The night before
the exhibit closes
I remember
and decide to dash
after quick coffee,
on the last day,
see the collection –
Ming dynasty treasures
travelled from
the earth’s flip side,
fluttering here like
migrating butterflies.
I must catch a glimpse
of such fleeting color
before it escapes,
this one chance
to witness a time and place
no wings of mine
will ever touch.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
night Letters #15 N
night words
for you to keep
secret, hidden little a's
to z's, just like the box
grandpa buried beneath the seat
of his '39 Ford, filled
with french letters.
warm
you can’t let the damp of your t-shirt cool,
sweat dry at the base of your spine,
waiting for your turn in the ring
must move – constantly prod muscle
like keeping a concussion awake
bully the mirror with half-punches,
fingers flying out, fist in full bloom
taunt, quick shift of weight – forward, back,
rev, ready, but hovering over the gas
you can’t let the damp of your t-shirt cool,
sweat dry at the base of your spine,
waiting for your turn in the ring
must move – constantly prod muscle
like keeping a concussion awake
bully the mirror with half-punches,
fingers flying out, fist in full bloom
taunt, quick shift of weight – forward, back,
rev, ready, but hovering over the gas
afternoon, (v)
marjo's meal:
.
I pick the one ripe avocado
nearly black in a sea of grassy greens
I squeeze, salivate this timely promise,
the taste of fruit and nut as
smooth as butter on my tongue
I will serve it on a bed of green leaves
dappled with kumquat, sliced blackberries,
black peppercorns, crushed
I will baptize it in balsamic vinaigrette
and feast on the small true pleasure
that life affords me today.
.
.
I pick the one ripe avocado
nearly black in a sea of grassy greens
I squeeze, salivate this timely promise,
the taste of fruit and nut as
smooth as butter on my tongue
I will serve it on a bed of green leaves
dappled with kumquat, sliced blackberries,
black peppercorns, crushed
I will baptize it in balsamic vinaigrette
and feast on the small true pleasure
that life affords me today.
.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Quitting Time
Every mouthful of food in our house
came by way of welding sparks
thrown off on the line as cars
came rolling from hell pits.
Daddies stood along the line
wearing heavy hot hoods
catching pretty sparks, burning
through overalls leaving lace patterns
on t-shirts, singed eyebrows
and thirst, every family’s meal earned.
Today I heard, after the silent
factory hush, at least a quarter
of the dealerships will fall away
like clipped toenails
and I worry about the milk
gone from some other little girl’s table.
came by way of welding sparks
thrown off on the line as cars
came rolling from hell pits.
Daddies stood along the line
wearing heavy hot hoods
catching pretty sparks, burning
through overalls leaving lace patterns
on t-shirts, singed eyebrows
and thirst, every family’s meal earned.
Today I heard, after the silent
factory hush, at least a quarter
of the dealerships will fall away
like clipped toenails
and I worry about the milk
gone from some other little girl’s table.
reason
you have no reason
to be in the ring –
no score to settle with your body,
nothing to prove through fists
no child to inspire, no snub to avenge
boxing is not symbolic
of a larger fear, no dread
to conquer other than brain
bouncing inside skull
like balloon off palm
no dream of blood on your gloves,
eyes stuffed with bruise
you watched documentaries
on ali for the poetry,
raging bull on a de niro kick
satisfaction in a clean, deliberate hit
to her face, neat weave
from her rebuttal, but never joy
adrenalin snuffed, aching
every time you turn in bed,
you try to find a rationale
strong enough to quell doubts,
to see you through tomorrow’s rounds,
anything more significant
than for the hell of it
you have no reason
to be in the ring –
no score to settle with your body,
nothing to prove through fists
no child to inspire, no snub to avenge
boxing is not symbolic
of a larger fear, no dread
to conquer other than brain
bouncing inside skull
like balloon off palm
no dream of blood on your gloves,
eyes stuffed with bruise
you watched documentaries
on ali for the poetry,
raging bull on a de niro kick
satisfaction in a clean, deliberate hit
to her face, neat weave
from her rebuttal, but never joy
adrenalin snuffed, aching
every time you turn in bed,
you try to find a rationale
strong enough to quell doubts,
to see you through tomorrow’s rounds,
anything more significant
than for the hell of it
Dramatically Incorrect
the sandals the serpents the sabres
loving the living
leaving the dying
the bruised the bleeding the broken
these things tear the gauze from
Gaza's Strip
introduce the waiting
to Kuwait
put the I in Iraq, Iran,
iPhone
next year, in Jerusalem
loving the living
leaving the dying
the bruised the bleeding the broken
these things tear the gauze from
Gaza's Strip
introduce the waiting
to Kuwait
put the I in Iraq, Iran,
iPhone
next year, in Jerusalem
night Letters #14 M
maybe
you will read my night letters
between the lines, that the willow
will still be there next time
I walk your fields, only then
it will have leafed, softened
into a not so secret place,
only then it will have opened,
finally it will be mine.
