All of my great loves
have gotten married now
mostly to people
I don't approve of.
But then, that's not my job
is it?
Three of my great loves
are musicians, two are writers,
a couple in business and
one I don't really keep track of,
despite advances in technology.
Because that's not really my job,
is it?
One of my great loves
is dead, and some of
them can only be found
in books.
But then telling stories
has become my job,
hasn't it?
All of my great loves
have gotten married now
But then, so have I.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Friday's poem
I'm on the road, so posting for 2 days now...
My starter poem from yesterday first:
Solemly, slowly
sensually, stoned-ly
slamming
Obviously, originally
odiously, opportunely
opening
Weirdly, winsomely
wickedly, wantonly
winning
Happily, hauntedly
harrowingly, hotly
hoping
Actually, awfully
artfully, awesomely
advancing
Truly, tastefully
totally, temptingly
trusting
My starter poem from yesterday first:
Solemly, slowly
sensually, stoned-ly
slamming
Obviously, originally
odiously, opportunely
opening
Weirdly, winsomely
wickedly, wantonly
winning
Happily, hauntedly
harrowingly, hotly
hoping
Actually, awfully
artfully, awesomely
advancing
Truly, tastefully
totally, temptingly
trusting
gotta stop writing about the weather...
10k/30km/hr
wind defines your body
as earth
wants to erode you,
roll you, ravage
you rebuff,
straight as a knife blade,
let the wind break
on your chin,
leave tears
on your cheeks
but it’s dogged
in its vocation:
seize, discard
tell yourself
wind is only air,
you are muscle, teeth
bite it, swallow
use it to scrub your lungs,
then spit it out --
rank, used,
inscribed
with your heat
and breath
wind defines your body
as earth
wants to erode you,
roll you, ravage
you rebuff,
straight as a knife blade,
let the wind break
on your chin,
leave tears
on your cheeks
but it’s dogged
in its vocation:
seize, discard
tell yourself
wind is only air,
you are muscle, teeth
bite it, swallow
use it to scrub your lungs,
then spit it out --
rank, used,
inscribed
with your heat
and breath
Meseta
foot west-ward into your shadow—
Malángel, the badass angel with gangrene toes, beckons—
unready,
ascend the great Spanish plain,
your muscles/bones/mind grind one step
one step one step deeper into a gorgeous Death-
wedding of wild orchids, blue flax, blood poppies;
at Carrion de los Condes,
at Monasterio Santa Clara, he comes unbidden
in the scent of oranges from Sevilla,
in the hot shower that cannot wash la Rioja’s red earth from your skin,
in the glass of brandy and smoke and glances of old men
and you embrace him;
in the Meseta,
Malángel rattles plastic bags at 4 a.m.,
bowls stars down the Milky Way,
dances tangos;
in the Meseta,
no resolution, no answer,
just foot and knee and hip and click of stick;
still, the Meseta,
her cathedrals are barley,
her acolytes, black swallows dipping fields,
her angels are storks in towers clacking you on
until exhausted, spent,
the white lace of León’s spires come into sight.
Malángel, the badass angel with gangrene toes, beckons—
unready,
ascend the great Spanish plain,
your muscles/bones/mind grind one step
one step one step deeper into a gorgeous Death-
wedding of wild orchids, blue flax, blood poppies;
at Carrion de los Condes,
at Monasterio Santa Clara, he comes unbidden
in the scent of oranges from Sevilla,
in the hot shower that cannot wash la Rioja’s red earth from your skin,
in the glass of brandy and smoke and glances of old men
and you embrace him;
in the Meseta,
Malángel rattles plastic bags at 4 a.m.,
bowls stars down the Milky Way,
dances tangos;
in the Meseta,
no resolution, no answer,
just foot and knee and hip and click of stick;
still, the Meseta,
her cathedrals are barley,
her acolytes, black swallows dipping fields,
her angels are storks in towers clacking you on
until exhausted, spent,
the white lace of León’s spires come into sight.
How to name a mountain
It will come to you late at night
as you rumple a strange bed
with all the day’s restlessness,
wrestle pillows into similar
triangular positions, how to
remember a name. Listening to the train’s
howl biting night’s expert ear, you learn
the mind’s pace,
label everything from whiteness
to dying as overwintered secrets.
And in the morning you begin
to call one gloat when it talks
down to you; one claustrophobic
when it closes in; the treed one
pride when it gets in the way
of the horizon.
Nouns linger in dead grasses
unpacked from hibernation’s suitcase,
words you work out
on the treadmill of the tongue
persistent thoughts ironed out,
this smoothing simple the past’s
echo, an outline
you can never fully stash away.
