Valu Village
I'll watch out for it."
But she spends the trip looking around
at any number of things
the boy with a mohawk,
the old man's slow journey down the aisle,
the contents of her purse.
And I'm the one left looking,
the responsible one, always.
Worried we'll all get distracted
worried we'll all miss out
on our chance to jump off
at the Open Window.
she shouts out to the bus driver
"Just in Case I miss it."
The driver and I stare at her, no
clue what she could be talking about.
"It's a Senior Centre" she explains.
"Don't know it." he says.
"I'll watch out for it then," she says.
"Just before Super Valu
or Valu Village
I'll watch out for it."
But she spends the trip looking around
at any number of things
the boy with a mohawk,
the old man's slow journey down the aisle,
the contents of her purse.
And I'm the one left looking,
the responsible one, always.
Worried we'll all get distracted
worried we'll all miss out
on our chance to jump off
at the Open Window.
It begins
Hello fellow poets and (hopefully) readers. I just came off NaPoWriMo, an event of similar concept but held in April. So I'm already firing on all cylinders. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. My goal is 31 poems by the end of the month. This may translate to none on some days and lots on others, or it might mean one poem a day, like creative clockwork. I suppose we shall see.
I welcome critique should the impulse seize you, but with the understanding that these are first drafts, and any of them that I decide to keep will already be undergoing my brutal editing and rewriting processes.
My first poem for May Day is an odd one for me - I don't usually use the prose poem form, partially because I tend to be a very careful and hesitant poet and prose poems always have a very flow-of-consciousness feel for me. At the moment, however, I'm working on a suite of poems about my relationship with my sister, and it's proving very difficult to write. So I'm trying out a bunch of new forms and techniques in the hope that I'll find the key.
you left me
I was, perhaps, five. We were climbing among the bales, great round prickly things like golden cinnamon rolls laid on their sides. The world smelled like dust and hay and our girlish sweat. We were pretending something, we were princesses or elves or maybe Robin Hood. I fell between two bales, my small body slithering downward, my shirt filling with straw. Thump to the ground, a space not quite big enough to turn around in, no leverage to climb out. The hay slipped and slid beneath my sandals. My knees were red. Help I said, trying not to cry. Your face, like God, blotted out the sky above me. You can get out, you said, and you left. I screamed and wept - it was an eternity of minutes before our father came, reached down and drew me out, small wretched peg from a fusty hole. I don't remember much else other than the sinking despair of you leaving me, you leaving me.
I think that's when it happened, my decision not to need you anymore.
I welcome critique should the impulse seize you, but with the understanding that these are first drafts, and any of them that I decide to keep will already be undergoing my brutal editing and rewriting processes.
My first poem for May Day is an odd one for me - I don't usually use the prose poem form, partially because I tend to be a very careful and hesitant poet and prose poems always have a very flow-of-consciousness feel for me. At the moment, however, I'm working on a suite of poems about my relationship with my sister, and it's proving very difficult to write. So I'm trying out a bunch of new forms and techniques in the hope that I'll find the key.
you left me
I was, perhaps, five. We were climbing among the bales, great round prickly things like golden cinnamon rolls laid on their sides. The world smelled like dust and hay and our girlish sweat. We were pretending something, we were princesses or elves or maybe Robin Hood. I fell between two bales, my small body slithering downward, my shirt filling with straw. Thump to the ground, a space not quite big enough to turn around in, no leverage to climb out. The hay slipped and slid beneath my sandals. My knees were red. Help I said, trying not to cry. Your face, like God, blotted out the sky above me. You can get out, you said, and you left. I screamed and wept - it was an eternity of minutes before our father came, reached down and drew me out, small wretched peg from a fusty hole. I don't remember much else other than the sinking despair of you leaving me, you leaving me.
I think that's when it happened, my decision not to need you anymore.
Yah!
I'm so pumped about this project I've written 3 poems in the past 24 hours. This is me: I'm a Regina based writer and finishing an English honours degree at the UofR (I'll be done in Dec.). I work full-time as a barber/stylist and write on anything with blank space. Thanks for letting me participate; I'm looking forward to the whole process-- from reading, to writing, to responding. I plan on writing a poem every second day, while trying to follow some of the themes laid out along the sidebar, but also, I'm trying to be thematic in my approach. I'm open to any suggestions/comments on my poetry; it's all good. Here is my 1st post/poem:
Perennial Red-lights
The pacific giant delphinium knows
roots of its existence are embedded
within loamy soil, their own growth
historical through the surface of envy
green erected as phallicies stalking
the sky, blossoming buds
raspberried repetition, rows
of organized attraction, an old trade
developed through centuries flowered
and tucked purposefully in bearded tufts.
But passionate plants are hypnotic—
hunger and patience combine
catch the attention of leaf rollers’
newborn desire, their harmful invasion
rolled firm within each leaf
constructing the present in carnage
fetalled impulses measured each day
by bites. I wonder as I cleanse
plants every spring with prescriptions
of soap and water, unfurl leaves
remove the worms, if delphiniums remember
each year’s struggle, the parallel
wasting to legless stems—
or if each alzheimered stalk remembers
nothing but perseveration
of this moment.