Cormorant
An oil slick apparition, silent V
that skims the highway till one
gets sucker punched onto asphalt by a semi.
Its long neck extended, wings flap for purchase
on the dotted yellow. I swerve and still
the right tire connects, hits feather, trips bone.
I open my mouth and squall.
The car rocked by traffic speeding past.
Already, the mind at work, distancing.
So this is how it happens. All the roadkill
we pass on the way to work
and try to resurrect back to skunk, cat.
Try to shirk our claim in we, in accident.
But it doesn’t work. Every black shape a trigger.
Windshield wipers, bent umbrellas
sprout primaries on top of garbage cans.
Black feathers rise up to join the flock, fall
on the cars that come after.
that skims the highway till one
gets sucker punched onto asphalt by a semi.
Its long neck extended, wings flap for purchase
on the dotted yellow. I swerve and still
the right tire connects, hits feather, trips bone.
I open my mouth and squall.
The car rocked by traffic speeding past.
Already, the mind at work, distancing.
So this is how it happens. All the roadkill
we pass on the way to work
and try to resurrect back to skunk, cat.
Try to shirk our claim in we, in accident.
But it doesn’t work. Every black shape a trigger.
Windshield wipers, bent umbrellas
sprout primaries on top of garbage cans.
Black feathers rise up to join the flock, fall
on the cars that come after.
Evening, (vii)
A Walk on the Prairies
.
over ancient land
that whispers
a thousand stories
I walk
..........and with
every step I hear
the song of
mémère's first
footfalls on the
rich prairie soil.
I keep my pace
in time with hers
and through time
and time again
we walk this land
together tied
in yesterday and
..........tomorrow.
to the drum of a
distant history
hand in hand
..........we walk
you and I.
.
.
over ancient land
that whispers
a thousand stories
I walk
..........and with
every step I hear
the song of
mémère's first
footfalls on the
rich prairie soil.
I keep my pace
in time with hers
and through time
and time again
we walk this land
together tied
in yesterday and
..........tomorrow.
to the drum of a
distant history
hand in hand
..........we walk
you and I.
.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Smoky
"white rabbit white rabbit" makes it drift the other
way. like saying "i love you" to someone who's not
ready.
shift the coal, stir the ashes.
back off or move sideways
when it gets too hot.
pulsing long-distant stars,
heat-rippled embers:
how little difference there is -only
proximity.
way. like saying "i love you" to someone who's not
ready.
shift the coal, stir the ashes.
back off or move sideways
when it gets too hot.
pulsing long-distant stars,
heat-rippled embers:
how little difference there is -only
proximity.
Hermit Crabs
Stuffed into shells they’ve outgrown,
their soft bellies hang out like beer guts,
as they wait for better real estate.
But the next-size up,
the cream-coloured dog whelks,
have all been pocketed, serve time
on bathroom shelves.
While the hermit crabs hide
under barnacle-crusted rocks,
brandishing their one big claw
like a man with a cane
trying to defend himself.
their soft bellies hang out like beer guts,
as they wait for better real estate.
But the next-size up,
the cream-coloured dog whelks,
have all been pocketed, serve time
on bathroom shelves.
While the hermit crabs hide
under barnacle-crusted rocks,
brandishing their one big claw
like a man with a cane
trying to defend himself.
Putting Plants to Bed
In the rushed hours of evening
when the dogs walk their people
and a snake of cars writhes
up the street heading home
I dig into last year’s weedy pots.
Old roots ripped from friable soil
suitable for baby plants,
storm watered, homeless
wailing for a hole of their own.
I made a dirty mess of it all.
White root threads wrapped
around each black block of dirt
just a tickle away from reaching
into fresh crumbly loam
and stretching out for the summer
sending blooms or fragrance
to attract tiny fast birds
repel stinging insects
or flavor sauces.
It’s all a Pollock jumble of color
drizzled in budding marigolds
and alert verbena, scarlet salvia
and velvety catnip.
when the dogs walk their people
and a snake of cars writhes
up the street heading home
I dig into last year’s weedy pots.
Old roots ripped from friable soil
suitable for baby plants,
storm watered, homeless
wailing for a hole of their own.