Call this the repeat of what you keep
working on, what you try to translate
and understand, memory’s sharp questions—
things you can’t name.
as you rumple a strange bed
with all the day’s restlessness,
wrestle pillows into similar
triangular positions, how to
remember a name. Listening to the train’s
howl biting night’s expert ear, you learn
the mind’s pace,
label everything from whiteness
to dying as overwintered secrets.
And in the morning you begin
to call one gloat when it talks
down to you; one claustrophobic
when it closes in; the treed one
pride when it gets in the way
of the horizon.
Nouns linger in dead grasses
unpacked from hibernation’s suitcase,
words you work out
on the treadmill of the tongue
persistent thoughts ironed out,
this smoothing simple the past’s
echo, an outline
you can never fully stash away.
Call this the repeat of what you keep
working on, what you try to translate
and understand, memory’s sharp questions—
things you can’t name.
a poem by John Newlove;
Here is a poem by the late Canadian poet John Newlove (1938-2003) from A Long Continual Argument: The Selected Poems of John Newlove, edited by Robert McTavish, with an afterword by Jeff Derksen, published by Chaudiere Books in October 2007. “IT’S WINTER IN OTTAWA” appeared earlier as “LEONARD, IT’S WINTER IN OTTAWA” in a fetschcrift for Leonard Cohen edited by Ken Norris and Michael Fournier, published by The Muses’ Company, and was, admittedly, the main reason I spent my last seventeen or eighteen dollars on the collection, for that, and his poem “THE CAT.” It was mainly for the first. The second poem was good, but not nearly as good as the other. And I thought, the least poem of the later chapbook, THE TASMANIAN DEVIL and other poems (above/ground press, 1999). Newlove acts as apologist for the pessimism that too many have seen in his work, to the exclusion of so much else, including the dry humour of “the machine / in the half-lit room is scribbling my future.”
IT'S WINTER IN OTTAWA
The streets are full of overweight corporals,
of sad grey computer captains, the impedimentia
of a capital city, struggling through the snow.
There is a cold gel on my belly, an instrument
is stroking it incisively, the machine
in the half-lit room is scribbling my future.
It is not illegal to be unhappy.
A shadowy technician says alternately,
Breathe, and, You may stop now.
It is not unreasonable to be unhappy.
related notes: see my earlier piece on more of Newlove's poems here; or this one;
IT'S WINTER IN OTTAWA
The streets are full of overweight corporals,
of sad grey computer captains, the impedimentia
of a capital city, struggling through the snow.
There is a cold gel on my belly, an instrument
is stroking it incisively, the machine
in the half-lit room is scribbling my future.
It is not illegal to be unhappy.
A shadowy technician says alternately,
Breathe, and, You may stop now.
It is not unreasonable to be unhappy.
related notes: see my earlier piece on more of Newlove's poems here; or this one;
the sleep-over
she wonders if he will comfort himself
so easily with words
when he is older -
will he chatter himself into deep sleep when is four and forty-four?
she hopes...
he awakens with the dawn.
his untimely stir has me hoping that this is a mistake.
have i dreamt the little boy who fell asleep on my chest?
i squint one eye open and his sunny smile awaits me. he is seated upright, looking down at my face and proving himself french by the flailing of his arms as he feverishly spews out words and words and words. it is clear that they are important, though i understand not one. it isn’t french he is speaking, nor english nor spanish. I have spoken no others to him, although... he knows the language of all things unseen, of that i have made certain; he surpasses me now in the language of wind and of rain (when the sun shines) and of trains not yet arrived.
good morning, sunshine, i try out my lips. qu’est-ce-qu’il y a, mon bonhomme?
his words are well chosen and he has decided against periods. but like saramago and blais, he has mastered the comma with his soft sighful pauses. expressive, articulate, he points to the sun behind the closed blind and he looks at me and he beams.
ah, yes, how silly of me...he speaks sun. (adults can be quite slow at catching on, as you know.)
i smile back, i say “OUI!”.
he is pleased i understand and we are now in agreement that all has been said on the subject of dawn. with his little boy legs, he bravely descends the lofty bed and pitter-patters his way in the direction of day.
