Hey all,
Thanks ever so much for making May Day, year four, an interesting place to be for much of the month.
As ever, I appreciated (and learned from) the conversation, but most of all, I was bowled over by the poetry.
Many of you wrote/posted poems that I would have been fiercely proud to write myself, so congratulations!
I look forward to seeing the poems out in the world and also, already, to next year.
(Personally, this wasn't the most stellar May Day for me.
Too much to do besides May Daying, so I contributed far fewer poems/comments than previous years.
But I did the best I could, looking back over the month, and I'm pleased with the clutch of poems I wrote over the course of the month...)
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Sunday, June 01, 2008
A new year begins for me...
.
...but I will miss these days of May...
I just want to take a moment to say thank you all for sharing your poems & a bit of your lives with me. A great big thank you to those of you who took the time to comment on my poems, hugely appreciated!
And since, as it turns out, so many of my words were written about Eric (truly the man of my dreams), I want to introduce him to you. The little boy with pockets full of butterflies is my nephew. He is also a social butterfly (an extrovert in my family?) who loves hangin' out with me in Little Italy, my hood and my home.
À la prochaine!
a poem by Marcus McCann;
call this, then, my last post for MayDay 2008 (by the time you read this, I will already be back in Ottawa). A poem by Ottawa poet Marcus McCann, author of a couple of chapbooks, including So Long, Derrida (2006; winner of the 2005 University of Ottawa 48-Hour Novella Contest), the collaborative Basement Tapes (with Nicholas Lea and Andrew Faulkner) and Heteroskeptical (above/ground press, 2007), where this poem is from. He also has poems appearing in a number of other publications, including various issues of The Peter F. Yacht Club and recent publications from Warren Fulton's Pooka Press.
Rates of change
A limit is a kind of
holding constant,
imperfectly
near.
Function depends on
variable, the root of. The square
roof of.
Not to validate calculus but
the lesson was integral:
the Power Rule.
What was committed to memory?
What was committed too:
function held
constant.
Held. Constant.
And hurt by calculus,
its rates of change, its
gaffe sex ed.
Rates of change
A limit is a kind of
holding constant,
imperfectly
near.
Function depends on
variable, the root of. The square
roof of.
Not to validate calculus but
the lesson was integral:
the Power Rule.
What was committed to memory?
What was committed too:
function held
constant.
Held. Constant.
And hurt by calculus,
its rates of change, its
gaffe sex ed.
Congratulations Poets!
What an amazing month of poetry!
By my calculations (and please let me know if I got your count wrong), we had over 150 poems from this years May Day-ers, and several more from other Canadian poets offered up for our perusal.
Congratulations to all who participated! I know I had a lot of fun writing and reading - hope you all did too! Hats off to Kerry, for hitting the poem-a-day mark!
Be sure to report here if you end up revising and publishing poems we saw here, so we can see the final versions in print...
By my calculations (and please let me know if I got your count wrong), we had over 150 poems from this years May Day-ers, and several more from other Canadian poets offered up for our perusal.
Congratulations to all who participated! I know I had a lot of fun writing and reading - hope you all did too! Hats off to Kerry, for hitting the poem-a-day mark!
Be sure to report here if you end up revising and publishing poems we saw here, so we can see the final versions in print...
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Good Luck
We wake up to rain
pounding the window
while across town
you get ready.
Right now your mom
is telling you rain is lucky
on your wedding day.
But really, what else
is she going to say?
I can tell you
it rained on ours.
And I won't say
it's been easy
but here we are
these years later
opening the window
in our hotel room
fingers lightly touching
wet from the rain.
pounding the window
while across town
you get ready.
Right now your mom
is telling you rain is lucky
on your wedding day.
But really, what else
is she going to say?
I can tell you
it rained on ours.
And I won't say
it's been easy
but here we are
these years later
opening the window
in our hotel room
fingers lightly touching
wet from the rain.
over and out
hey there May Dayer's, thanks for all the good comments and even better, thanks for all the great work. I'm going to miss you guys. and I'm going to miss the little deadlines.
f.y.i. I go next summer it looks like. just heard from Ottawa the other day. I'm going to set up a website. if anyone wants to keep in touch, drop Ariel a note and she can forward my email to you. I'd love to hear from you and hear what you're up to.
this has been such an interesting month... I had no idea what I would write, just as I had no idea of what I would post every day (and sorry I missed a few days but I was in edmonton checking out the garrison and wainwright).
the challenging thing for me is not to be melodramatic. and yet this is war. life, death, love, all the big things. and ultimately, I think I'm writing for the soldiers (though maybe not just... who knows?) any advice greatly accepted.
finally, wouldn't it be fun to have a May Day summit somewhere?
all the best, keep writing, and thanks again,
S
THE LAST OF THE FAMOUS INTERNATIONAL PLAYBOYS
here is my last post for may day hooray.
the #'s represent martial's poetry, the source
etc., book # and poem #. study and witness my
hostile changes NGM
1.73
when you complaisantly allowed
any woman, without rubber gloves
to lay their hands on your houseplant,
some trickle into your husband’s study
dressed as open-mouthed gardeners
forming an enormous randy crowd
raising their roofs, corporeal loitering;
lips moved like gummy butterfly wings
Smallpox, you’re a card, as you leave
your home for work crying,
“Once I watered
him alone!”
1.107
Dear Quill, you often sigh,
‘Write something great— you lazy head
case!’ Give me leisure, all the time Council
this transient fever, I will quench with
my own torched eyes,
save me from ashes, shredder
or worse still, another box
returned in between rich soils,
seven days of this:
parts unknown, the longest slide
cant get no satisfaction in a razor’s
flint, tears will ignite a swell leak
and my words don’t miss it.
Quill will write, ‘falls short, channell
ing, not marquee enough for we.’
Love those powerful pills.
2.9
I wrote he never replied
That goes on the debit slide
And yet I’m sure he feels it:
Someone else’s pin number,
Filling him with credit
2.20
He buys up plums for recital
We watch the author read
Why not? The purchase proves the distance
His words become his feed
2.26
Because the old men gasps for breath
And sprays saliva on flat-screen eyes
And sings as if he’d caught his death,
Do you suppose you’re home and high?
Taylor! Viagrus is trying
To flirt, birth control, not lying
Get you pregnant from here?
Long distance charges?
You drop out,
Of course we’re crying!
the #'s represent martial's poetry, the source
etc., book # and poem #. study and witness my
hostile changes NGM
1.73
when you complaisantly allowed
any woman, without rubber gloves
to lay their hands on your houseplant,
some trickle into your husband’s study
dressed as open-mouthed gardeners
forming an enormous randy crowd
raising their roofs, corporeal loitering;
lips moved like gummy butterfly wings
Smallpox, you’re a card, as you leave
your home for work crying,
“Once I watered
him alone!”
1.107
Dear Quill, you often sigh,
‘Write something great— you lazy head
case!’ Give me leisure, all the time Council
this transient fever, I will quench with
my own torched eyes,
save me from ashes, shredder
or worse still, another box
returned in between rich soils,
seven days of this:
parts unknown, the longest slide
cant get no satisfaction in a razor’s
flint, tears will ignite a swell leak
and my words don’t miss it.
Quill will write, ‘falls short, channell
ing, not marquee enough for we.’
Love those powerful pills.
2.9
I wrote he never replied
That goes on the debit slide
And yet I’m sure he feels it:
Someone else’s pin number,
Filling him with credit
2.20
He buys up plums for recital
We watch the author read
Why not? The purchase proves the distance
His words become his feed
2.26
Because the old men gasps for breath
And sprays saliva on flat-screen eyes
And sings as if he’d caught his death,
Do you suppose you’re home and high?
Taylor! Viagrus is trying
To flirt, birth control, not lying
Get you pregnant from here?
Long distance charges?
You drop out,
Of course we’re crying!
To Ezra on my 45th Birthday
He orders the usual:
Cranberry muffin, tea - orange pekoe.
I feel the poet's eyes on me as
I leave him to his morning scribbles.
Feeling worn from a dream-filled
Sleep, my feet do not move so eagerly -
His gaze in my direction then was
Not my beauty captured, was it?
He has noticed the crow's feet recently
Discovered framing the eyes that were once
Ocean blue and now nearly grey, my hair
Yet blonde with some help from Domingo.
I am fighting time, a battle never won
And when dawn cast its first light on me
There was no anticipating this day, for
Today I turn forty-five...
Will I no longer be worthy of your ink,
Dear Ezra? Will the muffins I bring you
Taste a little less sweet, the berries
Within not quite ripe, the tea weak?
.
Cranberry muffin, tea - orange pekoe.
I feel the poet's eyes on me as
I leave him to his morning scribbles.
Feeling worn from a dream-filled
Sleep, my feet do not move so eagerly -
His gaze in my direction then was
Not my beauty captured, was it?
He has noticed the crow's feet recently
Discovered framing the eyes that were once
Ocean blue and now nearly grey, my hair
Yet blonde with some help from Domingo.
I am fighting time, a battle never won
And when dawn cast its first light on me
There was no anticipating this day, for
Today I turn forty-five...
Will I no longer be worthy of your ink,
Dear Ezra? Will the muffins I bring you
Taste a little less sweet, the berries
Within not quite ripe, the tea weak?
.
the end.
31
set your books on fire,
smash the phone
on the sidewalk,
shove your husband
into a corner
clear space for 31
small stacks of words
set your books on fire,
smash the phone
on the sidewalk,
shove your husband
into a corner
clear space for 31
small stacks of words
another (short) history of l.
nearness is the vertebrae attached,
the smell of your sum.
across a bruise of long grass,
you call me sweet prairie boy
to the swells of your coast.
one recovers success
& then failure, like a seed
from the fingernail. pinched one
& then one.
from a footprint of hats,
settled down along Whyte.
the first pleasant encounter
every time it occurs.
starting over, again
& as fresh.
the smell of your sum.
across a bruise of long grass,
you call me sweet prairie boy
to the swells of your coast.
one recovers success
& then failure, like a seed
from the fingernail. pinched one
& then one.
from a footprint of hats,
settled down along Whyte.
the first pleasant encounter
every time it occurs.
starting over, again
& as fresh.
Rawa Tander
days passed. no email. no call. since last. your words. your voice. anything. and now I know why. Rawa Tander. rolling thunder.
pg A18 (they can’t even put it on the front page any more. not even when you die. the fuckers). today it's somewhere between maxime bernier’s biker chick and margaret boring wente.
Pashmul. AK-47s. rocket-propelled grenade. launchers. suicide bomber (s). Hellfire missiles. (did the americans bomb the right guys this time M.?)
and you were there weren’t you? C Company. doing your job. you’ve trained for. all these years. loving. every. minute.
fighting season. just like the NHL playoffs. your teams. fresh-pressed rookies. old men. and you. sharp point of spear. infantryman.
while we’re left here. drinking beer. trying not to think about it. we pack camping gear. burn steaks on bbqs. try not to look out the window. to see who’s coming to the door.
J. told me about you getting DAGged. inoculations. social workers. filling out your lastwill and testament.
J. says it’s pretty weird seeing 18 year olds list their worldly possessions. as if anyone could give a shit about their PS2s. when they’re no longer here.
J. says your wife asked for J. to be the one. to come with the padre. and your CO. he told me the preschool’s got it down. to a fine art. what to do with the kids.
I asked J. not to be the one. to come. to phone. email. txt. tell me you are dead. I don’t want to shake. every time he calls. calls emails txts. knocks on my door. and anyway, I said to him.
(o M., love, love. my love. you must know this. by now.) I don’t need anyone. to tell me.
I’ll already.
know.
S
Friday, May 30, 2008
sleeping in portugal
we rest our eyes
from the squint –
constant sun
on whitewashed walls –
calves from perpetual uphill,
minds slack after days
grasping after language
red wine locks our bodies
to the bed, only dreams move –
flying back and forth
with strands of home
deep into night we wake together,
laughing at the bray
of the nearest donkey,
then sleep until roosters
begin to rev the day
we rest our eyes
from the squint –
constant sun
on whitewashed walls –
calves from perpetual uphill,
minds slack after days
grasping after language
red wine locks our bodies
to the bed, only dreams move –
flying back and forth
with strands of home
deep into night we wake together,
laughing at the bray
of the nearest donkey,
then sleep until roosters
begin to rev the day
hover
The translucent tip of a condom
through the rain
of elm seed: sex in cars / sex for money
just another cultivar. A dozen hollow-cheeked
mattresses make a house of cards.