I made a dirty mess of it all.
White root threads wrapped
around each black block of dirt
just a tickle away from reaching
into fresh crumbly loam
and stretching out for the summer
sending blooms or fragrance
to attract tiny fast birds
repel stinging insects
or flavor sauces.
It’s all a Pollock jumble of color
drizzled in budding marigolds
and alert verbena, scarlet salvia
and velvety catnip.
Edisonia: a stick of phosphorus, ca. 1862
1.
Our boy sits content amidst the glass
of his on-board lab, the soft lead of his printing
press, his perishable inventory, watching the pine flare
of the stretch between Detroit
& Port Huron at speed.
He forgets that to ride a train with its rattles
& jerks is to walk a tightrope – possible, with practice,
but not without its pains. He has learned to sway
but not what it is to lean out over
the precipice, until a poorly-laid piece
of track takes the risk for him, bucking the train long
enough that a stick of phosphorus – expensive,
incandescent stuff – jolts from its shelf
& lights it all up.
Edison stares. He stares
& then begins to stamp & beat at his beautiful fire,
and is singed but singing a little inside
How very curious!
when the rail-thin conductor appears.
2.
Outside his compartment, Edison’s digs
are an open secret, an affair the conductor
condones as long as his cheek
is larded with stick candy & his wife
gets her wholesale blackberries & butter.
But a fire? Smoke stealing under the door
& shouting down the rocking hallway:
Panic! Mayhem! Hysteria!
Then the conductor is dutifully, rightly
righteous, bursting through the door with a bucket
full to the brim & putting the fire out
before beginning to shout:
Wretched!
Boy!
BURNING!
My!
Train! !!
But the conductor is not a hasty man: he waits
until the train has groaned
to a halt
at the next hamlet
before he pitches it all out:
Test tubes, vials, jars, boxes, small
ingenious shelves, various apparatus,
treatises on chemistry whose underlined passages
gleam from white pages as they careen
out the back door,
Clumps of whiskery onions & bunches
of carrots that fly like quoits,
Bushel baskets of dusty local plums, smaller
containers of strawberries that drop
like periods at the end
of suitably dramatic sentences.
(BURNING!
My!
Train!)
Charred bundles of the Detroit Free Press,
tied with string in a way that is most
satisfying, what inflammatory periodicals
didn’t burn,
What butter hasn’t already melted,
And the arms & legs, right angles & musky
softnesses of a deeply chagrined
young man.
3.
Our boy on the tracks, amidst shards
of glass and co-mingled chemicals, half the alphabet
scattered between his legs, watches a flare of exertion
settle into the pale anger of the conductor
who must next write a report of the incident
for his superiors at the end
of the line.
As the train pulls away, leaving Edison
halfway home and the earnings
of the past year unhinged
& twisted around him, he conceives
of an experiment where a downcast
boy whimpers
when subjected to fire:
Eureka!
4.
The train picking up steam, the car empty
of Edisonia, the conductor stomps
away, wishing for a cup of tea & the clean sheets
of his policy manual:
Smoking compartment indeed!
Our boy sits content amidst the glass
of his on-board lab, the soft lead of his printing
press, his perishable inventory, watching the pine flare
of the stretch between Detroit
& Port Huron at speed.
He forgets that to ride a train with its rattles
& jerks is to walk a tightrope – possible, with practice,
but not without its pains. He has learned to sway
but not what it is to lean out over
the precipice, until a poorly-laid piece
of track takes the risk for him, bucking the train long
enough that a stick of phosphorus – expensive,
incandescent stuff – jolts from its shelf
& lights it all up.
Edison stares. He stares
& then begins to stamp & beat at his beautiful fire,
and is singed but singing a little inside
How very curious!
when the rail-thin conductor appears.
2.
Outside his compartment, Edison’s digs
are an open secret, an affair the conductor
condones as long as his cheek
is larded with stick candy & his wife
gets her wholesale blackberries & butter.
But a fire? Smoke stealing under the door
& shouting down the rocking hallway:
Panic! Mayhem! Hysteria!
Then the conductor is dutifully, rightly
righteous, bursting through the door with a bucket
full to the brim & putting the fire out
before beginning to shout:
Wretched!
Boy!
BURNING!
My!
Train! !!
But the conductor is not a hasty man: he waits
until the train has groaned
to a halt
at the next hamlet
before he pitches it all out:
Test tubes, vials, jars, boxes, small
ingenious shelves, various apparatus,
treatises on chemistry whose underlined passages
gleam from white pages as they careen
out the back door,
Clumps of whiskery onions & bunches
of carrots that fly like quoits,
Bushel baskets of dusty local plums, smaller
containers of strawberries that drop
like periods at the end
of suitably dramatic sentences.