.
so easily with words
when he is older -
will he chatter himself into deep sleep when is four and forty-four?
she hopes...
he awakens with the dawn.
his untimely stir has me hoping that this is a mistake.
have i dreamt the little boy who fell asleep on my chest?
i squint one eye open and his sunny smile awaits me. he is seated upright, looking down at my face and proving himself french by the flailing of his arms as he feverishly spews out words and words and words. it is clear that they are important, though i understand not one. it isn’t french he is speaking, nor english nor spanish. I have spoken no others to him, although... he knows the language of all things unseen, of that i have made certain; he surpasses me now in the language of wind and of rain (when the sun shines) and of trains not yet arrived.
good morning, sunshine, i try out my lips. qu’est-ce-qu’il y a, mon bonhomme?
his words are well chosen and he has decided against periods. but like saramago and blais, he has mastered the comma with his soft sighful pauses. expressive, articulate, he points to the sun behind the closed blind and he looks at me and he beams.
ah, yes, how silly of me...he speaks sun. (adults can be quite slow at catching on, as you know.)
i smile back, i say “OUI!”.
he is pleased i understand and we are now in agreement that all has been said on the subject of dawn. with his little boy legs, he bravely descends the lofty bed and pitter-patters his way in the direction of day.
.
Friday, May 02, 2008
day two
(Anyone know how to change the spacing between words. I need to do that here, to give a sense of the rhythm, but the spaces get lost when I publish...)
heavy bag
slap of gloved knuckle,
flint on leather
jab jab jabjab
cross
machine-accurate,
bolt through the bag
cross cross
fist-flicker:
jabjabjabjab
jabjab
jab
(breathe, drag sleeve along forehead)
cross cross cross clean, heavy
slick, distant kisses
one/TWO
one/TWO
one/TWO
etc.
(breathe)
jab
cross
fire feeds on muscle,
spreads every throw
jab jab jab
flame rages, arm stumbles
jab
cross
cross cross cross
until right arm rusts through,
left already ash
(breathe)
(breathe)
heavy bag
slap of gloved knuckle,
flint on leather
jab jab jabjab
cross
machine-accurate,
bolt through the bag
cross cross
fist-flicker:
jabjabjabjab
jabjab
jab
(breathe, drag sleeve along forehead)
cross cross cross clean, heavy
slick, distant kisses
one/TWO
one/TWO
one/TWO
etc.
(breathe)
jab
cross
fire feeds on muscle,
spreads every throw
jab jab jab
flame rages, arm stumbles
jab
cross
cross cross cross
until right arm rusts through,
left already ash
(breathe)
(breathe)
k@z, 1
in which k's life quest & it's attendant dangers manifest
truth -- taut -- trips over k's sentence
the true path is along a rope, not a rope
suspended way up in the air, but rather
only just over the ground.
k stumbles onto z's paths
withdraws
deepest chasms
or lava flows border
precise & urgent steps
(the italicized section is from Franz Kafka, The Zürau Aphorisms. Trans. Michael Hofmann. New York: Schocken, 2006.)
from The Banff Sessions;
curves me writing, mountain blue jeans down
, to strip your lines a weather
whether place, a lovers
warm tectonic, plate
overlooks a thin hand, lake louise, a thunder
where there were no cloud
transforming into peaks
the war is leaving architecture, desire breeds
& multiplies, says stick it
would molehill out a slow full snow
, to strip your lines a weather
whether place, a lovers
warm tectonic, plate
overlooks a thin hand, lake louise, a thunder
where there were no cloud
transforming into peaks
the war is leaving architecture, desire breeds
& multiplies, says stick it
would molehill out a slow full snow
Reccie
He’s on leave. She’s AWOL. He txts, je suis ici. She carries daffodils. For him. Wears polka dot gloves. Commercial Drive. Little Italy. Torte di Limone. Little shots of espresso in the afternoon.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
warm up poem
feint
robin threads a worm
sure and precise
as it unlaces the backyard,
but even now, may,
we’re too timid to speak
the word spring aloud
we can’t trust the sun
or anything green,
call the rhubarb foolish
but wish we had its confidence,
the clear, sweet faith of warblers
folded tight as leaf-buds
we’ll wait until we’re certain
the footsteps have receded
robin threads a worm
sure and precise
as it unlaces the backyard,
but even now, may,
we’re too timid to speak
the word spring aloud
we can’t trust the sun
or anything green,
call the rhubarb foolish
but wish we had its confidence,
the clear, sweet faith of warblers
folded tight as leaf-buds
we’ll wait until we’re certain
the footsteps have receded
Back again from Webster Groves
This is my 4th year writing with May Day. I am still tending a small midwestern corner of herbs and flowers, active with both Loosley Identified womens poetry collective and the local literary community, inlcuding River Styx. I will be in their reading at Duff's on the 19th. More often I write privately and live quietly. My life is simple, cooking and caring for the earth, watching generations emerge.
Zinnia & Marigold
The seeds are not enough
alone. They require so much more.
