You hike alone,
away from a stream of words,
or those wanting an ear—
past the shopping cart
abandoned, rusted metal,
the red plastic handle tilted
at an odd angle, this twisted
body a common urban animal
screaming Safeway to the raven,
to the magpie, even an elk only yards
from a stuffed Bow river
on Mother’s day, each foot forward
feeling heavier with spring’s liquid
diet. You walk after last night’s
filling of draught beer,
the intoxicating way a young man
smiled, gathered you in
to the conversation.
There is no caution in you
as you escape to the river’s other side,
that century old hotel, an elegance
of concrete and cars, the moneyed
line-up of language
spilling like wine into your glass.
The frozen arrangement of mountains
is neatly positioned out the window,
chairs strategically paired
beside the view, and all those people
stream along, inside
out, their flow flooding
with a wonder that melts you
faster than you can say defrost.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
cacela velha
easter morning
everyone in town
wears black and drab,
stands outside the church
chatting in rapid portuguese
or leaning on the stone wall,
tipping up their chins
to blow smoke at the sun
except tourists,
locked out of language, custom,
who waft along the beach
to voices of the choir,
taking photos of blue paint
peeling from a wooden boat
easter morning
everyone in town
wears black and drab,
stands outside the church
chatting in rapid portuguese
or leaning on the stone wall,
tipping up their chins
to blow smoke at the sun
except tourists,
locked out of language, custom,
who waft along the beach
to voices of the choir,
taking photos of blue paint
peeling from a wooden boat
Prairie Girl
My cheeks caressed
by the blossom-filled breeze
On fresh-cut grass, prickly
green blades beneath my feet
The smell of the sun
drizzling down on my face
Consoling my essence
in a soothing embrace.
Soon it will be summer
on the prairies, my home
And I will dance naked
beneath bright angry storms
The wheat will dance also -
frolicking, sweeping, it
will serenade swallows
and finches and crows.
I will 4-W through poplars and fir
in search of my own private pool
The muskrats have theirs
in the river nearby where
bullfrogs and spittlebugs
spawn silent wars.
The monarchs search out
new-built goldenrods For Lease
in the marshy rural ditches
where a young girl once played
with snakes and wild daisies
seeking & hiding & seeking, again.
.
by the blossom-filled breeze
On fresh-cut grass, prickly
green blades beneath my feet
The smell of the sun
drizzling down on my face
Consoling my essence
in a soothing embrace.
Soon it will be summer
on the prairies, my home
And I will dance naked
beneath bright angry storms
The wheat will dance also -
frolicking, sweeping, it
will serenade swallows
and finches and crows.
I will 4-W through poplars and fir
in search of my own private pool
The muskrats have theirs
in the river nearby where
bullfrogs and spittlebugs
spawn silent wars.
The monarchs search out
new-built goldenrods For Lease
in the marshy rural ditches
where a young girl once played
with snakes and wild daisies
seeking & hiding & seeking, again.
.
a map of the obscure
one of those rains that blink until dawn
with the eyes behind them
— Fanny Howe
a rain over her shoulder, shoulder
a permissible tryst
a bedouin of shoes
a cloud-maker; a memory made of skin
a topographical bore
a harvest obscured by days
a dead animal by the river
a dead horse or dog
a dead house
a scratch-path
a common marker among many
a grasp of the soft places
a redolent hilt
a wrongly said speech
a gone station
a flurry of painted leaves, interleafed
a double-edged syntax; a travel through thin
an unpretentious pilgrim; never
a mercy of divinations
a clandestine abrasion; a myth out of seeking
a three-ton root
a bleeding
a synchophant of bulbs
a poem worth hiding
a name with no meaning
a fire
a river of empty
an envelope of everything
a builder of sheds
a shred of past truth
a dance we forgot we invented
a lie we were hoping