(BURNING!
My!
Train!)
Charred bundles of the Detroit Free Press,
tied with string in a way that is most
satisfying, what inflammatory periodicals
didn’t burn,
What butter hasn’t already melted,
And the arms & legs, right angles & musky
softnesses of a deeply chagrined
young man.
3.
Our boy on the tracks, amidst shards
of glass and co-mingled chemicals, half the alphabet
scattered between his legs, watches a flare of exertion
settle into the pale anger of the conductor
who must next write a report of the incident
for his superiors at the end
of the line.
As the train pulls away, leaving Edison
halfway home and the earnings
of the past year unhinged
& twisted around him, he conceives
of an experiment where a downcast
boy whimpers
when subjected to fire:
Eureka!
4.
The train picking up steam, the car empty
of Edisonia, the conductor stomps
away, wishing for a cup of tea & the clean sheets
of his policy manual:
Smoking compartment indeed!
oh, by the way
(I would perfectly understand if you are wondering just who this Curiousity and Joy fellow is. My name is Kevin Hehir and I live in St. John's. I haven't always lived in St. John's, there were stints in such lovely prairie places as Winnipeg, Belmont, Yorkton, S'toon, and Candle Lake. This provenance got me friendly with Branda Schmidt on whose facebook page I met Andie who suggested that I get into this May Day Project. I hadn't written a poem in 2 years (some may say I still haven't) and I'm going to use this project to unstog the jam seems to have coagulated at the same time as my first child arrived. I'll try and get five out before the end of the month. Thanks for having me!)
Going north
me into loving then left
I needed a job (a damned good reason)
far away from you in the
or at least that’s what I’d like to say
in truth
that’d take this cub
besides I always wanted to go up
and so this is me
memoir
this is my memory of flight
my fall and flight fall and flight
I’m like a refugee persecuted
by you for my allegiance to
a sun God I tried to get close
more than once and each time
you melted my wings
then destroyed all the feathers
in the world so I couldn’t
try again you would have
demolished me too
but I ran
in truth what’s important
is I cannot can’t cant kant
stop loving you
I’m going to try
to forget you
and pretend I’m not sorry
though life’s not pointing
in the direction I thought
Night Letters #13 L
lazy words
lust, light,
love (the laziest of all)
won't appear
in these letters.
"liar",
he says.
Shadow Puppets
Deep inside the structure
of it all
sits a little green man
figuratively,
as a green man has to be
no one have has ever seen one
we all know little men
there he sits. Green.
He is chained
by the gentle gesture
of a held hand.
The hand of the amber man
the amber man has no special powers
his name (the name I have given him)
(we don’t know his real name)
(does he have a name?)
(he must have a name)
but I digress. He
has a nice sounding name.
We like to have the amber man around
reassuring and cautious
this mellow yellow fellow.
His head is yoked forward
gently, like an egg.
He does not see the red man
whose hand is in his.
The red man is symbolic.
of it all
sits a little green man
figuratively,
as a green man has to be
no one have has ever seen one
we all know little men
there he sits. Green.
He is chained
by the gentle gesture
of a held hand.
The hand of the amber man
the amber man has no special powers
his name (the name I have given him)
(we don’t know his real name)
(does he have a name?)
(he must have a name)
but I digress. He
has a nice sounding name.
We like to have the amber man around
reassuring and cautious
this mellow yellow fellow.
His head is yoked forward
gently, like an egg.
He does not see the red man
whose hand is in his.
The red man is symbolic.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
A Kind of Shelter
When twirling wind tongues
in hail-kissed lips of the storm
changed direction,
a flower drunk wasp flew
all electric wings and wire legs
inside an open window and got lost
in a green rapunzeling
spider plant, baffled by the potted
dirt lure lying about
what’s in and out,
misleading like a sea siren
leading ships to rocks,
the wasp banged
against bright lights
long after sunset, trapped
while clouds funneled.
in hail-kissed lips of the storm
changed direction,
a flower drunk wasp flew
all electric wings and wire legs
inside an open window and got lost
in a green rapunzeling
spider plant, baffled by the potted
dirt lure lying about
what’s in and out,
misleading like a sea siren
leading ships to rocks,
the wasp banged
against bright lights
long after sunset, trapped
while clouds funneled.
instinct
you thought survival instinct
was a given, an organ
ticking quiet deep under skin,
but in the ring you realize
you’ve only been lucky –
never had to react, decide:
run or duck, hide or fight
fists land on your face
and you don’t even try
to move, to stop them
with your gloves,
just stand and wait
to see what happens
you thought survival instinct
was a given, an organ
ticking quiet deep under skin,
but in the ring you realize
you’ve only been lucky –
never had to react, decide:
run or duck, hide or fight
fists land on your face
and you don’t even try
to move, to stop them
with your gloves,
just stand and wait
to see what happens
Green
Walking the trails, I used to see green.