Even with the season
unfolding like a rainbow fan
hinged on sunshine with rain tassels
the black specks hide, barely
covered with compost, coded
by a flowering ancestor to grow
when water softens resolve
when warmth allows the code
to unfold again. The planting
is always the first wave of magic
waiting the for the slow color
to emerge, tumbling upward,
spilling into the audience,
the crowd of seating tiny lilies
in white granny caps, the nearly
spent tulips already through
with their stage time.
The curtain of sky draws blue.
These seeds are not enough
without all the hands required,
the soft stirring
of the soil around the promises
laid down before a storm.
Drops of rivers and oceans
head this way, a wet show
to fall on the quiet scene,
carried on what may be
what is needed. The show
must go on.
Zinnia & Marigold
The seeds are not enough
alone. They require so much more.
Even with the season
unfolding like a rainbow fan
hinged on sunshine with rain tassels
the black specks hide, barely
covered with compost, coded
by a flowering ancestor to grow
when water softens resolve
when warmth allows the code
to unfold again. The planting
is always the first wave of magic
waiting the for the slow color
to emerge, tumbling upward,
spilling into the audience,
the crowd of seating tiny lilies
in white granny caps, the nearly
spent tulips already through
with their stage time.
The curtain of sky draws blue.
These seeds are not enough
without all the hands required,
the soft stirring
of the soil around the promises
laid down before a storm.
Drops of rivers and oceans
head this way, a wet show
to fall on the quiet scene,
carried on what may be
what is needed. The show
must go on.
Looking for Real
Astrology.com said that I would be rubbing up against sandpaper today
So I felt duly warned when I met him at six, in the lobby of the grand hotel.
He ordered two martinis and showed me the (not-so-secret)
Secrets of the seventh floor, uninhabited even by us.
He parked the Porsche underneath the BMW in his toy-filled garage
Wanting to play his latest composition on his newest grand piano
Before calling it a night. He wasn’t done with me yet, he said.
I placed my body against the polished ebony hoping I could feel him while he played.
My heart skipped a beat when he showed me his latest acquisition
Sand-papered acrylic is the latest, he said. I rubbed the distorted tree with my fingers
But I couldn’t feel it either, the painted tree protected by plastic
So I reached for his five o’clock shadow, now desperate to feel anything at all.
Do you ever wear make-up? he asked. I know he wants me polished also
Because I might stand out amongst the waxed cars that could feed a small village
And the lacquered sandpaper acquisition, and the shiny people he will want me to meet.
I see you dancing in a field of daisies, he says. I say nothing to the man who doesn’t see.
I am in their midst, in the Botox ballroom of bosomed blonde women.
They have all come, the beautiful people and for a moment I am infected by fairytale lives
Filled with fairytale stories. But my heart sinks at the sadness they are unable to cover with
Their costly new immortal skins. I hold him tight as I would a child.
Then I leave the museum he calls home where we had hoped for respite from our lonely lives
And I know that he will sleep well in his perfect bed near the fireplace by the Klimt.
He will wake up early to his perfect life so he can rush about living his perfect dreams with the perfect women that
Belong to him. And soon he will forget the song he played for me or the seventh floor of the grand hotel.
He will not dream of daisies or of dancing French girls. He will forget how to pronounce my name
Then he will forget my name, and soon he will forget me. We will bump into each other in the lobby
Of some grand hotel one day. He will be with some forged woman avec martini on his way to the seventeenth
Floor to show her a secret. And in the flash of my smile he will wonder if he is required to remember me.
So I felt duly warned when I met him at six, in the lobby of the grand hotel.
He ordered two martinis and showed me the (not-so-secret)
Secrets of the seventh floor, uninhabited even by us.
He parked the Porsche underneath the BMW in his toy-filled garage
Wanting to play his latest composition on his newest grand piano
Before calling it a night. He wasn’t done with me yet, he said.
I placed my body against the polished ebony hoping I could feel him while he played.
My heart skipped a beat when he showed me his latest acquisition
Sand-papered acrylic is the latest, he said. I rubbed the distorted tree with my fingers
But I couldn’t feel it either, the painted tree protected by plastic
So I reached for his five o’clock shadow, now desperate to feel anything at all.
Do you ever wear make-up? he asked. I know he wants me polished also
Because I might stand out amongst the waxed cars that could feed a small village
And the lacquered sandpaper acquisition, and the shiny people he will want me to meet.
I see you dancing in a field of daisies, he says. I say nothing to the man who doesn’t see.
I am in their midst, in the Botox ballroom of bosomed blonde women.
They have all come, the beautiful people and for a moment I am infected by fairytale lives
Filled with fairytale stories. But my heart sinks at the sadness they are unable to cover with
Their costly new immortal skins. I hold him tight as I would a child.