Wrapped against the goodwill of open boxes
left next to the dumpster & inscribed:
bed bugs. Shoes twirl & two-step from wires. The overhead
toss, the answering gesture of shoes
filling with rain. The Portuguese man daydreaming
of strips of soft rag & vines as thick
as swollen fingers. He – we, they – bear the newsprint
shadow of the man beaten
to death
with a post from our fences-make-good-neighbours
philosophy one street over. When a woman
in a fuchsia hijab hovers by I want to say
that above the chemical wash / the clever
mimicry her cheek is plump
& tender but she looks
skeptical.
through the rain
of elm seed: sex in cars / sex for money
just another cultivar. A dozen hollow-cheeked
mattresses make a house of cards.
Wrapped against the goodwill of open boxes
left next to the dumpster & inscribed:
bed bugs. Shoes twirl & two-step from wires. The overhead
toss, the answering gesture of shoes
filling with rain. The Portuguese man daydreaming
of strips of soft rag & vines as thick
as swollen fingers. He – we, they – bear the newsprint
shadow of the man beaten
to death
with a post from our fences-make-good-neighbours
philosophy one street over. When a woman
in a fuchsia hijab hovers by I want to say
that above the chemical wash / the clever
mimicry her cheek is plump
& tender but she looks
skeptical.
drugs
o M.,
your voice the other night. soft. warm as this May night. tell me, why. soldiers speak so. soft. do they teach you that?
J. says you are my heroin. says I should get out. find some methadone. wean off my delicious drug. so I did. tonight. a party. poets. live band. sushi (your favourite). wine. beer. dancing. and four men. came to me. one almost made the cut. said he liked my laugh. told me he’s a good kisser. scrawled his hotmail acct. on the back leaf of my moleskine.
too close to where I stash your pictures. you marching. Bosnia. Golan Heights. Afghanistan. new tan uniform. sharp. needles. straight into my blood.
J. says opium fields reek of fetid rhubarb. cannibis grows ten feet tall in Afghanistan. I asked J. if you guys grab handfuls. smoke it. he says no. they make us take the pee test. random. besides, he says, nobody wants to patrol. with other guys all fucked up.
o M., it’s May again. I left the party drove to the river. wide and green. walked the banks. still light that late. picked long stalks of grass. held them to my face. txted you. again.
S
the calgary zoo
what bits in the legend that arent
on the map, a divergence of lines
& the wrong camera angle. 'You are Here'
beside greenhouse jungle, clinging mass
& crowds, a lovers hand, in the staunch heat
of the butterfly cages. watches as she steps
thru plastic, & i follow, & thin wings
flit quiet thru sudden anticipation,
landing, & perching on flowers that only
compliment colour. as one piece fits
so easily in the next, the humid air
fogs her glasses, but clear in the snap
of still october air. its a dry chill,
& walks the length of the bridge to see
tigers, bears, & postcard the gift shop.
baby warthogs. the rope tiger built
for lone male for reasons the children
are too young to know, & grandparents
fake. the blue water. its a long day
made longer. holds a pose & cleaves
to the skin wall, a membrane. sly eyes
over frayed sculpture, & bored tiger
decorating shore. watches loose birds
& giraffes behind bars, the refuge
of snakes. some things are impossible
to answer. seeks out her hands,
& seeks, hands, at the calgary zoo.
touching once to her back, thru
her sweater, wishing her sweater
not there, or the crowds. the question
eludes us, white sediment tears
on the glass. we are here, but no
further. we have always been here.
the map makes a mess of us.
on the map, a divergence of lines
& the wrong camera angle. 'You are Here'
beside greenhouse jungle, clinging mass
& crowds, a lovers hand, in the staunch heat
of the butterfly cages. watches as she steps
thru plastic, & i follow, & thin wings
flit quiet thru sudden anticipation,
landing, & perching on flowers that only
compliment colour. as one piece fits
so easily in the next, the humid air
fogs her glasses, but clear in the snap
of still october air. its a dry chill,
& walks the length of the bridge to see
tigers, bears, & postcard the gift shop.
baby warthogs. the rope tiger built
for lone male for reasons the children
are too young to know, & grandparents
fake. the blue water. its a long day
made longer. holds a pose & cleaves
to the skin wall, a membrane. sly eyes
over frayed sculpture, & bored tiger
decorating shore. watches loose birds
& giraffes behind bars, the refuge
of snakes. some things are impossible
to answer. seeks out her hands,
& seeks, hands, at the calgary zoo.
touching once to her back, thru
her sweater, wishing her sweater
not there, or the crowds. the question
eludes us, white sediment tears
on the glass. we are here, but no
further. we have always been here.
the map makes a mess of us.
Poemo de la koro
(a love poem in Esperanto)
Mi doni li mia koro post
longa varmega sordida tago
Li puri gxi kun lia lango
poluri gxi kun lia propra
kaj redoni gxi al mi nova
Mi doni li mia koro post
longa varmega sordida tago
Li puri gxi kun lia lango
poluri gxi kun lia propra
kaj redoni gxi al mi nova
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Him
.
he claims surprise when i speak to him still
though to my silence he replies a clear #*!
there’s no pleasing a stalker, she says,
with an air of familiarity on the subject.
she’s speaking about the little man who
pilfers my air and pinches my words.
i know, i say in reply (lame). still, i feel sorry
for the little man who will never know love.
i feel sad for me too though, all of that time
spending words, crying tears for him, squandered.
.
he claims surprise when i speak to him still
though to my silence he replies a clear #*!
there’s no pleasing a stalker, she says,
with an air of familiarity on the subject.
she’s speaking about the little man who
pilfers my air and pinches my words.
i know, i say in reply (lame). still, i feel sorry
for the little man who will never know love.
i feel sad for me too though, all of that time
spending words, crying tears for him, squandered.
.
another (short) history of l.
my hands beneath your clothes
don’t find answers, only questions
but repeated. this is me
feigning difficulty. your body sets loose
a pastoral. according to Nietzsche,
small ears are attentive,
& therefore small hands. so much
of perception is struggle, so much
of identity, pointing language
a lens out of sight. in our silence,
we work to keep talking, a sense
& a record, still.
get hold of yourself. no,
let me do that for you.
let me hold that open so you
can pass your way through.
don’t find answers, only questions
but repeated. this is me
feigning difficulty. your body sets loose
a pastoral. according to Nietzsche,
small ears are attentive,
& therefore small hands. so much
of perception is struggle, so much
of identity, pointing language
a lens out of sight. in our silence,
we work to keep talking, a sense
& a record, still.
get hold of yourself. no,
let me do that for you.
let me hold that open so you
can pass your way through.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Last to Fall
You're
the last to fall
into what we call
the trap
the ball
and chain
I know
you'll try to be
the last
to call
it quits
go ahead
and bawl
let her crawl
back to you
as often
as needed
don't build
the wall
that so often
climbs between
be the first
to say sorry
my fault
move on
when it's hers
this is all
I have to
offer
I'm sorry
it's small
the last to fall
into what we call
the trap
the ball
and chain
I know
you'll try to be
the last
to call
it quits
go ahead
and bawl
let her crawl
back to you
as often
as needed
don't build
the wall
that so often
climbs between
be the first
to say sorry
my fault
move on
when it's hers
this is all
I have to
offer
I'm sorry
it's small
Dying Transmissions
[thought i would post some more Clockfire --- 2 pieces below --- and also this prose poem which is NOT part of CF, just a stand-alone piece... shake things up a bit]
[static] so far the war has been responsible for over one hundred thousand casualties, not counting civilian loss, which cannot be determined at this time [laughter, static] the furor excited by the fossils found in the Martian meteorite has died down. Although the fossils appear to be genuine, there is no evidence supporting the theory that intelligent life exists on Mars, or anywhere in the universe for that matter [static] . . . - - - . . . [static] the concept of a heliocentric universe was strongly opposed by the church, which was in favor of the geocentric model popular at the time, since it depicts the earth and mankind as the center of the universe. Of course, we know today that this viewpoint is incorrect [static] . . . . . - . . . . . - [static] I miss my baby oh / I miss my baby so [static] there is no evidence supporting the theory that intelligent life exists on Mars, [laughter] or anywhere in the universe for that matter [static] . . . . . - . . . . . - [static] any visual signaling code system using movable arms, flags, or other devices can be called a semaphore system. Originally invented [static] people were recounting stories and making poems long before they began to write them down [static] the mysteries of the pyramids. Can man ever truly understand these wonders, which his own hands have [static] . - . . . - . . - . . . . - - . . - . . - . - - [static] we must turn the other cheek! [laughter] God is good! God is al-mighty! A wrath of fire a-waits [static] walk with me, baby / talk with me, baby / sing with me, baby / let us sing a sweet song [static] there is no evidence supporting the theory that intelligent life exists [laughter] on Mars, or anywhere in the universe for that matter or anywhere in the universe for that matter or anywhere in the universe anywhere in the universe no evidence for that matter no anywhere in the evidence for the universe [static, emergency broadcast signal] Listening to this will have increased the amount of ordered information in your brain. However, during the same time, the heat released by your body will have a much greater effect, increasing the disorder in the rest of the universe.
[static] so far the war has been responsible for over one hundred thousand casualties, not counting civilian loss, which cannot be determined at this time [laughter, static] the furor excited by the fossils found in the Martian meteorite has died down. Although the fossils appear to be genuine, there is no evidence supporting the theory that intelligent life exists on Mars, or anywhere in the universe for that matter [static] . . . - - - . . . [static] the concept of a heliocentric universe was strongly opposed by the church, which was in favor of the geocentric model popular at the time, since it depicts the earth and mankind as the center of the universe. Of course, we know today that this viewpoint is incorrect [static] . . . . . - . . . . . - [static] I miss my baby oh / I miss my baby so [static] there is no evidence supporting the theory that intelligent life exists on Mars, [laughter] or anywhere in the universe for that matter [static] . . . . . - . . . . . - [static] any visual signaling code system using movable arms, flags, or other devices can be called a semaphore system. Originally invented [static] people were recounting stories and making poems long before they began to write them down [static] the mysteries of the pyramids. Can man ever truly understand these wonders, which his own hands have [static] . - . . . - . . - . . . . - - . . - . . - . - - [static] we must turn the other cheek! [laughter] God is good! God is al-mighty! A wrath of fire a-waits [static] walk with me, baby / talk with me, baby / sing with me, baby / let us sing a sweet song [static] there is no evidence supporting the theory that intelligent life exists [laughter] on Mars, or anywhere in the universe for that matter or anywhere in the universe for that matter or anywhere in the universe anywhere in the universe no evidence for that matter no anywhere in the evidence for the universe [static, emergency broadcast signal] Listening to this will have increased the amount of ordered information in your brain. However, during the same time, the heat released by your body will have a much greater effect, increasing the disorder in the rest of the universe.
Cell
The curtain is down. An announcer steps forth from behind this curtain, to occupy centre stage.
ANNOUNCER
Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin. At this point I must ask you to please turn off your cell phones.
After a proper pause, the curtain rises. A woman is onstage. The lights are low and she is shadowed.
WOMAN
It was my birthday, and I wanted to do something for myself. I left Tom with the babysitter and then Dennis and I went to the theatre.
The woman takes a cell phone out of her pocket.
WOMAN
The announcer before the show asked everyone in the audience to
turn off their cell phones. Of course, I turned mine off too. How was
I to know?
She looks down at the phone. It doesn’t ring, but she holds it up to her ear anyway. Then lowers it again.
WOMAN
She said she called me over and over again. She didn’t know
what play we were going to or what theatre — she only knew
the number of my cell. When Tom stopped breathing she
panicked. She called me three times before she thought to call
the hospital. The messages just piled up in my pocket, filling the
phone. Then the ambulance came — and took his body away.
We were having a wonderful time. Dennis was wonderful, so sweet.
I remember thinking, This is the best night since we had the baby.
The woman raises and lowers the phone once more. While she has been speaking, other actors have been dialing the phone numbers of everyone in the audience, acquired somehow before the play began.
These actors leave frantic desperate messages, begging for someone to answer, improvising disasters. The woman stares into the dead phone. When every answering machine is full, the curtain falls.
ANNOUNCER
Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin. At this point I must ask you to please turn off your cell phones.
After a proper pause, the curtain rises. A woman is onstage. The lights are low and she is shadowed.
WOMAN
It was my birthday, and I wanted to do something for myself. I left Tom with the babysitter and then Dennis and I went to the theatre.
The woman takes a cell phone out of her pocket.