Now it’s cottonwood, birch, the bottle brush
of Douglas fir, hemlock’s hangdog mullet.
All the identifying features pop out with jazz hands:
look at me, I’m a--
Look up, you tell me.
Not for nests or wildlife trees
with their cavities and loose bark
but up. Blue sky overlaid
with leafblot. Edges rippled
like a potato chip.
Alder.
Dammit.
How can I turn it off?
Get back to shape, colour?
See moss on rotten logs
without thinking step, haircup.
Look beyond name, container,
to the energy that rests there briefly
before cycling on.
Now it’s cottonwood, birch, the bottle brush
of Douglas fir, hemlock’s hangdog mullet.
All the identifying features pop out with jazz hands:
look at me, I’m a--
Look up, you tell me.
Not for nests or wildlife trees
with their cavities and loose bark
but up. Blue sky overlaid
with leafblot. Edges rippled
like a potato chip.
Alder.
Dammit.
How can I turn it off?
Get back to shape, colour?
See moss on rotten logs
without thinking step, haircup.
Look beyond name, container,
to the energy that rests there briefly
before cycling on.
Shield country, pine & scrub. Stone.
Rutted, tread-singed roads. Beer caches. Bear.
Ditches burn bare.
Shadows cross the road just past the limit
of certainty. Frogs spawn in truck ruts. In mixed forests
of green & black & brown, birches are inverted
strikes of lightning, scratches across
the negative. Bits of paper
wing towards the clearcut, the countryside
a Christmas tree farm where
nobody’s buying.
So what if the ditches burn?
A generation reduced to matchsticks,
machines, newspapers folded
into manageable
plots.
Rutted, tread-singed roads. Beer caches. Bear.
Ditches burn bare.
Shadows cross the road just past the limit
of certainty. Frogs spawn in truck ruts. In mixed forests
of green & black & brown, birches are inverted
strikes of lightning, scratches across
the negative. Bits of paper
wing towards the clearcut, the countryside
a Christmas tree farm where
nobody’s buying.
So what if the ditches burn?
A generation reduced to matchsticks,
machines, newspapers folded
into manageable
plots.
night letters #12 K
Kalium
القَلْيَه (al-qalyah)
scatter new furrows
let last winter’s ashes grieve
a minute, an hour, a few days—
this is proper—
then fill your hands
seed the generous land with
your wheat, her/your/ body bare feet,
the snow has receded, the rose hips bright,
spring turns the fertile earth,
listen to it, listen to it,
when she comes.
how to tie a knot
Loveknots plaited in gothic hair gone
by. Celtic knots - impossible to
untie. Slipknots to keep horse and
boat secure but none of these
rope twists were twists for
her. She unpinned hair and
put her things away, tidied her
desk changed passwords on
that day. Went downstairs and tied one on
the rafters. And that knot bound us all
unhappily everafter
by. Celtic knots - impossible to
untie. Slipknots to keep horse and
boat secure but none of these
rope twists were twists for
her. She unpinned hair and
put her things away, tidied her
desk changed passwords on
that day. Went downstairs and tied one on
the rafters. And that knot bound us all
unhappily everafter
Evening, (v)
Fingers scroll your body
explore its furrows
in search
of you
...memorizing
the crinkles that
frame your hazel eyes,
and find the boa concealed
in the fedora that
form the lines of
your lips,
paw the pleats in
your neck, such an
intimate
resting place,
making
their way to
the center of you
...filling your
swimming pool
with fine red wine,
my lips
go for a dip,
get lost for a while
in your navel as I
contemplate
other
secret
hiding places
.
explore its furrows
in search
of you
...memorizing
the crinkles that
frame your hazel eyes,
and find the boa concealed
in the fedora that
form the lines of
your lips,
paw the pleats in
your neck, such an
intimate
resting place,
making
their way to
the center of you
...filling your
swimming pool
with fine red wine,
my lips
go for a dip,
get lost for a while
in your navel as I
contemplate
other
secret
hiding places
.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Star Lake
Sunset calm. Lake is scarlet,
steel-blue, silver.