Then I leave the museum he calls home where we had hoped for respite from our lonely lives
And I know that he will sleep well in his perfect bed near the fireplace by the Klimt.
He will wake up early to his perfect life so he can rush about living his perfect dreams with the perfect women that
Belong to him. And soon he will forget the song he played for me or the seventh floor of the grand hotel.
He will not dream of daisies or of dancing French girls. He will forget how to pronounce my name
Then he will forget my name, and soon he will forget me. We will bump into each other in the lobby
Of some grand hotel one day. He will be with some forged woman avec martini on his way to the seventeenth
Floor to show her a secret. And in the flash of my smile he will wonder if he is required to remember me.
rob mclennan's first May-Day post;
Okay, so this is my first post to such a thing as well; what can I tell you? I'm finishing up my tenure at the end of this month as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and then back to Ottawa to promote the upcoming ottawa small press book fair that I've been running twice a year since 1994. Too much! Here is a fragment of a longer thing I was working on last week, while at the Banff Writing Studio [see my other post on such here].from The Banff Sessions
mouth at knees your back,
a downward mastery of slopes
do you breathe me, trees?
pacific out a breeze, warm air
would subvert, slide
this lake of little wishes
in its mastery, floorboards failure
down the mountain path
month-watch, switch & bait,
a cornerstone of halves
tectonic caution, apple waves
little wonder, this were fishes,
would the tongue insider be falling
, falling
rob mclennan
Edmonton AB
How to name a deer
Call him Joe. He will wear army green
in a pub on the corner of Broad and 9th
where his fatigues match your own
throbbing feet, although removing boots
that have sucked on work’s fungus
for nine straight hours is not
recommended. Take a seat, your back to him—
pretend this camouflage works.
Your friend perches across from you,
scopes him for movement.
The manuals predict that the common Joe
will mimic the actions of the female
if they are interested in getting closer. You walk
by him to get to the bathroom. He remains seated.
You order dry ribs and red wine. He drinks beer.
Once engaged, the manuals calculate, the Joe
will easily feed from your hand. You stand,
linger at pictures decorating the walls. He disappears
into the washroom. There are limits to the timing
of this traditional activity. You have one hour.
You finish your nosh, stand and gather your coat.
It is then that he lifts his head, gazes directly at you.
Your eyes will lock with the Joe, two
tables away, hold that blue frozen for more
than the textbook record of ten seconds,
a smile slick as an arrow slipping from your lips.
His eyes will follow as you walk to him,
then past, the dry rib in his fingers, falling.
in a pub on the corner of Broad and 9th
where his fatigues match your own
throbbing feet, although removing boots
that have sucked on work’s fungus
for nine straight hours is not
recommended. Take a seat, your back to him—
pretend this camouflage works.
Your friend perches across from you,
scopes him for movement.
The manuals predict that the common Joe
will mimic the actions of the female
if they are interested in getting closer. You walk
by him to get to the bathroom. He remains seated.
You order dry ribs and red wine. He drinks beer.
Once engaged, the manuals calculate, the Joe
will easily feed from your hand. You stand,
linger at pictures decorating the walls. He disappears
into the washroom. There are limits to the timing
of this traditional activity. You have one hour.
You finish your nosh, stand and gather your coat.
It is then that he lifts his head, gazes directly at you.
Your eyes will lock with the Joe, two
tables away, hold that blue frozen for more
than the textbook record of ten seconds,
a smile slick as an arrow slipping from your lips.
His eyes will follow as you walk to him,
then past, the dry rib in his fingers, falling.
it's may! it's me
hey all, i'm melanie, & this is my first time participating in the Mayday Poems project. most of the time i'm a PhD candidate at the University of Manitoba, but i recently sent out my first poetry manuscript.
i've got some crazy travel planned this month, but i'm going to try for between 15 and 20 new poems this month.
2nd Lieutenant
Chew them, tuck them between your lip and teeth—
Afghanistan, Panjawaii, Kandahar—cock your ear,
hear Alexander mark the pocked Ring Road;
You want desert boots/the hot iron highway; I want
to sleep beneath mulberries; I want to hear you whisper,
“Come woman, study pomegranate, wild roses, the desert.”
You, master maps, theorize tactic, ordnance,
sweat, slog thirty kilos of gun and water, study
white phosphorus; I, pick at words, my carrion;
know only how to walk. One step at a time; You, turn east
when I tell you I’m going over; Draw smokes
from the thigh pocket of your greens, your forearms inked
with your babies’ birthdates, your wife walleted;
Soldier, I will pick bouquets of bullets for you,
bowls of blood flowers under Kandahar’s wolf
moon; Let me strike a match for you, light another cigarette;
Let me inhale, drag deep; For you James, I
will taste hot salt.