a condescending air; a breath that became you
an admission of sorts
a most painful torpor
an insight smell
a slaughter-site recital
a measure of fringes
a prone irish tick
a studhorse hydrangea; a deaf rattling cupid
a plum pit on the counter
a handwritten note
a successful cheekbone
a person might mention
a detroit local paper
a last report for the coroner
a survivor of what
a strange photo of the question
a form stuck to his shoes
a tattoo emerged
a lottery time; a paragraph notion
a question of country; a nothing
a letter dated january 4, 1991
a presumption cut in half
a semaphoric lilt
a coincidence of panama
a dedication hat
a phone number disaster
a video tremor
an intuitive punch; an announcement spawned
a death commercial; a drive
an alphabetical mushroom
a chronological vagina
a rise; a stick; a stone
a gag janice hears
a blue glass of free
a drag of lake manitoba ice
a sand dune she crawls
a pelvic intent
a dry mask bone
a lighter fluid air; a song sweetly
a lyric drone
a long way to term
a held winning hand
a losing
a whole lot of stone
a specific economy
a comfort of trees
a tether
a small opening of cloves
a protection arts
a personal yearbook
an assistant feminist
a dissertation verse
a minimal
a precious semi
an arc compiled
a how; a letter why
a clearly alive
a second centre conflict
a race
an evolution of
a front to front
an endsheet; endgame
a cover trunk
a lorca model
an ink-coverage
an outside discriminate
a happen
a bigger actually
a quick
with the eyes behind them
— Fanny Howe
a rain over her shoulder, shoulder
a permissible tryst
a bedouin of shoes
a cloud-maker; a memory made of skin
a topographical bore
a harvest obscured by days
a dead animal by the river
a dead horse or dog
a dead house
a scratch-path
a common marker among many
a grasp of the soft places
a redolent hilt
a wrongly said speech
a gone station
a flurry of painted leaves, interleafed
a double-edged syntax; a travel through thin
an unpretentious pilgrim; never
a mercy of divinations
a clandestine abrasion; a myth out of seeking
a three-ton root
a bleeding
a synchophant of bulbs
a poem worth hiding
a name with no meaning
a fire
a river of empty
an envelope of everything
a builder of sheds
a shred of past truth
a dance we forgot we invented
a lie we were hoping
a condescending air; a breath that became you
an admission of sorts
a most painful torpor
an insight smell
a slaughter-site recital
a measure of fringes
a prone irish tick
a studhorse hydrangea; a deaf rattling cupid
a plum pit on the counter
a handwritten note
a successful cheekbone
a person might mention
a detroit local paper
a last report for the coroner
a survivor of what
a strange photo of the question
a form stuck to his shoes
a tattoo emerged
a lottery time; a paragraph notion
a question of country; a nothing
a letter dated january 4, 1991
a presumption cut in half
a semaphoric lilt
a coincidence of panama
a dedication hat
a phone number disaster
a video tremor
an intuitive punch; an announcement spawned
a death commercial; a drive
an alphabetical mushroom
a chronological vagina
a rise; a stick; a stone
a gag janice hears
a blue glass of free
a drag of lake manitoba ice
a sand dune she crawls
a pelvic intent
a dry mask bone
a lighter fluid air; a song sweetly
a lyric drone
a long way to term
a held winning hand
a losing
a whole lot of stone
a specific economy
a comfort of trees
a tether
a small opening of cloves
a protection arts
a personal yearbook
an assistant feminist
a dissertation verse
a minimal
a precious semi
an arc compiled
a how; a letter why
a clearly alive
a second centre conflict
a race
an evolution of
a front to front
an endsheet; endgame
a cover trunk
a lorca model
an ink-coverage
an outside discriminate
a happen
a bigger actually
a quick
Saturday, May 10, 2008
email to KAF (kandahar air field)
For you on the deserthighway, cratered ring
road the grit of shit
between teeth
the stink of poppy,
rotted
mottled skin
of Afghanistan,
her children
crying
"Mr. Pen Mr. Pen"
her children
crying crying.