Perennial Red-lights
The pacific giant delphinium knows
roots of its existence are embedded
within loamy soil, their own growth
historical through the surface of envy
green erected as phallicies stalking
the sky, blossoming buds
raspberried repetition, rows
of organized attraction, an old trade
developed through centuries flowered
and tucked purposefully in bearded tufts.
But passionate plants are hypnotic—
hunger and patience combine
catch the attention of leaf rollers’
newborn desire, their harmful invasion
rolled firm within each leaf
constructing the present in carnage
fetalled impulses measured each day
by bites. I wonder as I cleanse
plants every spring with prescriptions
of soap and water, unfurl leaves
remove the worms, if delphiniums remember
each year’s struggle, the parallel
wasting to legless stems—
or if each alzheimered stalk remembers
nothing but perseveration
of this moment.
Okay, here's my first post! I don't know most of you, but I'm looking forward to reading your work. A bit about me: I live in Vancouver, where I just finished my first year in the MFA program at UBC. I'm the current poetry editor of PRISM international. This is the first May I've spent in town in five years, previously I worked as a Fire Lookout. I'm happy to get comments/suggestions on the poems I post. Thanks so much for letting me be a part of the May Day project. I plan on writing a poem a day, but I'll only post four times a week, Monday-Thursday. Thanks!
Winter’s end
crawls out of a tuna can, yanks the plug,
all our buried garbage resurfaces.
Like a dump truck loosing its gravel,
all the shoulds lodged in your back
go sliding into the ditch come daylight.
Gears cranky and stiff, a bicycle chain
ratcheting around the block, bell thumbed
at everyone you pass. Overnight,
daffodils have popped, tilt
their bugle horns, call to one another
across the field. The end of winter
is like a new bra; you can’t help but feel yourself up.
Like three car alarms going off at once,
a mailbox with a red flag tipped up,
the backhanded crack of a spoon
on the crème brule crust.
Winter’s end
crawls out of a tuna can, yanks the plug,
all our buried garbage resurfaces.
Like a dump truck loosing its gravel,
all the shoulds lodged in your back
go sliding into the ditch come daylight.
Gears cranky and stiff, a bicycle chain
ratcheting around the block, bell thumbed
at everyone you pass. Overnight,
daffodils have popped, tilt
their bugle horns, call to one another
across the field. The end of winter
is like a new bra; you can’t help but feel yourself up.
Like three car alarms going off at once,
a mailbox with a red flag tipped up,
the backhanded crack of a spoon
on the crème brule crust.
May pole
From today’s entry of The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor...
“Today is May Day, a celebration of the return of spring that goes back thousands of years in European traditions. Various May Day celebrations included the gathering of wildflowers and green branches, the weaving of floral garlands, and the setting up of a decorated May tree, or Maypole, around which people danced.
May Day never developed a Christian equivalent. In order to celebrate the holiday, workers had to stay home from work against their employers' wishes. It became known as a people's holiday, and in 1889, a congress of world Socialist parties held in Paris voted to choose May 1, 1890, as a day of demonstrations in favor of the eight-hour day.”
“Today is May Day, a celebration of the return of spring that goes back thousands of years in European traditions. Various May Day celebrations included the gathering of wildflowers and green branches, the weaving of floral garlands, and the setting up of a decorated May tree, or Maypole, around which people danced.
May Day never developed a Christian equivalent. In order to celebrate the holiday, workers had to stay home from work against their employers' wishes. It became known as a people's holiday, and in 1889, a congress of world Socialist parties held in Paris voted to choose May 1, 1890, as a day of demonstrations in favor of the eight-hour day.”
Hooray
Hooray Hooray it's the First of May!
Welcome to all participants and to those dropping in to see what we're up to!
I think it might help us feel more connected if we introduced ourselves briefly and declared our goal for the month.
I'm Polly Washburn, co-founder of this blog with Ariel. Live in Winnipeg but will be reporting from the U.S. for the final week of the project. Ariel and I were in a writing group together for 3 years, but without her bugging me biweekly to write more poems, I've been focused on film projects and haven't produced much new poetry lately. So my goal is... to write 6 poems a week.
Looking forward to everyone's work and to giving myself this space and time to produce some new Stuff.
Welcome to all participants and to those dropping in to see what we're up to!
I think it might help us feel more connected if we introduced ourselves briefly and declared our goal for the month.
I'm Polly Washburn, co-founder of this blog with Ariel. Live in Winnipeg but will be reporting from the U.S. for the final week of the project. Ariel and I were in a writing group together for 3 years, but without her bugging me biweekly to write more poems, I've been focused on film projects and haven't produced much new poetry lately. So my goal is... to write 6 poems a week.
Looking forward to everyone's work and to giving myself this space and time to produce some new Stuff.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
May Day
Hey all,
We're less than two hours away from the first day of May, and, by extension, the start of the May Day Poetry Project.
That means thirty-one days of poetry, poetry that is both raw and polished, inspired and laboured, fragmentary and oddly complete.
And so, for those of you who will be participating, welcome. I'm looking forward to working among you.
For those of you who have happened by, do drop by again - I promise it'll be worth your while.
We're less than two hours away from the first day of May, and, by extension, the start of the May Day Poetry Project.
That means thirty-one days of poetry, poetry that is both raw and polished, inspired and laboured, fragmentary and oddly complete.
And so, for those of you who will be participating, welcome. I'm looking forward to working among you.
For those of you who have happened by, do drop by again - I promise it'll be worth your while.
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