Afghanistan, Panjawaii, Kandahar—cock your ear,
hear Alexander mark the pocked Ring Road;
You want desert boots/the hot iron highway; I want
to sleep beneath mulberries; I want to hear you whisper,
“Come woman, study pomegranate, wild roses, the desert.”
You, master maps, theorize tactic, ordnance,
sweat, slog thirty kilos of gun and water, study
white phosphorus; I, pick at words, my carrion;
know only how to walk. One step at a time; You, turn east
when I tell you I’m going over; Draw smokes
from the thigh pocket of your greens, your forearms inked
with your babies’ birthdates, your wife walleted;
Soldier, I will pick bouquets of bullets for you,
bowls of blood flowers under Kandahar’s wolf
moon; Let me strike a match for you, light another cigarette;
Let me inhale, drag deep; For you James, I
will taste hot salt.
a
a is for apple. a is always the first. alludes across ages, apes aspects of art. an alibi for its aggression, anarchic. an admitted asexual, a sexual action, a is up for anything. a comes, arcing, arriving at an absence near you. and abusive, a is a serious affliction. a takes and is taken, attracts action, advocates absinthe. addicted, an animal, automatic in its actions, accountable for nothing. ah, but its attraction is its attitude. are any as arrogant. advancing at the apex of the alphabet, and again, and for all time. amen.
---there is an introductory attempt, will be on vacation for a while and in a week or so, hope all goes well in the meantime.
---there is an introductory attempt, will be on vacation for a while and in a week or so, hope all goes well in the meantime.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
¡Hello, Bonjour, Hola!
My name is Marjo and, umm...okay, I’ll just come out and say it. I’m a virgin May Day-er. There, I’ve said it. It gets worse, though. Writing has always held a valuable place in my life, but I haven’t truly tried my hand at poetry since High School. And even then, I answered to most poetry assignments by walking into the classroom with my right hand wrapped around the neck of my faithful El Dégas. I found it easier to share my words through melody.
I am since an autodidact. Leaving corporate life well behind me a few years ago, I’ve been passionately pursuing several artistic interests much closer to my heart than the green cubicle that held me prisoner for far too long, allowed.
I am grateful and feel humbled to be invited among you all. My goal is, quite simply, to wRiTe!, to learn and to grow, one word at a time. And having only recently joined the world of publishers as a short-story writer, and the inevitable rejection letters that come with, I welcome your feedback and any constructive criticism you May be willing to offer. Donc, je vous demande de m’aider, s’il-vous-plaît! Et, merci...
I am since an autodidact. Leaving corporate life well behind me a few years ago, I’ve been passionately pursuing several artistic interests much closer to my heart than the green cubicle that held me prisoner for far too long, allowed.
I am grateful and feel humbled to be invited among you all. My goal is, quite simply, to wRiTe!, to learn and to grow, one word at a time. And having only recently joined the world of publishers as a short-story writer, and the inevitable rejection letters that come with, I welcome your feedback and any constructive criticism you May be willing to offer. Donc, je vous demande de m’aider, s’il-vous-plaît! Et, merci...
MAY DAY POETRY WITH MR. MOORE
Featured poets Phil Hall author of Oak Hunch (Brick Books, 2005)and Angela Hibbs author of Passport (DC Books, 2006)
Phil's poem first, then Angela's. Discuss. Share. Read. Enjoy.
Killdeer
on my oozing stumps
has drummd her wings long & hard
whipped the years' butcher block rings
into creche shavings
beaten nests of feathered chips
by simulated soar
folded herself into my pages
boatingly
her desperate ruse of broken wing
has settled into gunwales
her closed cry
a prow's nib
the stumps' roots
I thought destined to be fences
are a mob of keels righting
little brown-speckled eggs
safe-adrift-hoving-to
as cloud-shadow swamps fields
the age of flights is followed
by the age of sail
White
The door moves with the fan:
curtain exhales; door slams;
screen sucks curtain in, door opens.
My body is whitewashed walls;
my body is an empty shop window.
My mouth clogged, overflows
with doctor's gauze; wheeled through
the hospital; kept cool
to prevent the spread of germs.
Post-op, I was starving,
stopped with blood and bandages,
soaking with each beat
of druggy heart.
A red-nailed nurse explains,
the Doctor removed your home.
It'll not bother you
anymore, sloshes it
in its jar of formaldehyde.
A white pigeon on white roof,
sky overcast.