For you 36 blue herons
the pale salt of May
and you still, o still
so far away.
shadow box
stare yourself down,
eyes locked in the mirror,
chin tucked, right eyebrow
twists up, taunts
throw every punch straight
and long from the jaw
into your own nose
blot yourself out,
red gloves replace the reflection
of your face
sweat darkens your bandana,
drops from the end of your nose
pause to wipe your forehead
with your sleeve and think
now i’ve got her on the ropes
stare yourself down,
eyes locked in the mirror,
chin tucked, right eyebrow
twists up, taunts
throw every punch straight
and long from the jaw
into your own nose
blot yourself out,
red gloves replace the reflection
of your face
sweat darkens your bandana,
drops from the end of your nose
pause to wipe your forehead
with your sleeve and think
now i’ve got her on the ropes
from "apertures," a work-in-progress
John Thompson’s ghazals
perched there, in deaths way,
for so long
on the edge of chopping, he holds
the wooden handle
without him, we inhabit
what we would not
, a coffee cup of nails
the strong, unstructured cabin
giving birth to poems
& heavy rain, the mud
of Rene Char
short pools, & long surrender
the classically-shaped
surrealist-free
of controlled imagination
long practiced in America
perched there, in deaths way,
for so long
on the edge of chopping, he holds
the wooden handle
without him, we inhabit
what we would not
, a coffee cup of nails
the strong, unstructured cabin
giving birth to poems
& heavy rain, the mud
of Rene Char
short pools, & long surrender
the classically-shaped
surrealist-free
of controlled imagination
long practiced in America
Label Reminder
Hello fellow MayDay-ers!
Great to see all the creativity flowing (erupting, surging, coursing, oozing...) around here! So far, one-third of the way through May, we've got 52 poems from 14 poets.
Please remember to label your posts. This is a favour to your rapt readers, who want to be able to pull up everything you've written! You'll note that I've labeled any that were missing with my magic administrative powers.
I will try to keep an up-to-date tally of poems next to people's names, but it will be accurate within a couple of days, not up to the minute! Kudos to Kerry for going9-for-9 10-for-10 days so far!
Enjoy...
Great to see all the creativity flowing (erupting, surging, coursing, oozing...) around here! So far, one-third of the way through May, we've got 52 poems from 14 poets.
Please remember to label your posts. This is a favour to your rapt readers, who want to be able to pull up everything you've written! You'll note that I've labeled any that were missing with my magic administrative powers.
I will try to keep an up-to-date tally of poems next to people's names, but it will be accurate within a couple of days, not up to the minute! Kudos to Kerry for going
Enjoy...
Planning the Perfect Party
Chips and Dip
Cokes and Rum
Madonna and Timberlake
Veggie Tray and Cookie Dough
Guitar Hero and Foreplay
Cop-Poets and Priest-Soldiers
Sycophant-Thiefs and Republican Revolutionaries
Mortician-Cooks and Barista-PhDs
Angel-Ninjas and Dolphin-Insects
Self-destruction and Self-Sacrifice
Party Tricks and Erotica
Paper Plates and Magic
Wine and Underachievement
Relatives and Other Strangers
Resonance and Fire Crackers
Rodeo Clowns and Government Lawyers
Physicist Sluts and Reluctant Robots
Primitive Pimps and Fascist Comedians
Remorseful Babysitters and Buoyant Kidnappers
Weepy Jocks and Polka Dots
Cokes and Rum
Madonna and Timberlake
Veggie Tray and Cookie Dough
Guitar Hero and Foreplay
Cop-Poets and Priest-Soldiers
Sycophant-Thiefs and Republican Revolutionaries
Mortician-Cooks and Barista-PhDs
Angel-Ninjas and Dolphin-Insects
Self-destruction and Self-Sacrifice
Party Tricks and Erotica
Paper Plates and Magic
Wine and Underachievement
Relatives and Other Strangers
Resonance and Fire Crackers
Rodeo Clowns and Government Lawyers
Physicist Sluts and Reluctant Robots
Primitive Pimps and Fascist Comedians
Remorseful Babysitters and Buoyant Kidnappers
Weepy Jocks and Polka Dots
Chamisa
Just when I think summer’s over,
jackets lifted out of slumber,
it re-appears roadside. A yellow runner
of late bloomers fanning themselves
among the purple asters.
October in the high desert has me
peeling off layers and unrolling
the windows to let in second chances—
for Violetta, who at age 63, said love
was done for her. Lingering against the dry grasses,
hip-height nectar. Their brazen gape
so welcome, so unexpected.
jackets lifted out of slumber,
it re-appears roadside. A yellow runner
of late bloomers fanning themselves
among the purple asters.