WOMAN
The announcer before the show asked everyone in the audience to
turn off their cell phones. Of course, I turned mine off too. How was
I to know?
She looks down at the phone. It doesn’t ring, but she holds it up to her ear anyway. Then lowers it again.
WOMAN
She said she called me over and over again. She didn’t know
what play we were going to or what theatre — she only knew
the number of my cell. When Tom stopped breathing she
panicked. She called me three times before she thought to call
the hospital. The messages just piled up in my pocket, filling the
phone. Then the ambulance came — and took his body away.
We were having a wonderful time. Dennis was wonderful, so sweet.
I remember thinking, This is the best night since we had the baby.
The woman raises and lowers the phone once more. While she has been speaking, other actors have been dialing the phone numbers of everyone in the audience, acquired somehow before the play began.
These actors leave frantic desperate messages, begging for someone to answer, improvising disasters. The woman stares into the dead phone. When every answering machine is full, the curtain falls.
The Burning Bush
The curtain rises.
A bush is revealed, in the perfect centre of the stage. Before a startled audience this bush bursts into flames.
The flames burn, but do not consume the bush, nor do they blacken the stage. They throw off light, but not heat. Then, a voice issues from out the burning bush.
And what now. And what now. And what now.
A bush is revealed, in the perfect centre of the stage. Before a startled audience this bush bursts into flames.
The flames burn, but do not consume the bush, nor do they blacken the stage. They throw off light, but not heat. Then, a voice issues from out the burning bush.
And what now. And what now. And what now.
goslings
i kept forgetting to tell you
about the goslings
along the river trail --
jumble of shy fuzz
and yellow curiosity
wadded between rocks
how they bloomed,
doubled in size one day
to the next
how the parents
trained long necks
on the threat of me
as i ground gravel
under bike tires,
levered beaks
knowing i wanted to grab
one of the soft bundles
and hold it to my face
just today,
goslings greying,
half-grown and lanky,
i remembered
i kept forgetting to tell you
about the goslings
along the river trail --
jumble of shy fuzz
and yellow curiosity
wadded between rocks
how they bloomed,
doubled in size one day
to the next
how the parents
trained long necks
on the threat of me
as i ground gravel
under bike tires,
levered beaks
knowing i wanted to grab
one of the soft bundles
and hold it to my face
just today,
goslings greying,
half-grown and lanky,
i remembered
science fair
there are scientists that track shared historical events
that end up changing us.
every time you pick up a newspaper, he says,
history is happening. it is Shane’s birthday
& it is Warren’s birthday too. what
does that make them?
at the Chinese buffet, ordering take-out
& you promised to come back for the crab,
but not today. we had somewhere to be.
somewhere to not-be.
in some parts of the world there are wars happening.
in some parts of the world
there an earthquake. in some parts
of the world there are children with machine-guns.
& in some parts of the world there a man
smashing another in the head with a rock.
but not here, here in this room. the mystery
of chemical compounds & a darkness of trees,
& what water can’t separate.
weeks later you still carry both fortunes in your wallet,
waiting for them to happen.
that end up changing us.
every time you pick up a newspaper, he says,
history is happening. it is Shane’s birthday
& it is Warren’s birthday too. what
does that make them?
at the Chinese buffet, ordering take-out
& you promised to come back for the crab,
but not today. we had somewhere to be.
somewhere to not-be.
in some parts of the world there are wars happening.
in some parts of the world
there an earthquake. in some parts
of the world there are children with machine-guns.
& in some parts of the world there a man
smashing another in the head with a rock.
but not here, here in this room. the mystery
of chemical compounds & a darkness of trees,
& what water can’t separate.
weeks later you still carry both fortunes in your wallet,
waiting for them to happen.
The Dream
Eyes swell at hearing you relate
the novel you must absolutely
write. You describe the dream
.again.
The one about that man
relieving himself
on
.. . . . . . ...[you]
that little girl.
She
. . . . . . . ..[you]
wears a pretty white dress
and a crimson red ribbon in
. . . . . . ... [your]
her hair.
I want to say i'm sorry
but you will say what for.
You ask instead about my tears
i smile and whisper lies, trivial.
. . .Since you began your story
your drapes are drawn
your door is locked.
I see your silhouette
writing
by the light of one lamp
and wonder if you have
seen. Yet.
Or is your past still a secret
to you, my friend?
I hope you'll call, when..
I hope you'll call.
I hope
. . . . . . . . .[you]
I
.
the novel you must absolutely
write. You describe the dream
.again.
The one about that man
relieving himself
on
.. . . . . . ...[you]
that little girl.
She
. . . . . . . ..[you]
wears a pretty white dress
and a crimson red ribbon in
. . . . . . ... [your]
her hair.
I want to say i'm sorry
but you will say what for.
You ask instead about my tears
i smile and whisper lies, trivial.
. . .Since you began your story
your drapes are drawn
your door is locked.
I see your silhouette
writing
by the light of one lamp
and wonder if you have
seen. Yet.
Or is your past still a secret
to you, my friend?
I hope you'll call, when..
I hope you'll call.
I hope
. . . . . . . . .[you]
I
.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Black Widow
It’s the possibility of harm
that has me rolling every suspect
into a ball of legs.
To think something so small
could kill. Car accidents, grizzly bears,
yes, but they’re out there.
Not hanging upside down
in a corner, a ticking bomb.
I’ve taken to stepping on my slippers
before putting them on.
A dozen cases of mistaken identity so far.
Sighting that swollen abdomen
on the windowsill, its timex
running fast, a positive match—
I did what every Charlotte Web-lover
would have—I shot it full of poison.
There’s my latest widow on the wall,
an example for future guests.
---
I'm struggling with the ending, and with the transition from the fourth to fifth stanzas in this poem. Any ideas about this or anything else would be welcome.
I think this might be my last post. Thanks for all your comments, and for sharing your poems. Look forward to seeing some of these May Day poems in journals across the country in the coming year.
that has me rolling every suspect
into a ball of legs.
To think something so small
could kill. Car accidents, grizzly bears,
yes, but they’re out there.
Not hanging upside down
in a corner, a ticking bomb.
I’ve taken to stepping on my slippers
before putting them on.
A dozen cases of mistaken identity so far.
Sighting that swollen abdomen
on the windowsill, its timex
running fast, a positive match—
I did what every Charlotte Web-lover
would have—I shot it full of poison.
There’s my latest widow on the wall,
an example for future guests.
---
I'm struggling with the ending, and with the transition from the fourth to fifth stanzas in this poem. Any ideas about this or anything else would be welcome.
I think this might be my last post. Thanks for all your comments, and for sharing your poems. Look forward to seeing some of these May Day poems in journals across the country in the coming year.
blindness
if you were to write a poem on blindness,
how would it look.
I am scaling the clock tower. one if by land,
two if by sea & three
if by dirigible. can you imagine.
in the third game of the Stanley Cup Finals,
all play was suspended
for a family of ducks. afterwards, they acted
like it had never happened
& was never brought up again. I am listening
to The Tragically Hip, just like everyone else
from my old high school.
a reunion this summer. I don’t think I’ll go.
I light my small lantern.
you are on the twenty-seventh floor.
I know I can see you.
how would it look.
I am scaling the clock tower. one if by land,
two if by sea & three
if by dirigible. can you imagine.
in the third game of the Stanley Cup Finals,
all play was suspended
for a family of ducks. afterwards, they acted
like it had never happened
& was never brought up again. I am listening
to The Tragically Hip, just like everyone else
from my old high school.
a reunion this summer. I don’t think I’ll go.
I light my small lantern.
you are on the twenty-seventh floor.
I know I can see you.
orthogonal
she is horizontal
he, vertical
she's FM
he's AM
she wears polka dots
he, the queen's crown
she is 1's
and he is 0's
but when they meet
The Water is Wide (variation)
A friend sent an interesting request this morning. She wanted to adapt this song into a love song instead of a song of betrayal (tho they are inter-related, non?). Since the music will be kept, maintaining the syllabic structure is key.
The original:
The water is wide, I cannot get o'er
Neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I
A ship there is and she sails the sea
She's loaded deep as deep can be
But not so deep as the love I'm in
I know not if I sink or swim
I leaned my back against an oak
Thinking it was a trusty tree
But first it bent and then it broke
So did my love prove false to me
I reached my finger into some soft bush
Thinking the fairest flower to find
I pricked my finger to the bone
And left the fairest flower behind
Oh love be handsome and love be kind
Gay as a jewel when first it is new
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like the morning dew
Must I go bound while you go free
Must I love a man who doesn't love me
Must I be born with so little art
As to love a man who'll break my heart
When cockle shells turn silver bells
Then will my love come back to me
When roses bloom in winter's gloom
Then will my love return to me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My "happy ending for lesbians" variation (attempting to keep as much of the original imagery as possible):
The Water Is Wide
The water is wide, I cannot get o'er
Neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I
A ship there is and she sails the sea
She's loaded deep as deep can be
But not so deep as the love we're in
We never will sink while one can swim
I climbed high up into an oak
Thinking it was a trusty tree
Ach, first it bent and then it broke
But my love was right there to catch me
I reached my fingers into the meadow
To pluck a bouquet for my sweet miss
Those fingers I pricked for my troubles
My fairest flower healed with a kiss
Oh love be tender and love be bold
Gay as a jewel when we share it new
And love stay with us as we grow old
Fresh every day like morning dew
Though we are bound let us feel free
I'll wait for you if you'll wait for me
For there will be times when we're apart
Though of two mouths, let's speak with one heart
Oh cockle shells turn silver bells
When my love roams along with me
Oh roses bloom in winter's room
When my love roams along with me
The original:
The water is wide, I cannot get o'er
Neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I
A ship there is and she sails the sea
She's loaded deep as deep can be
But not so deep as the love I'm in
I know not if I sink or swim
I leaned my back against an oak
Thinking it was a trusty tree
But first it bent and then it broke
So did my love prove false to me
I reached my finger into some soft bush
Thinking the fairest flower to find
I pricked my finger to the bone
And left the fairest flower behind
Oh love be handsome and love be kind
Gay as a jewel when first it is new
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like the morning dew
Must I go bound while you go free
Must I love a man who doesn't love me
Must I be born with so little art
As to love a man who'll break my heart
When cockle shells turn silver bells
Then will my love come back to me
When roses bloom in winter's gloom
Then will my love return to me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My "happy ending for lesbians" variation (attempting to keep as much of the original imagery as possible):
The Water Is Wide
The water is wide, I cannot get o'er
Neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I
A ship there is and she sails the sea
She's loaded deep as deep can be
But not so deep as the love we're in
We never will sink while one can swim
I climbed high up into an oak
Thinking it was a trusty tree
Ach, first it bent and then it broke
But my love was right there to catch me
I reached my fingers into the meadow
To pluck a bouquet for my sweet miss
Those fingers I pricked for my troubles
My fairest flower healed with a kiss
Oh love be tender and love be bold
Gay as a jewel when we share it new
And love stay with us as we grow old
Fresh every day like morning dew
Though we are bound let us feel free
I'll wait for you if you'll wait for me
For there will be times when we're apart
Though of two mouths, let's speak with one heart
Oh cockle shells turn silver bells
When my love roams along with me
Oh roses bloom in winter's room
When my love roams along with me
Monday, May 26, 2008
facing such necessity, beauty
what does it mean
Mickey Rooney a sex addict
except when on film
just think of the money
he could have made
in like Errol Flynn,
or like Flint, the film
how can you tell
Madonna steals kisses
& takes all the credit
where are you
where are you now
I am lost in these images
cut away like old horsehair
plaster falling from stairs
Mickey Rooney a sex addict
except when on film
just think of the money
he could have made
in like Errol Flynn,
or like Flint, the film
how can you tell
Madonna steals kisses
& takes all the credit
where are you
where are you now
I am lost in these images
cut away like old horsehair
plaster falling from stairs
Sunday, May 25, 2008
inventory of conversations: a found poem
and i just don’t get it
she could have gotten anything
do they need anything
we got a letter after words
there could have been a lot, a week later
nobody would care, you never know
what’s going to happen
a friend who travels quite a bit there
couldn’t be there overnight
thrifty there
i don’t remember all the details, business
American’s not supposed to be there
some guy took them, never cleared customs
oh no there’s a guy
days go by
they go back to the airport
they have no idea what’s going to happen next
got on the plane running out to the tarmac
door shut
it's like
yeah he didn’t really know
realize what it meant
insults engineering
Maria, all these little stories
lot of Calgary people
inventory of stories
expeditions, drilling rigs
shipped our fridge washer dryer
Canadian families homeless in the desert
with the rigs
weren’t right on the desert, but in the town
the whole 9 yards, he was a professor
math, something, got into trouble, had to get out fast
in jail, dig through the bills
she got out
before the kids
we had ours
they start putting in prison a math professor
she had enough
getting a push to get them out
in a room together
we had this argument
it’s cultural operations
they go after
right
my husband said i should stay with the children
he could get out on his own
you might have opportunities
a stroller of kids
those things are out if you’re leaving behind
the children and family
you and i
just go
get out
don’t come looking for me, that jeopardizes me
oh wow it’s so civilized here
are there any women around here
(help me somebody)
women had brought some sense out
i start opening my blouse
freckled
glands
noise
wasn’t quite sure what to do
no pressure he says
showing me walking up underneath
so blown away
smoking
well there’s no water
it’s intense, that’s for sure
do you know Cathy?