Kissing Dead Girls (REVIEW)
Preview of review forthcoming at Danforth Review
Kissing Dead Girls by Daphne Gottlieb is exquisite, globally-sourced, beyond the realm of the “everyday”, which for some reason, in addition to the word “weave” has become routine review words for poetry criticism in recent times. It’s quickly become my favourite poetry release of 2008, though I feel like a real creep reading it in public because of the title, which of course, is way creepier when I write about that in a review than simply well, not mentioning it.
Gottlieb teaches at the New College of California and is the editor of Homewrecker: An Adultery Reader and the forthcoming Fucking Daphne, as well as the author of Final Girl, Why Things Burn, and Pelt. At times Gottlieb is operating without a poetry manuscript manual, corrosively entering and occupying the literary spaces of other genres including drama, the novel / fiction and the essay. Her found poetry, crafted from special interest web curiosity, culls and gels in a sort of erasure style, using italics to different sources that include musings and mashings of existing work that compliments and challenges original form. Kissing Dead Girls is quite simply superbly crafted, chameleonic. Though it is quickly dressed and out the door before you remember their name, you can’t write it off as a pretty poetry fuck-a-thon.
With post-gender realism and none of the sentimental drivel driving points home no one cares about, the voice explodes and shatters with human special effects. Open it up anywhere and you’ll find a cerebral interrogation, hell bent on expressing all of life’s pitiful pitfalls. It’s a collection suffused with passion, aggression and linguistic finality: Gottlieb’s prowess is not excessive but a tool to reveal poem characters caught in the tantalizing web of a sexual dysfunction. In the throes of poetry, this work would be worth seeing performed live.
Using dialogue, confessions, interviews, erotica, Gottlieb’s sexual manifesto is intelligent, lyrical and giving, reminiscent of The Happy Birthday of Death, or Pussy King of the Pirates, Kissing Dead Girls moves in and out of categorical restraints, voice and form, and is entirely worth investigating. Not a safe release, not throwaway smut, but essential smut, reclassified as purging catharsis, as found in ‘The Real Deal’ where Gottlieb revisits Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy” a monster rendition of agony, shame and reality:
“She is ready to be a good little girl, the best girl, she wants to be Daddy’s best girl. She doesn’t make it to work for two days. Her jaw is sore. She can’t sit down because her ass is welted and her cunt is raw and Daddy leaves a message on her phone. It’s Father’s Day. She didn’t call him.”
‘Glass Onion’, is a calm musing on the disposable culture of sex. Gottlieb’s poetry itself enters the difficult terrain of recreating physical empathy and has obviously toiled hard for a meaningful work that cannot be classified as everyday, the official word of 2007 poetry criticism worldwide. The perfect book for the confused pedestrian who thinks in text speak and grunts, with too much “everyday” weaving in and out of their truly miserable lives. (Nathaniel G. Moore, author of Let's Pretend We Never Met)
NGM's May Day Intro
Hello. I'm Nathaniel G. Moore from Toronto though I do infect the literary communities of New York and Montreal from time to time... I'll be posting some reviews here of some books published by Soft Skull and other small presses quite soon. In the meantime, check out Critical Crushes poetry archives for some reviews including David McGimpsey's Sitcom, Cat Power, Canada's Next Top Poet, rob mclennan and others...
I think there's a clip to my Catullus book as well in the search salad...
I think there's a clip to my Catullus book as well in the search salad...
I'm Tracy Hamon, from Regina, but this year I'm writing from Banff where I'm taking part in the writing studio. This is the only picture of me I have on my laptop. Sort of looks like me. It'll have to do.
I'm not sure I'm going with a theme, but if I do, it's the theme of naming things. I think that as poets/or writers we name things all the time, so why not explore that option in the form of poetry. I'm not sure how much I'll post, or how often I'll get to feedback, or what exactly I'm doing anymore, but this is my third year as a Mayday poet, and I'm still as excited about it as I was the first time.
I'm a poet who writes poetry. It's almost May. I'll be writing some poems. Why not read them.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Okay, this is SMSteele writing from the west coast. I was a bit of a dog poet last year because I left mid-May to walk 800 km across northern Spain. To make up for it, I'll write some Spain pieces this year.
My big news is that I'm one of five artists chosen to be a war artist with the 2008-2009 Canadian Forces Artist Program... the first poet in the program's 90+ year history (Alec Colville, A.Y. Jackson etc. are previous war artists). I hope to be going to Afghanistan in the next 18 months. So I'll probably try some soldier pieces out on you this year too.
Thanks for the invite, I look forward to reading everyone's work and hearing what they've got to say about mine.
yours, narratively inclined,
SMSteele
oh yes, on Friday I'm reading at a reception put on by the local firechief for a bunch of firefighters who are here from Kabul... the local firechief has invited them over to train and has asked me to write something for them... I've written something called the Firefighters of Kabul... hope it works...