October in the high desert has me
peeling off layers and unrolling
the windows to let in second chances—
for Violetta, who at age 63, said love
was done for her. Lingering against the dry grasses,
hip-height nectar. Their brazen gape
so welcome, so unexpected.
Friday, May 09, 2008
new black boots
It is the responsibility of the B/W/S Sup O to ensure that the correct size footwear is issued to all personnel. Improperly fitted footwear affects the general well being of an individual, often to such an extent as to impair health, morale and efficiency.
ALM007, Vol 3, ch13, sec G, paras 11-12
M.,
Remember, “Hey girl, I’ve got new black boots, standard army issue. Combat GS MK III Black treated with T3000 Silicone, water-repellent, no polish, no wax! After fifteen years I marched my old ones out”?
I read this in a Spanish bar. Old men blew smoke, leered. The barman a jerk. Made me buy his greasy jamon bocadillas, his warm beer. Charged me three times the rate to read, “I love my new boots. So comfortable. I’m in Shiloh. My buddy and me, we’re boxing with my son’s Wii in the bar. Soon I’m shipping out”.
And maybe because I’d fallen for my own. Every morning after, I rose at dawn, hiked the meseta, everywhere wedding bouquet. Wild thyme, blood poppies, lavender, white chamomile. Fields of rye. For kilometres I imagined. You. Inspecting new boots. Holding them like newborns. Counting bits, making sure they worked. Soles, heels, tongue. For kilometres the question. Would they take or bring back.
I walked a wide plain, a country. Last year. You marched your own, eight thousand kilometres away. Left right left right. Each with purpose. You for a queen, a dictator, war-skinned children. Me, to walk you. Out.
ALM007, Vol 3, ch13, sec G, paras 11-12
M.,
Remember, “Hey girl, I’ve got new black boots, standard army issue. Combat GS MK III Black treated with T3000 Silicone, water-repellent, no polish, no wax! After fifteen years I marched my old ones out”?
I read this in a Spanish bar. Old men blew smoke, leered. The barman a jerk. Made me buy his greasy jamon bocadillas, his warm beer. Charged me three times the rate to read, “I love my new boots. So comfortable. I’m in Shiloh. My buddy and me, we’re boxing with my son’s Wii in the bar. Soon I’m shipping out”.
And maybe because I’d fallen for my own. Every morning after, I rose at dawn, hiked the meseta, everywhere wedding bouquet. Wild thyme, blood poppies, lavender, white chamomile. Fields of rye. For kilometres I imagined. You. Inspecting new boots. Holding them like newborns. Counting bits, making sure they worked. Soles, heels, tongue. For kilometres the question. Would they take or bring back.
I walked a wide plain, a country. Last year. You marched your own, eight thousand kilometres away. Left right left right. Each with purpose. You for a queen, a dictator, war-skinned children. Me, to walk you. Out.
Deeper into meseta my feet crunched. Gravel, red dust. It skirted, circled like the swallows, like the red tailed hawks. How could I know. It was then. With new black boots. An ocean, half a continent away. You walked it in.