i know her because her mother takes people on tours, to Egypt, etc
it happens
i’m not a writer
(apologetic)
just trying to get a story
a woman wrote to me
the conversations begin
left cheek right cheek
that way this way, the concept of it
yeah, yeah, the right cheek
(demonstration)
slimy, you are slimy
are you going to the barbeque
its very good
she was in iman
wonderful land, not as far as iman
oh my god, you can’t refer to iman
directing the troops
stampede party still going 12 years later
flying a deejay in
we have so few actors in Calgary
people from iman came for their breaks
oh, the cold
so cold outside
kokanee
pale ale
grasshopper
off the coast of that place
archaeologists don’t live on compounds
get my umbrella, i already paid
i asked Hannah
wild eh?
no, still there
she had a baby right after i left
and then another one
right after i left
before we went to breakfast
give us a nice hour or so
you don’t know
is she in Ottawa now
je ne ce pas
a part of its the archaeology department
nothing much doing
and they shut it down
and it hums like
hand shakes
that’s the rumour
we do know Americans
travelled
(Hannah arrives)
kiss left, right
i did start with left to right
left cheek
so organic you don’t really think about it
at least its more civilized
so how’s your job
that’s why
i come to Banff
do you think i could rent a car
and meet them
so you’re liking it
every one, yeah the positions
find
fine
find
i’m really liking it
i think Calgary is a great city
just like me
just like so
it’s like i’m there
making it
take the time to do it
we’re meeting all these guys wherever we go
i do, i do its wonderful
during the first world war i read bird songs
i don’t know where i was in high school social studies
we had to take history
i don’t even know
more and more
learning because you want to learn
it might’ve been history
revolution, that’s all
the more we care, the more
i need my notebook
wonderful to travel
keep working
keep laugh working
there are worse things
what’s your passion, your hobby
there are lots of bum cooks
(can that be right?)
in our generation
picking
up
what
i’ll look at it on the web
i might even read the book
look at that screen
look around that would drive me crazy
why bother i can’t take it to bed
when you fall asleep it wonks you on the head
its all about the experience
some archaic liquor laws
and then i ran out of cash, we can pay for this
glass of red
hybrid suv
runs on oil
leftover stuff
filtering system
expose this trying to find somewhere that’s likeable
buy our own land
its a great thing
publication of time
science
and everything else
butcher it
google translator
web site
that's quite the book
she could have gotten anything
do they need anything
we got a letter after words
there could have been a lot, a week later
nobody would care, you never know
what’s going to happen
a friend who travels quite a bit there
couldn’t be there overnight
thrifty there
i don’t remember all the details, business
American’s not supposed to be there
some guy took them, never cleared customs
oh no there’s a guy
days go by
they go back to the airport
they have no idea what’s going to happen next
got on the plane running out to the tarmac
door shut
it's like
yeah he didn’t really know
realize what it meant
insults engineering
Maria, all these little stories
lot of Calgary people
inventory of stories
expeditions, drilling rigs
shipped our fridge washer dryer
Canadian families homeless in the desert
with the rigs
weren’t right on the desert, but in the town
the whole 9 yards, he was a professor
math, something, got into trouble, had to get out fast
in jail, dig through the bills
she got out
before the kids
we had ours
they start putting in prison a math professor
she had enough
getting a push to get them out
in a room together
we had this argument
it’s cultural operations
they go after
right
my husband said i should stay with the children
he could get out on his own
you might have opportunities
a stroller of kids
those things are out if you’re leaving behind
the children and family
you and i
just go
get out
don’t come looking for me, that jeopardizes me
oh wow it’s so civilized here
are there any women around here
(help me somebody)
women had brought some sense out
i start opening my blouse
freckled
glands
noise
wasn’t quite sure what to do
no pressure he says
showing me walking up underneath
so blown away
smoking
well there’s no water
it’s intense, that’s for sure
do you know Cathy?
i know her because her mother takes people on tours, to Egypt, etc
it happens
i’m not a writer
(apologetic)
just trying to get a story
a woman wrote to me
the conversations begin
left cheek right cheek
that way this way, the concept of it
yeah, yeah, the right cheek
(demonstration)
slimy, you are slimy
are you going to the barbeque
its very good
she was in iman
wonderful land, not as far as iman
oh my god, you can’t refer to iman
directing the troops
stampede party still going 12 years later
flying a deejay in
we have so few actors in Calgary
people from iman came for their breaks
oh, the cold
so cold outside
kokanee
pale ale
grasshopper
off the coast of that place
archaeologists don’t live on compounds
get my umbrella, i already paid
i asked Hannah
wild eh?
no, still there
she had a baby right after i left
and then another one
right after i left
before we went to breakfast
give us a nice hour or so
you don’t know
is she in Ottawa now
je ne ce pas
a part of its the archaeology department
nothing much doing
and they shut it down
and it hums like
hand shakes
that’s the rumour
we do know Americans
travelled
(Hannah arrives)
kiss left, right
i did start with left to right
left cheek
so organic you don’t really think about it
at least its more civilized
so how’s your job
that’s why
i come to Banff
do you think i could rent a car
and meet them
so you’re liking it
every one, yeah the positions
find
fine
find
i’m really liking it
i think Calgary is a great city
just like me
just like so
it’s like i’m there
making it
take the time to do it
we’re meeting all these guys wherever we go
i do, i do its wonderful
during the first world war i read bird songs
i don’t know where i was in high school social studies
we had to take history
i don’t even know
more and more
learning because you want to learn
it might’ve been history
revolution, that’s all
the more we care, the more
i need my notebook
wonderful to travel
keep working
keep laugh working
there are worse things
what’s your passion, your hobby
there are lots of bum cooks
(can that be right?)
in our generation
picking
up
what
i’ll look at it on the web
i might even read the book
look at that screen
look around that would drive me crazy
why bother i can’t take it to bed
when you fall asleep it wonks you on the head
its all about the experience
some archaic liquor laws
and then i ran out of cash, we can pay for this
glass of red
hybrid suv
runs on oil
leftover stuff
filtering system
expose this trying to find somewhere that’s likeable
buy our own land
its a great thing
publication of time
science
and everything else
butcher it
google translator
web site
that's quite the book
Cottonwoods
Burch Street canopy: gold lanterns
hung from every branch.
How much can change in two weeks.
Early evening on the stoop, leaning into
the street’s new palette,
when you walk past. I hook you
with a question, the answer,
your errand, forgotten
as we crane our necks to catch
October’s curtain call. Sunlight wicks
the leaves pink, then orange
applause against the dark sky.
We watch night turn on
the houses around us.
It’s cold, I said. Won’t you come in?
hung from every branch.
How much can change in two weeks.
Early evening on the stoop, leaning into
the street’s new palette,
when you walk past. I hook you
with a question, the answer,
your errand, forgotten
as we crane our necks to catch
October’s curtain call. Sunlight wicks
the leaves pink, then orange
applause against the dark sky.
We watch night turn on
the houses around us.
It’s cold, I said. Won’t you come in?
wrap
slow your mind
to the ritual
of preparing your hands:
long strip of red cotton
wound around each
thumb, wrist,
extra passes over knuckle,
then criss-cross
criss-cross
criss-cross,
rhythm of the one-two
in your breath
hands come to life,
wrists sturdy and ready,
knuckles bundled
inside gloves,
you launch them into air,
wall of the heavy bag,
never let them out
of your sight
slow your mind
to the ritual
of preparing your hands:
long strip of red cotton
wound around each
thumb, wrist,
extra passes over knuckle,
then criss-cross
criss-cross
criss-cross,
rhythm of the one-two
in your breath
hands come to life,
wrists sturdy and ready,
knuckles bundled
inside gloves,
you launch them into air,
wall of the heavy bag,
never let them out
of your sight
staging base
M.,
a year ago. Toulouse. the beginning of my walk. 800 kms across Spain. to Santiago de Compostela. determined to never think. about you. again.
Toulouse. the southern light. white and warm in late spring. the windows of my hotel room open to red tile roofs. early morning murmur from kitchens across the courtyard. the day’s onions, potatoes peeled, chopped. stock pots simmering. warming me to everything.
I remember lying in bed. curtains half open. looking out my window. swallows (hundreds of them). dive, weave in and out of each other. a cross between F18s and hockey refs gone insane. they whistled a crazy game above my head.
you were at Camp I-can’t-tell-you-the-name-of it-or-where-it-is (though of course everyone knows). your staging base. waiting for the next Hercules to zigzag you into Kandahar.
I promised to never write you again.
for three days I walked Toulouse. spoke rusty French. ate too much. cassoulet, croissant, café crème. bought myself a polka dot dress. tried out new equipment. boots. pack. high-tech clothes. walking sticks.
in Toulouse I met a man. younger than you. lovely. no wife. no kids. good looking. one of those brilliant types they used to call computer geeks until they cashed in. Scottish. he has a second house in the south of France. I walked the rue du Taur with him. scallop shells, bull symbols on doors, lintels, frescoes, embedded into sidewalks.
but the light that evening was inexplicably cold. I left him at the door of my hotel. walked away (how different is that, M.?) his blue eyes following me into the elevator.
only 10 p.m. I rolled my gear. packed. went to bed. watched black swallow television outside my window. fell asleep. 6 a.m. caught a cab to the gare de Toulouse. went into the Cybercafé pulled the scrap of paper scrawled with his email address from my pack. threw it away.
S
supermodel
between streetlights & rain, the street
flickers stars.
Stuart Ross reads a draft of a poem
about the High Level Bridge. along I-beams,
water flows
out from where it should not. reads his poem
& his notebook is small, written pencil.
Mary Magdalene performed miracles
that perhaps only Jesus knew,
if either of them existed.
there are stories that shift & evolve,
& eventually outlive us, & change
as those who would tell.
on the most beautiful young person reality show
or whatever it is the bar watches, they already warned
some of them will not last through the day.
I am undone, the permission
to hammer out glass.
if I am blue you are red
& we perfectly paired as twin suns.
flickers stars.
Stuart Ross reads a draft of a poem
about the High Level Bridge. along I-beams,
water flows
out from where it should not. reads his poem
& his notebook is small, written pencil.
Mary Magdalene performed miracles
that perhaps only Jesus knew,
if either of them existed.
there are stories that shift & evolve,
& eventually outlive us, & change
as those who would tell.
on the most beautiful young person reality show
or whatever it is the bar watches, they already warned
some of them will not last through the day.
I am undone, the permission
to hammer out glass.
if I am blue you are red
& we perfectly paired as twin suns.
Pick Any Three
Because we like to travel
and we're already in debt.
Because we're really busy
with other things to do.
Because sleep is something
we don't want to give up.
Because we can't even keep
a plant alive.
Because we work late,
and our careers come first.
Because we felt the urge
in different years.
Because we can't agree
whose turn it is to feed the dog.
Because I remember the screaming
and it might be what I'd do.
Because we like to help out friends
by taking them off their hands --
as long as we can give them back
at the end of the day.
Because we can't see further
than two months down the road.
Because we don't always live
in the same city.
Because we still have time
if we change our minds.
and we're already in debt.
Because we're really busy
with other things to do.
Because sleep is something
we don't want to give up.
Because we can't even keep
a plant alive.
Because we work late,
and our careers come first.
Because we felt the urge
in different years.
Because we can't agree
whose turn it is to feed the dog.
Because I remember the screaming
and it might be what I'd do.
Because we like to help out friends
by taking them off their hands --
as long as we can give them back
at the end of the day.
Because we can't see further
than two months down the road.