Monday, April 28, 2008
Back in the Fold
Jonathan Ball here. I was part of the first May Day blog and happy to return to the project. I am originally from various parts of Ontario and lived in Winnipeg from 1998-2005 and now live in Calgary where I am completing a PhD in English. I am studying Canadian literature and creative writing with a focus on experimental art.
I write most everything, primarily fiction and poetry. I've got a poetry book forthcoming from Bookthug (The Words of the Book, co-written with kevin mcpherson eckhoff) and have published poetry and fiction all over Canada and in the US and Australia. I am currently the Managing Editor of dANDelion magazine and also a filmmaker who has directed two films and worked on a bunch more. My film Spoony B was sold to the Comedy Network on a limited license which ends on Halloween of this year.
I used to publish chapbooks as The Martian Press but stopped because it was just taking up all my time and money. However, I love chapbooks and haven't done one for far too long, so my goal during May is to write a draft of a complete chapbook of roughly 30 pages. The project I've chosen to work on is a text called Alphabext which I have been planning to write for some time. I will be combining and sculpting the machine-generated results from www.googlism.com for each letter of the alphabet with original material to create a sort of twisted, avant-garde alphabet book. Let the games begin!
Get to know me!
Hello! Polly here!I currently live in Toronto (not pictured here), but I lived in Winnipeg for 8 years before that. I've also lived in Nova Scotia and 9 of the United States (dual citizen), as well as England and Poland.
On the poetry side of things, I've had poetry appear in CV2 and Lichen and a writing group chapbook called 10 Best Pages. I was commissioned by CBC Radio for its 2006 Poetry FaceOff. This will be my fourth year participating in May Day.
But my creative focus for the last few years has been film and television. I wrote/ directed/ produced a couple of 16mm films, an experimental black and white video short, and a stop-motion animated short. I also served as script supervisor/assistant director on several Winnipeg short films.
A little over a year ago, I completed the Canadian Film Centre’s PrimeTime Television Writing Program. Over the last year, I've been the Associate Producer on a travel show called Bump! which airs on OutTV here in Canada, and around the world. I've got a couple feature scripts on the go as well as a couple of television series ideas I'm trying to get into development.
I miss poetry though, so this is a great way for me to get back to "short form" story-telling!
As far as my goals for this year's May Day project, I would like to complete 15-20 poems by the end of the month.
I look forward to reading everyone's work!
The ball, rolling...
Hey all,
I thought I'd get things going by introducing myself and also presenting youse with a statement of purpose.
My name is Ariel Gordon. With Polly Washburn, I'm a co-founder of May Day.
In terms of my stats, my whys and wherefores, basically I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. My poetry has recently appeared in Prairie Fire, QWERTY, and ::stonestone:: and have also circulated on buses in Manitoba and Alberta.
A hand-made limited-edition chapbook of pregnancy and mothering poems, The navel gaze, is forthcoming from Palimpsest Press in summer 2008.
In my other life, I'm Events Coordinator at bookstore/bistro Aqua Books and write a weekly column on writing and publishing news for the Winnipeg Free Press' Sunday Books Section.
My goal for the fourth year of May Day is to write/post 3-4 poems per week. I don't know if those 3-4 poems will emerge on a timely schedule, say Mon/Wed/Fri/Sun or Tues/Thurs/Sat, or if they'll be all willy-nilly, but them's the goals...
It should go without saying that I'm looking forward to the month of poems (and lessening permafreeze)...
I thought I'd get things going by introducing myself and also presenting youse with a statement of purpose.
My name is Ariel Gordon. With Polly Washburn, I'm a co-founder of May Day.
In terms of my stats, my whys and wherefores, basically I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. My poetry has recently appeared in Prairie Fire, QWERTY, and ::stonestone:: and have also circulated on buses in Manitoba and Alberta. 
A hand-made limited-edition chapbook of pregnancy and mothering poems, The navel gaze, is forthcoming from Palimpsest Press in summer 2008.
In my other life, I'm Events Coordinator at bookstore/bistro Aqua Books and write a weekly column on writing and publishing news for the Winnipeg Free Press' Sunday Books Section.
My goal for the fourth year of May Day is to write/post 3-4 poems per week. I don't know if those 3-4 poems will emerge on a timely schedule, say Mon/Wed/Fri/Sun or Tues/Thurs/Sat, or if they'll be all willy-nilly, but them's the goals...
It should go without saying that I'm looking forward to the month of poems (and lessening permafreeze)...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)