S
S
coimbra market
stout women in sturdy shoes
shush us over mounds of lettuce and squash,
portuguese a constant lullaby in our ears,
shhhh in every syllable
as if small waves roll forever
through the mouth
we smile shyly, hold up our hands,
palms saying: we don’t understand
and we’re sorry and
we wish we could use
a flat of fresh eggs
we shop like noah –
two plump, crusty buns,
two carrots, two oranges –
silently count small coins
as if english won’t work
even between the two of us
the woman with tomatoes
won’t give up
on what she’s saying,
fervent words too tightly packed
for our phrase book
and we stare, hope to recognize
a single sound
she smiles, stuffs another perfect,
ripe-almost-to-bursting tomato
into my backpack
obrigada, obrigada,
the only words we know
just the right ones
stout women in sturdy shoes
shush us over mounds of lettuce and squash,
portuguese a constant lullaby in our ears,
shhhh in every syllable
as if small waves roll forever
through the mouth
we smile shyly, hold up our hands,
palms saying: we don’t understand
and we’re sorry and
we wish we could use
a flat of fresh eggs
we shop like noah –
two plump, crusty buns,
two carrots, two oranges –
silently count small coins
as if english won’t work
even between the two of us
the woman with tomatoes
won’t give up
on what she’s saying,
fervent words too tightly packed
for our phrase book
and we stare, hope to recognize
a single sound
she smiles, stuffs another perfect,
ripe-almost-to-bursting tomato
into my backpack
obrigada, obrigada,
the only words we know
just the right ones
kate street
patch a quilt of resonance
& display harsher tones
if then
& if so, then
an arching four by four,
a casual glance at what will come
& what will kick the wind at
a crooked eye or teeth
a margin of thin
she clear would land
& display harsher tones
if then
& if so, then
an arching four by four,
a casual glance at what will come
& what will kick the wind at
a crooked eye or teeth
a margin of thin
she clear would land
FAKE POAM 1
response poem #4,321 by Nathaniel G. Moore
if lines were the race between me and you
i'd be a school ledger
illusory, a loud loose tooth
if loss was more solid if the paintings were
causal conevity if waking were poems
if wrestling was destiny if blogging was fake
Shivery outside
Going gym down street soon
Wine follows you
Like gulp ghost
I wonder [if we] can find a house
Instead of changing the Earth's first name
Planet's birth certificate altered between 2011-2074
To honour [the efforts of]17 cave men
And, a pony
Oh, jesus
With their unmanaged hooves
During the era
You are the cave writer right?
You can get the hoover out
Make some noise change the cord Jesus
Historical things
No!
Don't mock it
Yes
Real history
Not those dirtbags
A concept by which we measure time
Poems from the dirtbag, of time
Dirtbag cloud that clouds your heart and
Moistens your eyes
Cave etching fink management human resources
Channeled the minds of thirteen photocopiers,
Desktop muffins and skirt chasing pregnancy scares
In an effort to impeach a distinct government body
Who continually hound the earth with their dog-noses
Frostbitten Wicken believe structure
I have to go golden
Okay delivery me from delving
Calling the copper pot
if lines were the race between me & you
i'd be a water fountain
illusory, a proud loose tooth
if loss was more solid if the panting raged
causal conevity if working were poems
if wrestling was destiny if blogging was fake
if lines were the race between me and you
i'd be a school ledger
illusory, a loud loose tooth
if loss was more solid if the paintings were
causal conevity if waking were poems
if wrestling was destiny if blogging was fake
Shivery outside
Going gym down street soon
Wine follows you
Like gulp ghost
I wonder [if we] can find a house
Instead of changing the Earth's first name
Planet's birth certificate altered between 2011-2074
To honour [the efforts of]17 cave men
And, a pony
Oh, jesus
With their unmanaged hooves
During the era
You are the cave writer right?
You can get the hoover out
Make some noise change the cord Jesus
Historical things
No!
Don't mock it
Yes
Real history
Not those dirtbags
A concept by which we measure time
Poems from the dirtbag, of time
Dirtbag cloud that clouds your heart and
Moistens your eyes
Cave etching fink management human resources
Channeled the minds of thirteen photocopiers,
Desktop muffins and skirt chasing pregnancy scares
In an effort to impeach a distinct government body
Who continually hound the earth with their dog-noses
Frostbitten Wicken believe structure
I have to go golden
Okay delivery me from delving
Calling the copper pot
if lines were the race between me & you
i'd be a water fountain
illusory, a proud loose tooth
if loss was more solid if the panting raged
causal conevity if working were poems
if wrestling was destiny if blogging was fake
Return and Change of Plans
I've been on vacation in Las Vegas. So I am back on the blog although I won't be posting steadily until next week.
I am extremely dissatisfied with my start to Alphabext, and also have spent the morning planning out my summer work. I've decided to abandon the Alphabext project and instead focus on writing and rewriting poems from my manuscript Clockfire. This is a collection of prose poems which are intended as playscripts that would be impossible (or at least unfeasible) to produce. The poems draw on Fluxus (especially Ono's word-paintings) and Artaud's Theater of Cruelty for inspiration. I've written a full draft of the manuscript (with the generous support of the Alberta Foundation for the Arts) but that manuscript needs serious rewriting and I also need to discard some poems and author some new ones. So I am going to post my work from Clockfire as I complete it and abandon this Alphabext thing which I don't like.