Surface of water sharp against ankles,
backs of knees, crotch, small of back—
then plunge, kick, and it's warm,
it's molten metal the color of flame.
Arms reach forward, sweep back.
Legs pull up, spring outward.
Water's different at sundown
warmer against the cooling air,
less foreign against my skin.
Near the floating dock I stop,
stand tiptoe on the bottom,
my gaze level with the surface.
Whirligig beetles dart and scurry,
helter-skelter, their bodies
polished droplets, perfect ovals
catching the light.
(this one feels a bit rough to me. There may be another version to come.)
Danger Day
On a day when blueberry smoothie
flies across the room and lands
purple on all the wrong colors
on a day when even jazz riffs
and cartoons make me cry
as if my cat died
on a day when vivid stir-fry
burns the roof of my mouth
and half the strawberries are mush
there is little left to do
but head for an unmade bed
leave the windows open
in spite of storm warnings
and just try to nap it out
before I sprain my ankle.
flies across the room and lands
purple on all the wrong colors
on a day when even jazz riffs
and cartoons make me cry
as if my cat died
on a day when vivid stir-fry
burns the roof of my mouth
and half the strawberries are mush
there is little left to do
but head for an unmade bed
leave the windows open
in spite of storm warnings
and just try to nap it out
before I sprain my ankle.
Inclusion
We walk the strip between the marsh’s gangbang
frogsong and the chandelier smash of lake
ice and, despite consensus, dunes
have overrun the boardwalk.
You squat at the waterline with its causeway
gulls, ignoring squawk, birds positioning
and re-positioning, and fill your palm
with ever clearer chunks
of nothing. One tooth of quartz
is so clear we think it has a rare blue
inclusion and then we realize it’s sky. Behind us
a truckload of ice shrugs into the water. Vapour lifts
off the warming sand and the warming water and
even deep breaths.
Take a deep breath. Maybe the impressions retreating ice
made on sand, the broad footprints of pelicans
that end in greenish scat, even the pattern my rivets
and seams made where I sprawled: maybe they’re all just fossils
waiting for their catastrophe.
Maybe we’re the catastrophe, tacking up warning signs
all along the road where saplings should be,
parting grasses that anchor dunes
with short cuts and flip flops. But as I heft
gooey frogspawn from its puddle and freeze
so you can photograph all their profiles
all at once, I don’t believe it. There will be a few more choruses.
There will be a few more choruses. And in the meantime,
inclusions are important. Vapour from mouths
is real.
* * *
I'm not entirely pleased with this one but am posting it anyways. Hopefully there'll be more and better over the next few days...
frogsong and the chandelier smash of lake
ice and, despite consensus, dunes
have overrun the boardwalk.
You squat at the waterline with its causeway
gulls, ignoring squawk, birds positioning
and re-positioning, and fill your palm
with ever clearer chunks
of nothing. One tooth of quartz
is so clear we think it has a rare blue
inclusion and then we realize it’s sky. Behind us
a truckload of ice shrugs into the water. Vapour lifts
off the warming sand and the warming water and
even deep breaths.
Take a deep breath. Maybe the impressions retreating ice
made on sand, the broad footprints of pelicans
that end in greenish scat, even the pattern my rivets
and seams made where I sprawled: maybe they’re all just fossils
waiting for their catastrophe.
Maybe we’re the catastrophe, tacking up warning signs
all along the road where saplings should be,
parting grasses that anchor dunes
with short cuts and flip flops. But as I heft
gooey frogspawn from its puddle and freeze
so you can photograph all their profiles
all at once, I don’t believe it. There will be a few more choruses.
There will be a few more choruses. And in the meantime,
inclusions are important. Vapour from mouths
is real.
* * *
I'm not entirely pleased with this one but am posting it anyways. Hopefully there'll be more and better over the next few days...
Night Letters #11 J
. _ _ _
he built a tower
lasoo’ed air above the house with wire,
late at night, netted all the dying words he could—
rare butterflies, moths, bats of dots and dashes
over and out, over and out, his eardrums hammered
with static and little pleas from old, lonely, men
spread across the blue planet.
“I’m going to bed, wake me when you come,”
“Juliet Out," she said.
he looked up, half-smile, eyes windowed,
his index finger kept on tapping.
Essay: to try
brindille dans les braises
ashes for easter
les souris dans les citrouilles
no seeds for next year
ashes for easter
les souris dans les citrouilles
no seeds for next year
Monday, May 11, 2009
Arboricide
The gingko should have been spared
when the yard man came and wiped out
all the peonies, iris and columbines.