Because we don't always live
in the same city.
Because we still have time
if we change our minds.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
friday night at cousin’s
every time a bottle smashes
on the pavement,
a woman at the next table whoops,
screams: it’s my birthday
we smile, each soberly sipping
a single beer,
and watch skinny girls
on rickety bikes
ride up sherbrook,
coloured scarves
carelessly wafting behind
at night, we’re foreigners
on this corner
don’t know the man
with the moustache, leather jacket,
or what he’s drinking
don’t know any of the guys,
che caps and confidence,
drifting back and forth on the sidewalk –
younger and prettier
than we’ve ever been
we wave smoke from our faces
until midnight, push plastic chairs
away from the sticky table,
walk five blocks home
every time a bottle smashes
on the pavement,
a woman at the next table whoops,
screams: it’s my birthday
we smile, each soberly sipping
a single beer,
and watch skinny girls
on rickety bikes
ride up sherbrook,
coloured scarves
carelessly wafting behind
at night, we’re foreigners
on this corner
don’t know the man
with the moustache, leather jacket,
or what he’s drinking
don’t know any of the guys,
che caps and confidence,
drifting back and forth on the sidewalk –
younger and prettier
than we’ve ever been
we wave smoke from our faces
until midnight, push plastic chairs
away from the sticky table,
walk five blocks home
a history of water
over centuries, what water implies,
taken straight from the source.
you are in town on a mission.
I am parting dark clouds with your hair.
in reading writing, a table of infinite size.
all words simultaneous.
you are in town on a mission.
I am barking out orders at chairs.
you are in town on a mission.
I am seeking out the cold from my bones.
the river is bent at the waist.
it pinches, there, just at the grain.
you are in town on a mission.
I am the space between messages sent.
the newspaper rails inconsistencies.
not even the clothesline is clear.
you are in town on a mission.
I have lost path for the brush.
you are in town on a mission.
I am dreaming up rain to rid dust.
this is the soundtrack of a life,
made of the movement of water.
you are in town on a mission.
I am not so extended as overexposed.
you are in town on a mission.
I am absorbed in the perils of touch.
taken straight from the source.
you are in town on a mission.
I am parting dark clouds with your hair.
in reading writing, a table of infinite size.
all words simultaneous.
you are in town on a mission.
I am barking out orders at chairs.
you are in town on a mission.
I am seeking out the cold from my bones.
the river is bent at the waist.
it pinches, there, just at the grain.
you are in town on a mission.
I am the space between messages sent.
the newspaper rails inconsistencies.
not even the clothesline is clear.
you are in town on a mission.
I have lost path for the brush.
you are in town on a mission.
I am dreaming up rain to rid dust.
this is the soundtrack of a life,
made of the movement of water.
you are in town on a mission.
I am not so extended as overexposed.
you are in town on a mission.
I am absorbed in the perils of touch.
rehearsal
M.,
just finished. 3 hours rehearsal. my bulerias still sucks. came in too late. came in too early. oh fuck. the singer looked away. the guitar played on. but my tangos. I hit all my breaks. each time. stronger. & my footwork. contra tiempo. between the beat. perfect.
but that ‘s me isn’t it? always. dancing in that other place. hearing that other groove.
& I remember when you were at Wainwright. you txted me. in th mddle of th f’ing prairie. sun. heat. fake Afghan villages. scaring the shit out of each other. live ammo. (that was the year the British soldier got killed).
and you’d call, pissed, late at night from JR’s. the bar with the all-plastic rule. too many fights. too much broken glass you laughed. all summer you never once asked. if I would. come to you. because you knew I would. and that scared the shit out of you.
you know what M.? before I go on stage. I rehearse every step in my head. every arm. every leg. the curve of my body. the look on my face. & I always lace my shoes. first left. then right. put my makeup on last.
and sometimes it works. and sometimes it doesn’t. and all the rehearsals in the world can’t make it happen. and I just have to keep going. figure out what went wrong.
and this thing between us. whatever it is. this is our rehearsal. and who knows. if all these steps are any good.
but M., I just want to say. to you so far away (from me). when it works. really works. every move. every nuance. every beat. falls into place. the compas, 12//3//6/8/10/12 thrums. beautifully.
S
just finished. 3 hours rehearsal. my bulerias still sucks. came in too late. came in too early. oh fuck. the singer looked away. the guitar played on. but my tangos. I hit all my breaks. each time. stronger. & my footwork. contra tiempo. between the beat. perfect.
but that ‘s me isn’t it? always. dancing in that other place. hearing that other groove.
& I remember when you were at Wainwright. you txted me. in th mddle of th f’ing prairie. sun. heat. fake Afghan villages. scaring the shit out of each other. live ammo. (that was the year the British soldier got killed).
and you’d call, pissed, late at night from JR’s. the bar with the all-plastic rule. too many fights. too much broken glass you laughed. all summer you never once asked. if I would. come to you. because you knew I would. and that scared the shit out of you.
you know what M.? before I go on stage. I rehearse every step in my head. every arm. every leg. the curve of my body. the look on my face. & I always lace my shoes. first left. then right. put my makeup on last.
and sometimes it works. and sometimes it doesn’t. and all the rehearsals in the world can’t make it happen. and I just have to keep going. figure out what went wrong.
and this thing between us. whatever it is. this is our rehearsal. and who knows. if all these steps are any good.
but M., I just want to say. to you so far away (from me). when it works. really works. every move. every nuance. every beat. falls into place. the compas, 12//3//6/8/10/12 thrums. beautifully.
S
Killing ghosts
We walk hand in hand
past the high school where I
spent far too many miserable days
wondering when I'd
ever be pretty or interesting
enough to get a boyfriend
Now here you are
several boyfriends later,
a husband even
beautiful, kind, loving
making me laugh
every step of this tour
through the boneyard
of adolescence.
Your hand in mine
pulses out a message
back to that doubtful
awkward girl:
everything will be all right
don't give up hope
love will come to you
if you can wait
through the empty years
to the full ones.
past the high school where I
spent far too many miserable days
wondering when I'd
ever be pretty or interesting
enough to get a boyfriend
Now here you are
several boyfriends later,
a husband even
beautiful, kind, loving
making me laugh
every step of this tour
through the boneyard
of adolescence.
Your hand in mine
pulses out a message
back to that doubtful
awkward girl:
everything will be all right
don't give up hope
love will come to you
if you can wait
through the empty years
to the full ones.
The True Value of Chocolate
I arrive home
I press messages and hear
Jane's broken voice announce:
Your box is full.
Feeling empty
I open the refrigerator door but
opt for chocolate instead,
melting
momentary
comfort on my
warm
eager tongue.
Unsatiated, I
open the 15" lid
to the sound of You've got mail!
Trailing behind me -
a skirt, a shirt
some black stockings,
one baby blue thong.
In the dark
I enter the vacant bedroom
where the hollow bed lies
and make a mental note to
empty my boxes in the morning
so that I'll have room for
new messages that
I can't touch
and
can't touch
me.
I press messages and hear
Jane's broken voice announce:
Your box is full.
Feeling empty
I open the refrigerator door but
opt for chocolate instead,
melting
momentary
comfort on my
warm
eager tongue.
Unsatiated, I
open the 15" lid
to the sound of You've got mail!
Trailing behind me -
a skirt, a shirt
some black stockings,
one baby blue thong.
In the dark
I enter the vacant bedroom
where the hollow bed lies
and make a mental note to
empty my boxes in the morning
so that I'll have room for
new messages that
I can't touch
and
can't touch
me.
Friday, May 23, 2008
rations
o M,
vancouver. my mother and I eat italian food. I show her marching man. sometime after antipasto. before risotto.
black and white. Bosnia. you warming up before parade. she doesn’t need to see. your photo. she sees you in. skin. eyes. bright. she hears you. my voice. full.
your txt. last night. I was offered Naden. four years ago. but I know this already. your wife. didn’t want to go. and anyway if you had come. we wouldn’t have met would we?
why I miss you in vancouver more than anywhere else? our time there, so cold I thought it done. o M…
anyway, J. came by yesterday. brought me rations. thought it would make me laugh. No. 4 U.S. army tuna dinner. (he says the americans have better grub than us.) add water and sand and shit and 20 smelly men. Afghanistan. I cooked him dinner. your favourite. rolled sushi (and I don’t even like the damned things—too cold too tidy). it took me hours. drank too much saki. he left at 3 a.m.
I caught the ferry across the strait. the winds high. I could hardly stand. felt last night’s wine pound. wanted to see my mother. her best friend. dying. I came to say goodbye. to the woman who had been at my mother’s side for 36 years.
now I sit. drink espresso. black medicine. and write to you. tell you how much I miss you (again) and M., your love. sometimes like rations. dry, scarce. yet it sustains.
S
a poem by Stephanie Bolster;
Here's a new poem by Stephanie Bolster, formerly of Vancouver (Burnaby, actually) and Ottawa, currently living in a Montreal suburb (Pointe-Claire), a little piece hidden inside the new Montreal issue of The New Quarterly. This has to be one of the finest pieces I've seen from Bolster, the author of three trade poetry collections and a couple of chapbooks, including two from above/ground press, Three Bloody Words (1996) and Biodome (2006). The last four lines are killer, I think, but it's the final two that really cut, and deep. When does that next collection happen? And will this poem be included?
Night Zoo
Dogs ravaged the yard where yesterday
rabbits and toads. The dead
fed to the cages and the dark.
The mouth of the mouth.
Plants dangled from pegs
beside padlocks. Reaching,
though they weren’t.
A dark stain on concrete.
A little water.
Let’s go, I said,
meaning stay
Night Zoo
Dogs ravaged the yard where yesterday
rabbits and toads. The dead
fed to the cages and the dark.
The mouth of the mouth.
Plants dangled from pegs
beside padlocks. Reaching,
though they weren’t.
A dark stain on concrete.
A little water.
Let’s go, I said,
meaning stay
Untitled
.
The painter's hands are busy
dissecting a rainbow
in search of Monet's blue
and that dusk of Van Gogh's
Unhappy with the canvas
he rages in red, splattered
blood on black and blue.
i fade out
...........a
.............pinkish
.....................hue
.
The painter's hands are busy
dissecting a rainbow
in search of Monet's blue
and that dusk of Van Gogh's
Unhappy with the canvas
he rages in red, splattered
blood on black and blue.
i fade out
...........a
.............pinkish
.....................hue
.
saltwater swim
M.,
saltwater swim. today. the pool near Naden. where all the sailors go. I can spot one a mile away. tattoo. Canadian maple leaf. awkward with their own kids. strangers. on leave.
I spot soldier too. his gait. old guy. retired, maybe 15 years. something in the way he grits his teeth, narrows eyes. they all walk. swim. die. soldier.
and before you. I couldn’t see. invisible. every one.
saltwater swim. I txted you. th watr’s wrm come on in. then breast-stroked. side-stroked. back-stroked. crawled. my ½ hr. until I didn’t think.
in the changeroom my body. the mirror. wasted on only me. I turned away. drove downtown. ate. walked alone down the city street. May. sun amber. received your txt. I wish I could.
then drove home. stopped. looked at blue herons on the lagoon. sent you the txt. I’ve wanted to send since the first second. I met you.
saltwater swim. water warm. M. when you’re ready. really ready. come on in.
S
Thursday, May 22, 2008
tourists
in the yard, horses snort,
kick at the sun and jump
for men in black caps
who clap and shout in portuguese
ease of a sunday afternoon
the same in every language
curly-haired girls stand back,
twist easter dresses
in their small hands
everyone waiting to be called
for dinner but us,
standing at the window
of our rented room
later, we’ll walk to town
for wine, fish roasted with garlic
and soft, white potatoes,
then lean into the dark
of a country road that is not ours
in the yard, horses snort,
kick at the sun and jump
for men in black caps
who clap and shout in portuguese
ease of a sunday afternoon
the same in every language
curly-haired girls stand back,
twist easter dresses
in their small hands
everyone waiting to be called
for dinner but us,
standing at the window
of our rented room
later, we’ll walk to town
for wine, fish roasted with garlic
and soft, white potatoes,
then lean into the dark
of a country road that is not ours
How to walk the road to nowhere
Begin by waking, gradual
guarded morning-after, blood-shot.
and forwards. There are no words written
arms, legs, hands to stomach, headache;
clothes where they fell or
pimpled piles of cotton. Slide
ankle over on a boot.
three. Lights, on. Curtains
for signs of life, wind.
Gaze at the face in the mirror:
last night’s deep smudge—
fucking. A stranger.
