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
Saturday, May 24, 2008
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.
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