When the wisteria was pulled
down
from the lower limbs
of the sugar maple
and the mystery lilies pencil thin leaves
were mowed down and
lost the places
where blooms would have
erupted
in August,
the gingko living behind
the slanted house held up by honeysuckle
the untended home with empty window-eyes
should have been left alone
to grow its fan leaves
shaped back in
dinosaur days,
hardy as ever
with no need to evolve,
should not have met the chainsaw
should not have been slashed
left like a fence pole
at the edge of the bloodroot
still surprised to have it’s silent growth
interrupted
by so much ignorant noise.
when the yard man came and wiped out
all the peonies, iris and columbines.
When the wisteria was pulled
down
from the lower limbs
of the sugar maple
and the mystery lilies pencil thin leaves
were mowed down and
lost the places
where blooms would have
erupted
in August,
the gingko living behind
the slanted house held up by honeysuckle
the untended home with empty window-eyes
should have been left alone
to grow its fan leaves
shaped back in
dinosaur days,
hardy as ever
with no need to evolve,
should not have met the chainsaw
should not have been slashed
left like a fence pole
at the edge of the bloodroot
still surprised to have it’s silent growth
interrupted
by so much ignorant noise.
trophy
your dad turns
the boxing trophy
in his hands,
tells you about his – long-lost
summer camp memento
sixty years ago,
never mentioned
as you’ve talked and talked
about your jaunt
around the ring
your first question –
his to you – safety:
headgear, mouthguard,
as if you could, would scold
photos of him grinning
in black and white, age nine
he doesn’t remember anything
except his introduction –
intact to the word:
the winnipeg walloper,
manitoba mauler,
canadian clubber
he must have repeated
every night in his bunk,
and even later,
someone’s faith in his strength
seeping into his body,
living there quietly
all these years
your dad turns
the boxing trophy
in his hands,
tells you about his – long-lost
summer camp memento
sixty years ago,
never mentioned
as you’ve talked and talked
about your jaunt
around the ring
your first question –
his to you – safety:
headgear, mouthguard,
as if you could, would scold
photos of him grinning
in black and white, age nine
he doesn’t remember anything
except his introduction –
intact to the word:
the winnipeg walloper,
manitoba mauler,
canadian clubber
he must have repeated
every night in his bunk,
and even later,
someone’s faith in his strength
seeping into his body,
living there quietly
all these years
Crow 6
I would lift the tablets of your laws
but they are so heavy
and so dull
that even the crows, who feast on corpses
even the crows
refuse them
but they are so heavy
and so dull
that even the crows, who feast on corpses
even the crows
refuse them
Crow 5
the bird
the body
the victim flesh
killed by the court
and banned from the graveyard
these crows black once red now
the body
the victim flesh
killed by the court
and banned from the graveyard
these crows black once red now
Night Letters #10 I
Illuminate
from latin
illūminātus m (feminine illūmināta, neuter illūminātum); first/second declension
illuminated, brightened, having been illuminated.
adorned, having been adorned.
having been made conspicuous.
you have been adorned
by it, you have been made
by it, you are illuminated;
night work, lamp work,
fields turned by our four seasons,
hands filled with black-earth-work,
hands filled with clear-white-bright-work,
hands filled with black-fountain-pen-white-paper-work;
first wisp of pussy willow you pick,
offer me, I, then to your lips;
and night, moth caught in silver, in flame,
in mirrors’ frames; conspicuous;
wear this, wear it,
you have been adorned
by it, you have been made,
illuminated.
afternoon, (iv)
31 mots au mois de mai:
j’ai laissé ma lune
...............aujourd’hui
me promener dans
ton jardin
…………......…… j’ai frôlé
………......……… tes marguerites jaunes
une coccinelle m’a chatouillé
et j’ai dû m’envoler
……,….....… parmi les pinsons
................on chantait
................à plein poumon
.
j’ai laissé ma lune
...............aujourd’hui
me promener dans
ton jardin
…………......…… j’ai frôlé
………......……… tes marguerites jaunes
une coccinelle m’a chatouillé
et j’ai dû m’envoler
……,….....… parmi les pinsons
................on chantait
................à plein poumon
.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
After Mother's Day Dinner
Before we could unfreeze
and fly to the closing door,
stop the simple swinging shut
miles across the room,
every one of the big people
could only watch
and lift slow-motion butts
from their chairs at the same time
too late to stop the littlest finger
from being bug squished
in the disappearing space
where door frames wait
to teach those hard lessons
learned when left hand pushes shut
and right hand lets a digit stray
into betraying pain –
not broken, not bone or even skin,
but angry red in need of ice
that won’t be tolerated
no help accepted but the swooping arms
carrying him off to Mama
for a healing snuggle –
where tears play out
a smile sneaks back
and all is sugar lips.