Slump on the bed and suffer
ravaged by rituals—
winch of swollen lids. The
guarded morning-after, blood-shot.
Think backwards
and forwards. There are no words written
on the ceiling. Take an inventory:
arms, legs, hands to stomach, headache;
contacts, removed; pyjamas, on;
clothes where they fell or
were thrown, peeled by hands,
pimpled piles of cotton. Slide
feet to the floor and rise. Turn
ankle over on a boot.
Add up every new bruise—
three. Lights, on. Curtains
still open. Watch the trees
for signs of life, wind.
Walk with care to the bathroom.
Gaze at the face in the mirror:
mascara blackened cheeks, eyes,
last night’s deep smudge—
the robber’s mask. Remember
fucking. A stranger.
Vomit. Only once.
Slump on the bed and suffer
those prairie-flat hours,
ravaged by rituals—
the body’s endless thirst.
love is an impossible narrative
there are too many blue cars in this province.
too often beer commercials on television
are the last stop of wisdom. at the hands of the swarm,
came thus but another swarm. a plethora of bees.
if a murder of crows, why not just a pint, then, of poets?
most contemporary horror films
are but scenes of sudden surprise.
emus run wild through the streets of Edmonton.
someone just let them go.
if this is sinful excess, then let it be sinful.
let it be everything it need be then multiplied.
there were my fingers in that elevator on Whyte
that went nowhere until
we pushed back the button.
this is a true story.
love is a fading photograph
with newer pictures laid overtop.
there are too many blue cars in this province.
cars you can count on the fingers of one hand
coloured peach, lime, orange. the cupboards are bare.
I am caught up with the smooth skin
of an impossible country.
too often beer commercials on television
are the last stop of wisdom. at the hands of the swarm,
came thus but another swarm. a plethora of bees.
if a murder of crows, why not just a pint, then, of poets?
most contemporary horror films
are but scenes of sudden surprise.
emus run wild through the streets of Edmonton.
someone just let them go.
if this is sinful excess, then let it be sinful.
let it be everything it need be then multiplied.
there were my fingers in that elevator on Whyte
that went nowhere until
we pushed back the button.
this is a true story.
love is a fading photograph
with newer pictures laid overtop.
there are too many blue cars in this province.
cars you can count on the fingers of one hand
coloured peach, lime, orange. the cupboards are bare.
I am caught up with the smooth skin
of an impossible country.
Robert Williams b. 1974
Two Hidden Poems by Robert Williams
Things got weird
Like a three year old with a beard
Like a vision of Britney Spears
Like a tuna always seared
Do you like it a lot?
Guess what's on the clock?
I'd rather fanny about on a yacht
Stop staring at the stars
Save The Children
Save The Children
Things got weird
Like a three year old with a beard
Like a vision of Britney Spears
Like a tuna always eared
Do you like it alot?
Guess what's on the clock?
I'd rather fanny about on a yacht
Stop staring at the stars
Is the Richard Gere gerbil story true?
Who came third in World War II?
Did Sooty sleep with Sue
These things I think about
When I'm out with you
What are the holes in biros for?
Which one's which in The Corrs?
Did Geoff Hurst really score?
Cause frankly you're a bore
And I'm not
And if it's leaving season
You're second on the bill
If you won’t leave me baby
I'll find someone who will
I tried love
I'm sorry
I tried love
Does God ever get it wrong?
Where has Gary Barlow gone?
Why is Christmas day so long?
It just goes on and on and on
Like you
And if it's leaving season
You're the second on the bill
If you won't leave me baby
I'll find someone who will
I tried love
I'm sorry
I tried love
Duu du du duu duu...
I tried love
And I'm sorry
I tried love
Things got weird
Like a three year old with a beard
Like a vision of Britney Spears
Like a tuna always seared
Do you like it a lot?
Guess what's on the clock?
I'd rather fanny about on a yacht
Stop staring at the stars
Save The Children
Save The Children
Things got weird
Like a three year old with a beard
Like a vision of Britney Spears
Like a tuna always eared
Do you like it alot?
Guess what's on the clock?
I'd rather fanny about on a yacht
Stop staring at the stars
Is the Richard Gere gerbil story true?
Who came third in World War II?
Did Sooty sleep with Sue
These things I think about
When I'm out with you
What are the holes in biros for?
Which one's which in The Corrs?
Did Geoff Hurst really score?
Cause frankly you're a bore
And I'm not
And if it's leaving season
You're second on the bill
If you won’t leave me baby
I'll find someone who will
I tried love
I'm sorry
I tried love
Does God ever get it wrong?
Where has Gary Barlow gone?
Why is Christmas day so long?
It just goes on and on and on
Like you
And if it's leaving season
You're the second on the bill
If you won't leave me baby
I'll find someone who will
I tried love
I'm sorry
I tried love
Duu du du duu duu...
I tried love
And I'm sorry
I tried love
Clockfire
A spotlight appears to light a large, battery-powered digital clock. The clock displays the correct time and is in perfect working order.
The actors sneak behind the audience and set the theatre on fire.
Exeunt.
The actors sneak behind the audience and set the theatre on fire.
Exeunt.
City Dionysia
The religious festival of the City Dionysia is revived. Playwrights from all nations compete for the greatest of glories.
This revival is meant to be an annual event, but in the end last only this one year. The prize is won by a young, unknown playwright from Athens, who stages a play entitled City Dionysia. The play is awarded the laurels and causes the festival to be cancelled, once again, for all time.
The plot of City Dionysia concerns the great playwright Euripides. Who won first place in the festival four times. And in 406 BC was condemned by the King of Macedonia. And torn apart by dogs.
This revival is meant to be an annual event, but in the end last only this one year. The prize is won by a young, unknown playwright from Athens, who stages a play entitled City Dionysia. The play is awarded the laurels and causes the festival to be cancelled, once again, for all time.
The plot of City Dionysia concerns the great playwright Euripides. Who won first place in the festival four times. And in 406 BC was condemned by the King of Macedonia. And torn apart by dogs.
Autography
The set is minimalist: a small table, a single chair, a stack of books. The Author enters to great applause. He carries a small glass bottle filled with red ink and a feathered quill. The picture of refinement, of class. A sly smile (to indicate humility). The Author winks at the absurdity of his elevated stature. He is everything the audience has expected, everything the audience has dreamed.
(Are there Clockfire festivals yet? The play is well suited to open or to close such festivals.)
The Author sits. The audience rises, and falls into line. Warm, gracious, he signs books. Shakes hands. Smiles. He remembers names, spells them with precision. Makes small talk while crafting deep and witty messages. He signs another copy for your mother. He answers all your questions with aplomb.
He dips his quill into the bottle, splashes red across another page. A blot upon his printed name. The signature in quick but measured strokes. The play continues until the Author has run out of blood.
(Are there Clockfire festivals yet? The play is well suited to open or to close such festivals.)
The Author sits. The audience rises, and falls into line. Warm, gracious, he signs books. Shakes hands. Smiles. He remembers names, spells them with precision. Makes small talk while crafting deep and witty messages. He signs another copy for your mother. He answers all your questions with aplomb.
He dips his quill into the bottle, splashes red across another page. A blot upon his printed name. The signature in quick but measured strokes. The play continues until the Author has run out of blood.
would you?
if i shaved my legs every day
in the winter,
if i dyed my hair red
and bought bigger boobs,
if i whitened my teeth
three shades whiter,
if i put a pole near the
bed in our room,
if i said yes to threesomes
and board games,
if i lost my heart 'n
soul to your will,
if i said i was sorry every
day (just in case),
if we never again ran
out of milk,
would you love me then?
.
in the winter,
if i dyed my hair red
and bought bigger boobs,
if i whitened my teeth
three shades whiter,
if i put a pole near the
bed in our room,
if i said yes to threesomes
and board games,
if i lost my heart 'n
soul to your will,
if i said i was sorry every
day (just in case),
if we never again ran
out of milk,
would you love me then?
.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
flags
o M.,
this, the worst time of day. not night not morning. but 5 p.m. the shoulder time when light is soft. the perfect angle. and I would give anything.
to see you walk in. (to my office - the torn couch @ Café Fantastico!)
I don’t look at the pix you sent. much. you on parade. Sweden? Bosnia? Golan Heights? the flags. the march. your eyes straight. I’ve put them in the back of my moleskine notebook. safe.
work goes. dance, okay. rehearsal in ½ hr. my tangos will do but my bulerias is half-way. across the Atlantic. hope it gets here before I go on stage. it seems I dance with only half my body these days.
listen, this afternoon. I walked into a little shop. west coast hippy. incense, clothes with tiny mirrors. you know the kind. (or maybe you don’t). I bought you a string of Tibetan prayer flags. I’m sending it with the next roto. (with your beef jerky don’t worry).
I bought a string for me too. wrote your initials on them. indelible ink. hung them high above my roof.
promise me. M. promise me. when you get them. with your twizzlers and your Sweet Orient (my treat) you’ll unroll them. slowly. hold them between your fingers. hold them to your face. smell them. keep them somewhere.
safe.
S
a poem by Laura Farina;
Laura Farina did a reading in Edmonton last night, as part of the Factory (West) Reading Series, along with Priscila Uppal + Christopher Doda from Toronto, and Alice Major from Edmonton. Originally from Ottawa, she has lived in various places, including Toronto and Peterborough, and currently lives in Banff, where she works at the Banff Centre Press. Here's a poem she handed out as part of her reading.
An Epic
I am thinking about KISS
no -- I am thikning about kissing
looking out the window
impenetrable as girls are.
A man walks up to me
on two feet.
When he stops, his feet
stop with him.
He does not carry
sword, axe
or amplifier.
He carries in his pocket
one night whispered over
the whisper of a subway.
An urgent warning, unheeded.
Then a summons comes
and then some other stuff.
I eat more cereal than I should.
It is dark before he returns
but he smells of victory.
There are dead rock stars
tracked all over the kitchen floor.
There is some talk
of breaking old habits.
When I finally bed him
it is in the language
of fantasy novels.
An Epic
I am thinking about KISS
no -- I am thikning about kissing
looking out the window
impenetrable as girls are.
A man walks up to me
on two feet.
When he stops, his feet
stop with him.
He does not carry
sword, axe
or amplifier.
He carries in his pocket
one night whispered over
the whisper of a subway.
An urgent warning, unheeded.
Then a summons comes
and then some other stuff.
I eat more cereal than I should.
It is dark before he returns
but he smells of victory.
There are dead rock stars
tracked all over the kitchen floor.
There is some talk
of breaking old habits.
When I finally bed him
it is in the language
of fantasy novels.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Cooking with Heraclitus
1.
You can never make the same soup twice.
Follow the recipe, but the vegetables
fresh or bottom drawer
have their own agenda, local vs. organic.
The stainless steel pot a receptacle for mood.
Caffeine-buzz-covering-a-little-sad squash soup.
2.
Walking the west rim of the gorge on sifted dirt paths
past jack-in-the-chamisa rabbits, juncos’ beak-work
in the tawny seed heads, dogs hurdling over sagebrush--
place reflects back who we are at a particular moment.
Not-thinking-about-thinking-about-her afternoon walk.
3.
Muscle memory: chopping an onion.
Add oil, salt, stir.
Even the wooden spoon holds the yellow
stain of what came before.
You can never make the same soup twice.
Follow the recipe, but the vegetables
fresh or bottom drawer
have their own agenda, local vs. organic.
The stainless steel pot a receptacle for mood.
Caffeine-buzz-covering-a-little-sad squash soup.
2.
Walking the west rim of the gorge on sifted dirt paths
past jack-in-the-chamisa rabbits, juncos’ beak-work
in the tawny seed heads, dogs hurdling over sagebrush--
place reflects back who we are at a particular moment.
Not-thinking-about-thinking-about-her afternoon walk.
3.
Muscle memory: chopping an onion.
Add oil, salt, stir.
Even the wooden spoon holds the yellow
stain of what came before.
sunday night
sunday night
is a pair of pants
suddenly too snug,
a doctor’s waiting room
pale sequel,
artificial flavour
rye too watered
to open the hatch
in my chest,
kiss that doesn’t
follow through
sunday night
is a set-up,
a school-zone
a balk,
a bruise,
a bloom of mould
a lie,
claiming to be part
of the weekend
(this is a draft of a poem i'm working on for the next issue of a paw in my face, a wpg zine. The theme of this issue is hate, counterpoint to the love issue launched last fall. any wpg poets interested in taking part, check out their facebook group for more info.)
sunday night
is a pair of pants
suddenly too snug,
a doctor’s waiting room
pale sequel,
artificial flavour
rye too watered
to open the hatch
in my chest,
kiss that doesn’t
follow through
sunday night
is a set-up,
a school-zone
a balk,
a bruise,
a bloom of mould
a lie,
claiming to be part
of the weekend
(this is a draft of a poem i'm working on for the next issue of a paw in my face, a wpg zine. The theme of this issue is hate, counterpoint to the love issue launched last fall. any wpg poets interested in taking part, check out their facebook group for more info.)
parade
o M.,
the pictures you sent. marching. in your beret. the queen’s crown at your shoulder. your green uniform. pressed. your perfect tie. tight.
I remember you showed me the inside of your briefcase. (that cold night we had). it rattled with tidiness. pads of paper. pens, sharp pencils. your to-do list, an accountant’s ledger. efficient. your business in Vancouver done in three hours. and I thought we had a weekend. ahead.
and I remember your face pressed up against my passenger window looking in. amazed. that anyone would fill a truck with that much crap. books, three flamenco skirts, flamenco shoes (why two pairs you asked), three moleskines (one for notes, one for dreams, one just for you), hair brush, torn maps (you have a GPS), three tall empty starbucks cups, orange peel, yellowed newspaper, hair ties looped around the rear view mirror, dog leash, gum wrappers, ferry tickets, three old New Yorkers, my new black MacBook. everything but a pen or pencil or piece of useful paper.
then later when you held me. so fiercely. I wondered if I could take you. your arms your chest hard to all my softness.
M. you left right left right. 1 2 1 2 1 2 in polished boots. straight. back stiff with purpose. across the garrison. across Wainwright. across Afghanistan. down main street. parade ground.
and I right left right planta tacón turn turn remate. my compas,
12 / / 3/ / 6 / 8 / 10 / 12 / / 3 / / 6 / 8 / 10 / 12 / / 3/ / 6 / 8 / 10 / 12 / / 3/ / 6 / 8 / 10 / 12
in handmade shoes (with cherry heels and 100 silver nails hammered into their soles flown to me all the way from Spain). in the studio five times a week. wear black and purple. have no direction.
but you. so far away (again). not asking me to stay. or come to you.
o M., the pictures you sent.
marching. in your beret. the queen’s crown at your shoulder. your green uniform. pressed. your perfect tie. tight. gorgeous.
S
a poem by Meghan Jackson;
here's a poem by Toronto-area poet Meghan Jackson, from her first poetry collection Movements in Jars (Ottawa ON: Chaudiere Books, 2007). I've been a big fan of her work for some time, ever since I first rec'd her poems in the mail over a decade ago, immediately publishing them as an issue of STANZAS in 1997.
caught
i am the only
one in the
photograph
the colour
photograph the
one on the mantle
when my hair
was long
i am th eonly
one in the
photograph that
konws the taste
of your skin
and that is why
i am smiling
caught
i am the only
one in the
photograph
the colour
photograph the
one on the mantle
when my hair
was long
i am th eonly
one in the
photograph that
konws the taste
of your skin
and that is why
i am smiling
At Narcisse
At Narcisse, the woman hunkers down at the fence
her face covered by a large hat festooned
with ribbons. She offers pink fingertips
& the dry meat of her palms
to the small questing female in the trees
(her lovers shoelace-thin
& toothless).
The snake aspires to the sheer bedrock
climbs of her older sisters, fat black hoses
in the middle of mating balls
making their way up
then tumbling down tumbling down
but she is still young & has rushed through stiff
grasses & dry leaves in pursuit of
in evasion of this rough & tumble spring:
she sees the easier green swath
on the other side of the fence
& makes for it.
The woman offers the ability to shuffle
on her haunches & a wilingness
to shoo boys away (her too-pale nephew, his mouth
ringed with orange crush, set to pounce): Leave her alone!
The snake is turned back but the males sulking
too close to the chain link are sacrificed to pre-teens
with dyed hair & clarion voices who twine snakes
around fingers (the snakes muster
a sign language of nooses & sibilant curses
but are otherwise silent).
At the edge of the parking lot, the woman stands
beside her sister & her sister’s children
who eat from tupperware & whine
about dirty knees.
After her stint at the fence
the woman rushed back to the car,
the air smelling of rain & dead snakes.
her face covered by a large hat festooned
with ribbons. She offers pink fingertips
& the dry meat of her palms
to the small questing female in the trees
(her lovers shoelace-thin
& toothless).
The snake aspires to the sheer bedrock
climbs of her older sisters, fat black hoses
in the middle of mating balls
making their way up
then tumbling down tumbling down
but she is still young & has rushed through stiff
grasses & dry leaves in pursuit of
in evasion of this rough & tumble spring:
she sees the easier green swath
on the other side of the fence
& makes for it.
The woman offers the ability to shuffle
on her haunches & a wilingness
to shoo boys away (her too-pale nephew, his mouth
ringed with orange crush, set to pounce): Leave her alone!
The snake is turned back but the males sulking
too close to the chain link are sacrificed to pre-teens
with dyed hair & clarion voices who twine snakes
around fingers (the snakes muster
a sign language of nooses & sibilant curses
but are otherwise silent).
At the edge of the parking lot, the woman stands
beside her sister & her sister’s children
who eat from tupperware & whine
about dirty knees.
After her stint at the fence
the woman rushed back to the car,
the air smelling of rain & dead snakes.
Monday, May 19, 2008
6 more months
M.,
I pity those poor tourists. You were so drunk last night. I hardly understood. a word. bad connection.
J. emailed. he's coming home. said you signed up to stay on (I knew you would). so you think a few weeks getting faced in Greece is going to scorch grief, get you ready for the 2nd period or is it number 3. Canada vrs. the Taliban.
and me? her? your kids?
another six months. t.v., radio, internet, papers, magazines. makes me want to join a news nunnery. every time they say, “withholding the name until next of kin” something shuts down.
keep busy, you said. mister overtime. mister I can juggle it all. mister armyfatherhusbandlover
but I do. work. write. dance. friends. family. everything (except the best. you).
and take a number, you said. because everyone's always mad at you (but I refuse)
and sometimes I think it’s run out.
but I know it hasn't. because cold keystrokes read at midnight. the buzz of my mobile. the dumbass smiley faces & emoticons you txt. the secret smile every single time there's anything. from you, even drunk. (oh and the surprising softness of your skin still on my lips). they all add up.
and I know I'm signed on for another six months
S
poem about you still incomplete
inside every sentence we grasped
was the promise of more. something smooth.
we in the midst of election.
I can’t wait to see how it ends.
windshield wipers here useless.
the rain falls like dust, unsettled.
was the promise of more. something smooth.
we in the midst of election.
I can’t wait to see how it ends.
windshield wipers here useless.
the rain falls like dust, unsettled.
Clockfire
As promised, though very delayed, three Clockfire posts. I am working steadily on rewriting and writing for this manuscript, only I've been travelling, now visiting my family in Northwestern Ontario. Nice to see the poems here, and to rejoin the fray!
And the Old Gods
And the Old Gods. And the Old Gods go down. Laid gently. Laid gently. And the curtain. Let it fall. Let it fall to cover them. Let it fall and wrap them warm. And the audience. Their applause. Let their applause announce the torch, drown out the crying.
Any Animal
Prior to the performance, along with the program, audience members are given a small piece of paper and a pen. On the paper is printed the age-old question: “If you could choose to be any animal, what animal would you be?”
Audience members are instructed to give their names with their responses. Papers and pens are collected by the ushers and relayed to the actors in the green room.
The actors take the stage, which is adorned with the most advanced medical equipment available at the present time. These actors (a team of skilled surgeons at the top of their respective fields) begin the laborious process of transforming each audience member into their animal of choice.
It is important that the stage and all props be sterilized, and that the audience is allowed to recuperate as needed. As there can be no predicting the animals chosen and what surgeries might be required, a wide range of specialists must be cast. And should anyone protest, and wish to remain human, remind them that the world has changed. That the performance has begun.
Audience members are instructed to give their names with their responses. Papers and pens are collected by the ushers and relayed to the actors in the green room.
The actors take the stage, which is adorned with the most advanced medical equipment available at the present time. These actors (a team of skilled surgeons at the top of their respective fields) begin the laborious process of transforming each audience member into their animal of choice.
It is important that the stage and all props be sterilized, and that the audience is allowed to recuperate as needed. As there can be no predicting the animals chosen and what surgeries might be required, a wide range of specialists must be cast. And should anyone protest, and wish to remain human, remind them that the world has changed. That the performance has begun.
The Audience Wants More
A play is performed. It does not matter. Any play. The point is this: the audience wants more. So the play is repeated. But this is not acceptable, this is not enough.
The audience wants more. Something greater. Something only hinted at in the first performance.
The actors are taken hostage. They repeat the play, repeat it again. Repeating and repeating, they are worked until their deaths. But even this is not enough. The audience wants. The audience wants more.
The audience wants more. Something greater. Something only hinted at in the first performance.
The actors are taken hostage. They repeat the play, repeat it again. Repeating and repeating, they are worked until their deaths. But even this is not enough. The audience wants. The audience wants more.
Curriculum Vita
He introduces me
a friend of the family
safe boring career,
a recent award.
I smile politely
hold out a hand.
She looks over
my conservative suit
designer frames
wedding ring
firmly implanted --
dismisses an obvious
non-threat.
I make small talk
ask about his sister,
the parents,
encourage her
easy assessment
even as I catalogue
the prime uneraseable
omission from the resume
that night
back when we were
bony-young beauties
unstoppable
immortal
skinny dipping
in the moonlit ocean
and what happened after
on the rocks
and in the cemetery
that's private history
our own personal cv
not for distribution
to the general public
~~~~~~~
I'm on the road again - have a couple more to share when I get back, but must dash out now for more sightseeing...
a friend of the family
safe boring career,
a recent award.
I smile politely
hold out a hand.
She looks over
my conservative suit
designer frames
wedding ring
firmly implanted --
dismisses an obvious
non-threat.
I make small talk
ask about his sister,
the parents,
encourage her
easy assessment
even as I catalogue
the prime uneraseable
omission from the resume
that night
back when we were
bony-young beauties
unstoppable
immortal
skinny dipping
in the moonlit ocean
and what happened after
on the rocks
and in the cemetery
that's private history
our own personal cv
not for distribution
to the general public
~~~~~~~
I'm on the road again - have a couple more to share when I get back, but must dash out now for more sightseeing...
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Entre Deux Soupirs
. . .
Cassée, cassée
La lune est cassée!
Cassée cassée
cASSée!!
la lUNE…
CA-ssée.
ahh..oui, bonhomme.
je ne sais comment lui dire:
how do i explain to the boy
who chases his shadow on
sunny summer afternoons
that he and i are (pour un instant)
standing on one big ball in
some vast universe, casting a
shadow~une ombre~on his most precious moon?
i want to tell him not to worry so,
i want him to know that the moon
is not really broken...
Elle est belle quand-même,
n'est-ce-pas, bonhomme?
soUPir
.
Cassée, cassée
La lune est cassée!
Cassée cassée
cASSée!!
la lUNE…
CA-ssée.
ahh..oui, bonhomme.
je ne sais comment lui dire:
how do i explain to the boy
who chases his shadow on
sunny summer afternoons
that he and i are (pour un instant)
standing on one big ball in
some vast universe, casting a
shadow~une ombre~on his most precious moon?
i want to tell him not to worry so,
i want him to know that the moon
is not really broken...
Elle est belle quand-même,
n'est-ce-pas, bonhomme?
soUPir
.
pastoral
from serpa south to cacela velha
sheep won’t meet our eyes,
faces buried in their graze
as if they breathed green
cows too weary and weighted
to turn their slow, heavy heads
to the road as we ride on quiet tires,
jackets flapping at our backs
no one waves from windows
of passing cars
horses cliquish and cool
as we wobble uphill,
coast gracefully down
but donkeys, always solitary,
watch with soft, dark eyes,
nose over fenceposts at our scent,
wait patiently just to see us
glide through the afternoon
from serpa south to cacela velha
sheep won’t meet our eyes,
faces buried in their graze
as if they breathed green
cows too weary and weighted
to turn their slow, heavy heads
to the road as we ride on quiet tires,
jackets flapping at our backs
no one waves from windows
of passing cars
horses cliquish and cool
as we wobble uphill,
coast gracefully down
but donkeys, always solitary,
watch with soft, dark eyes,
nose over fenceposts at our scent,
wait patiently just to see us
glide through the afternoon
ramp ceremony
o M.,
last night I saw you hold your man’s beret, walk in front. slow left slow right. towards the yawning Hercules. you golden and lined under sodium light.