and fly to the closing door,
stop the simple swinging shut
miles across the room,
every one of the big people
could only watch
and lift slow-motion butts
from their chairs at the same time
too late to stop the littlest finger
from being bug squished
in the disappearing space
where door frames wait
to teach those hard lessons
learned when left hand pushes shut
and right hand lets a digit stray
into betraying pain –
not broken, not bone or even skin,
but angry red in need of ice
that won’t be tolerated
no help accepted but the swooping arms
carrying him off to Mama
for a healing snuggle –
where tears play out
a smile sneaks back
and all is sugar lips.
May Ninth I Was Out Late
Beethoven’s Ninth kicked ass.
The full moon played its own ode
to our smiles' music.
------
This is why I missed last night. Now I will catch up.
The full moon played its own ode
to our smiles' music.
------
This is why I missed last night. Now I will catch up.
getting it
you try to describe
for your husband
the pleasure of ache
after shadow boxing
with two pounds
in each fist,
catching medicine ball
in your belly,
digging it out
again and again
he doesn’t know
the thrilling pain
as muscle is born
across your back,
wraps shoulders, ribcage
but when he curls his hand
around your bicep,
you feel surprise
in his fingers,
hear them say oh
you try to describe
for your husband
the pleasure of ache
after shadow boxing
with two pounds
in each fist,
catching medicine ball
in your belly,
digging it out
again and again
he doesn’t know
the thrilling pain
as muscle is born
across your back,
wraps shoulders, ribcage
but when he curls his hand
around your bicep,
you feel surprise
in his fingers,
hear them say oh
The Last Frontier
"What is life?
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset." Crowfoot
must have known they would name the longest overpass in the world
after him
headlights flash signals - glow and stream in twilight
fireflies on steroids wink over black pavement
cars exhale exhaust
run the terrain
steamed breath pollutes the air
tangles and squats and drops
rubber chips, glass fragments, hubcaps
for scavengers
the shiny new herd
forgets bison are extinct
flows, collides,
separates, slows, surges at unseen
signals
in the cars we drive and the freeways we
circle
the little shadow runs across the pavement
loses itself in oncoming
traffic
what is life, what is.
Life.
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset." Crowfoot
must have known they would name the longest overpass in the world
after him
headlights flash signals - glow and stream in twilight
fireflies on steroids wink over black pavement
cars exhale exhaust
run the terrain
steamed breath pollutes the air
tangles and squats and drops
rubber chips, glass fragments, hubcaps
for scavengers
the shiny new herd
forgets bison are extinct
flows, collides,
separates, slows, surges at unseen
signals
in the cars we drive and the freeways we
circle
the little shadow runs across the pavement
loses itself in oncoming
traffic
what is life, what is.
Life.
Night Letters #9 H
Hurricanes
· clear old, diseased, dead or weak trees, renew forest ecosystems
· redistribute excess energy from hot tropical latitudes to cold
· recharge aquifers, end years’ long droughts
· clear sediment, clogged river deltas, rejuvenate coastlines
· break up toxic algal blooms, ‘detox’ the ocean
· stir up the ‘dead’ water at the ocean’s bottom
· bring torrents of fresh water, replenish crops
(hurricanes = new life)
source: NASA, NOAA, 2009
Hurricane, he calls her— a force, a nature—
with lips, body, fingertips, she opens, touches his fields,
bends, stirs his earth, makes his land unrecognizable;
and sometimes he shutters himself, latches and keys himself,
battens down, heads for the storm cellar when she comes;
and sometimes he throws his windows open wide,
his ice-blue eyes thaw just for her,
mirror for her alone the dark and light of him,
because somewhere he trusts, knows:
she is wind,
she is tide,
she is north, south, east, west,
his earth,
breath born long before both he and she were conceived
in the shelter, the cradle, the hopper of their mothers' flesh
and she brings mercy, new life, for him the warm current,
the warm fire, food, the other half, for him, and him alone,
and sometimes it frightens,
but his land, his body, his life, they know, call out for her
sure and steady, return,
again and again and again.
Morning, (iii)
31 words (on the subject of hope) in the month of May:
+++
every
day
after day after
she waits
and she
waits and she
wonders
why
......no one told her
how painful hope is
...........................after
the seed
in the garden
remains a seed
.
+++
every
day
after day after
she waits
and she
waits and she
wonders
why
......no one told her
how painful hope is
...........................after
the seed
in the garden
remains a seed
.
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