I watched the five seconds of ramp ceremony on t.v. last night. between Canadian Tire and Tide extra clean. just before Canadian Idol.
number 88.
I remember number 1. his name, his photo, his family all over the pages, the airwaves for days. Canada arguing/oblivious/hostile to you, your men. getting your hands filthy over there.
(tell me, M., are ramp ceremonies always at night?)
then I saw J. pall bearing. slow. terrible casket two-step. the red leaf flat, draping your dead man home.
S
poem of small devices
there is an increasing list of items they recommend
you not take to airports.
a strand of your hair caught up in my sleeve,
wrapped around my wrist.
it is important at least once
to see the country you live in
from space. from our house on the moon,
we play baseball games that always end
when one of us hits. each ball
pushes further away from us.
you not take to airports.
a strand of your hair caught up in my sleeve,
wrapped around my wrist.
it is important at least once
to see the country you live in
from space. from our house on the moon,
we play baseball games that always end
when one of us hits. each ball
pushes further away from us.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
dogs of portugal
the dogs of portugal are too aloof
to sniff, fetch, lick fingers
they refuse to be called buddy,
won’t make eye contact,
have no interest
in our pockets and crotches
untethered and independent
they trot busily across cobbles
like doctors on call
so mature and serious i’m surprised,
every time i step in shit,
they haven’t picked up after themselves
the dogs of portugal are too aloof
to sniff, fetch, lick fingers
they refuse to be called buddy,
won’t make eye contact,
have no interest
in our pockets and crotches
untethered and independent
they trot busily across cobbles
like doctors on call
so mature and serious i’m surprised,
every time i step in shit,
they haven’t picked up after themselves
UNTITLED
UNTITLED
occasionally, without majestic
refinement
I feel good,
my metronome heals itself
internalize joy with glee
splashing fits of circulation
I try to adore less
imbibe less drive
less chemical
wheels
still, madness likes to
bring me flowers
I’ve always seen
a brightness in leftovers.
occasionally, without majestic
refinement
I feel good,
my metronome heals itself
internalize joy with glee
splashing fits of circulation
I try to adore less
imbibe less drive
less chemical
wheels
still, madness likes to
bring me flowers
I’ve always seen
a brightness in leftovers.
FAKE OCEAN POEM
When youre brought into this world
They say youre born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didnt have to steal or have to win
Well they tell me that I'm wanted
Yeah I'm a wanted man
I'm colt in your stable
I'm what cain was to abel
Mister catch me if you can
Everything so blurry
Everyone's so fake
Wind juicing thin through the thorn from fast forward,
And the woman calling. The audience leaving.
And everybody's empty
And everything is so messed up
Pre-occupied without you
So make up your own ending
And let me know just how you feel
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves rewind around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
I cannot live at all
My whole world surrounds you
I stumble and I crawl
You could be my someone
You could be my
Broken social scene
you Know that I'll protect you from all of the obscene
Im going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
Im going down in a blaze of glory
Lord I never drew first
But how can I protect you
I don't know your name
But I drew first blood
Im no ones son
Call me young gun
You ask about my consience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if Ill grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if Ill grow old
You ask me if I known love
And what its like to sing songs in the rain
Well,Ive seen love come
And Ive seen it shot down
Ive seen it die in vain
Shot down in a blaze of glory
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Wonder what you're doing
Imagine where you are
Oceans in between
a recognized symbol of Excellence in
Can you take it all away
Can you it all away
When you shoved it in my face
This pain you gave to me
Can you take it all away
Can you take it all away
When you shoved it in my face
Everyone is changing
There's no one left that's real
'Cause I am lost without you
I cannot live at all
My whole world surrounds you
I stumble and I crawl
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as close to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
Nobody told me what to find
Nobody told me what to say
No one showed you where to turn
Told you where to run away
Nobody told you where to hide
Nobody told you what to say
No one showed you where to turn
Showed you where to run away
Can you take it all away
Can you fake it Al
When you shoved it in my face
Explain again to me
Can you take it all away
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wrestlessness,
A mania, a madness
Frail and fall
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
Can you take it all away
When you shoved it in my face
this pain you gave to me
gave to me
this pain you gave to me
Take me now but know the truth
Im the devils son
Call me young gun
Each night I go to bed
I pray the lord my soul to keep
No I aint looking for forgiveness
But before Im six foot deep
Lord,i got to ask a favour
And the woman calling.
They say youre born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didnt have to steal or have to win
Well they tell me that I'm wanted
Yeah I'm a wanted man
I'm colt in your stable
I'm what cain was to abel
Mister catch me if you can
Everything so blurry
Everyone's so fake
Wind juicing thin through the thorn from fast forward,
And the woman calling. The audience leaving.
And everybody's empty
And everything is so messed up
Pre-occupied without you
So make up your own ending
And let me know just how you feel
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves rewind around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
I cannot live at all
My whole world surrounds you
I stumble and I crawl
You could be my someone
You could be my
Broken social scene
you Know that I'll protect you from all of the obscene
Im going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
Im going down in a blaze of glory
Lord I never drew first
But how can I protect you
I don't know your name
But I drew first blood
Im no ones son
Call me young gun
You ask about my consience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if Ill grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if Ill grow old
You ask me if I known love
And what its like to sing songs in the rain
Well,Ive seen love come
And Ive seen it shot down
Ive seen it die in vain
Shot down in a blaze of glory
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Wonder what you're doing
Imagine where you are
Oceans in between
a recognized symbol of Excellence in
Can you take it all away
Can you it all away
When you shoved it in my face
This pain you gave to me
Can you take it all away
Can you take it all away
When you shoved it in my face
Everyone is changing
There's no one left that's real
'Cause I am lost without you
I cannot live at all
My whole world surrounds you
I stumble and I crawl
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as close to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
Nobody told me what to find
Nobody told me what to say
No one showed you where to turn
Told you where to run away
Nobody told you where to hide
Nobody told you what to say
No one showed you where to turn
Showed you where to run away
Can you take it all away
Can you fake it Al
When you shoved it in my face
Explain again to me
Can you take it all away
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wrestlessness,
A mania, a madness
Frail and fall
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
Can you take it all away
When you shoved it in my face
this pain you gave to me
gave to me
this pain you gave to me
Take me now but know the truth
Im the devils son
Call me young gun
Each night I go to bed
I pray the lord my soul to keep
No I aint looking for forgiveness
But before Im six foot deep
Lord,i got to ask a favour
And the woman calling.
map of edmonton (belgravia)
for doug barbour
1.
where trestle
comes up against bone
an endless spark, a promise
don’t compete
for the same word
the ground relents
& the street goes
& the rock
& the stone
& the slapdash of houses
festooned
in postwar arc
2.
if you cut every sentence
like silk
or like leaves
in his basement office
in belgravia, nights
& the virginal self
would her hands
& the olive, the olive
festooned
in new home
1.
where trestle
comes up against bone
an endless spark, a promise
don’t compete
for the same word
the ground relents
& the street goes
& the rock
& the stone
& the slapdash of houses
festooned
in postwar arc
2.
if you cut every sentence
like silk
or like leaves
in his basement office
in belgravia, nights
& the virginal self
would her hands
& the olive, the olive
festooned
in new home
Friday, May 16, 2008
matériel
M.,
I still shake. this cold longing and fear a fog bank. and here on the coast it’s so hot today (30 C) and still I can’t clear. can’t feel heat.
days pass. then you write three words, take it easy. nothing more. sign, M, no x’s.
and W.O., love is a fucking desert (war) sometimes. and I have no matériel.
S
an opening of the plains
closes a door
& a door
how do you solve a problem
like medea
a mountain
what youve never seen
john goodman
in barton fink
the pixies
, saskatoon
that one time
you said it
you said it,
again
the air
is thick enough
w/ dust
to be afraid
of venus flytraps
& a door
how do you solve a problem
like medea
a mountain
what youve never seen
john goodman
in barton fink
the pixies
, saskatoon
that one time
you said it
you said it,
again
the air
is thick enough
w/ dust
to be afraid
of venus flytraps
Still a Banff poem
..only this really has nothing to do with naming things, but I had so much fun writing it I thought I should share.
A partial letter to Mimi in Paris, written at a jazz club during the last set
They say equations are everything. Sometimes we work them out. Mathematically speaking, the Eiffel tower owes its life to a woman. Sure, that tower is tall, but so is a mountain in Banff, an elevation of over 8,000 feet of rock that pushes up and out, getting in the way of even itself. There is the need to conquer these heights. We are much like men, I suppose. Yours included. He is watching me now you know, as I sit at this table pretending to write you a letter that you will never get, not knowing your address, or anything about you, only knowing how to address the issues I’m sure you wouldn’t want to know. They say your man is a player, but according to our mothers, we shouldn’t believe anything we hear. I prefer to think he was an instrument: a trombone I pumped, a bass where I pulled every string. If he were a drum, oh how I banged him. Even the air was filled with the half-spit tune of night, the melody of skin scraping skin, the fleshed out note held in a solo re-entering. The song was a place we climbed into, clinging to the cliffside, bass and treble meeting for the first time, plus and minus solving the problem of whose mouth goes where. And although the name he sang from the peak was yours, we straddled that summit together.
A partial letter to Mimi in Paris, written at a jazz club during the last set
They say equations are everything. Sometimes we work them out. Mathematically speaking, the Eiffel tower owes its life to a woman. Sure, that tower is tall, but so is a mountain in Banff, an elevation of over 8,000 feet of rock that pushes up and out, getting in the way of even itself. There is the need to conquer these heights. We are much like men, I suppose. Yours included. He is watching me now you know, as I sit at this table pretending to write you a letter that you will never get, not knowing your address, or anything about you, only knowing how to address the issues I’m sure you wouldn’t want to know. They say your man is a player, but according to our mothers, we shouldn’t believe anything we hear. I prefer to think he was an instrument: a trombone I pumped, a bass where I pulled every string. If he were a drum, oh how I banged him. Even the air was filled with the half-spit tune of night, the melody of skin scraping skin, the fleshed out note held in a solo re-entering. The song was a place we climbed into, clinging to the cliffside, bass and treble meeting for the first time, plus and minus solving the problem of whose mouth goes where. And although the name he sang from the peak was yours, we straddled that summit together.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Quahog
To outlive Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth,
only to be cut in half, declared the oldest animal
that once lived. Like so many artists
gaining posthumous fame. Celebrity clam,
christened Ming—counting its rings, what clues
can scientists find to stop climate change,
or better yet, aging? The new Botox, four hundred years
of seafloor boredom injected into our foreheads.
The ancient Egyptians used Frankincense oil.
The Chinese, ginko. My friend blew $30 on eye cream,
says, we’ll see if it works in ten years. Just blink
and we’re halfway through the month, living
weekend to weekend. Deathbed haiku:
the quahog’s last words--water siphoned, spit out.
Translation: we’re all filter feeders.
Take what comes. What if
we enjoyed our bodies now
instead of mourning what no longer fits.
Jeanne Calment, who lived to be a record 122
said, “I have but one wrinkle, and I’m sitting on it.”
---
I could tinker with this indefinitely, but I'm curious to see what's working and what's not.
Also, I'm a bit behind on my comments. It's been a crazy week at work, but I hope to catch up soon.
only to be cut in half, declared the oldest animal
that once lived. Like so many artists
gaining posthumous fame. Celebrity clam,
christened Ming—counting its rings, what clues
can scientists find to stop climate change,
or better yet, aging? The new Botox, four hundred years
of seafloor boredom injected into our foreheads.
The ancient Egyptians used Frankincense oil.
The Chinese, ginko. My friend blew $30 on eye cream,
says, we’ll see if it works in ten years. Just blink
and we’re halfway through the month, living
weekend to weekend. Deathbed haiku:
the quahog’s last words--water siphoned, spit out.
Translation: we’re all filter feeders.
Take what comes. What if
we enjoyed our bodies now
instead of mourning what no longer fits.
Jeanne Calment, who lived to be a record 122
said, “I have but one wrinkle, and I’m sitting on it.”
---
I could tinker with this indefinitely, but I'm curious to see what's working and what's not.
Also, I'm a bit behind on my comments. It's been a crazy week at work, but I hope to catch up soon.
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