Again, sorry I've been absent, May is a busy month for me (at home for less than a week). Next week I'll begin posting more seriously, when I am back home from my travels and have my original draft to write/rewrite from. Will also spend some time going through all the stuff I've been missing on this site from the rest of you!
I am extremely dissatisfied with my start to Alphabext, and also have spent the morning planning out my summer work. I've decided to abandon the Alphabext project and instead focus on writing and rewriting poems from my manuscript Clockfire. This is a collection of prose poems which are intended as playscripts that would be impossible (or at least unfeasible) to produce. The poems draw on Fluxus (especially Ono's word-paintings) and Artaud's Theater of Cruelty for inspiration. I've written a full draft of the manuscript (with the generous support of the Alberta Foundation for the Arts) but that manuscript needs serious rewriting and I also need to discard some poems and author some new ones. So I am going to post my work from Clockfire as I complete it and abandon this Alphabext thing which I don't like.
Again, sorry I've been absent, May is a busy month for me (at home for less than a week). Next week I'll begin posting more seriously, when I am back home from my travels and have my original draft to write/rewrite from. Will also spend some time going through all the stuff I've been missing on this site from the rest of you!
Thursday, May 08, 2008
alcoutim
in the square, patio chairs
pushed back from tables,
bones and shells laze on plates,
mouthfuls of red wine
left to languish,
crust in the sun
orange blossom waft
and slow saturday laughter
at every turn,
we lean into steep, cobbled lanes,
glossed with late afternoon
at the ruined castle
i cool my arms
on stone walls,
watch spain sleep
across the guadiana
you unpack your camera, frown
at a sudden dimming of sun
and wait for the day’s only cloud
to shift its heavy haunches
out of the frame
in the square, patio chairs
pushed back from tables,
bones and shells laze on plates,
mouthfuls of red wine
left to languish,
crust in the sun
orange blossom waft
and slow saturday laughter
at every turn,
we lean into steep, cobbled lanes,
glossed with late afternoon
at the ruined castle
i cool my arms
on stone walls,
watch spain sleep
across the guadiana
you unpack your camera, frown
at a sudden dimming of sun
and wait for the day’s only cloud
to shift its heavy haunches
out of the frame
Lighthouse or Beehive?
Greetings from Vancouver! I'm just getting started on the May Day project, having been away at "summer camp for park interpreters". I'm not writing much these days, so I have modest goals this year (as in hoping to write something new, anything). What I do have are a few early drafts I wrote when I was in New Mexico this fall. (Mostly, I slept and went hiking in the desert, but I have a few poems I hope to post in the coming weeks.) I also hope to catch up on the last week's posts soon, though I won't be able to comment on all of them. This working full-time business is tricky, even when you love it--today I taught kids how to tell the difference between male and female crabs (lighthouse or beehive shaped tails that are tucked under their abdomen). So please forgive me if my comments are sparser than I'd like. Preamble and introduction aside, here is my first post. Comments, questions, warmfuzzies, and random facts welcome.
Dogs of Montoya Street
Having finished, we put our clothes back on
and went outside to let the first snowfall of the year
salt our faces. We hadn’t said it out loud yet.
The street quiet, a few hesitant tire tracks.
Snowballs that wouldn’t stick together. Tongue out
to catch an I or a you, we rounded the corner.
Three dogs loped up to greet us.
I put my hand out for the dogs to sniff,
prequel to the pat pat pat,
but these were not lick-your-hand dogs—
voiceboxes on legs, they strained the lower octaves
of sleep with their Out! Out! Out!
In flank formation, they advanced.
(Insert here: flashback to dog bites past.
Phantom bites on fingertips, hip.)
The back of my knees
where an hour ago you had kissed,
now freeze, flinch.
Your hand caught mine, held
tight as we walked backwards,
calling softly under our breath
red rover red rover and I knew then
what it would take me weeks
and a couple of cheap beers to say.
Dogs of Montoya Street
Having finished, we put our clothes back on
and went outside to let the first snowfall of the year
salt our faces. We hadn’t said it out loud yet.
The street quiet, a few hesitant tire tracks.
Snowballs that wouldn’t stick together. Tongue out
to catch an I or a you, we rounded the corner.
Three dogs loped up to greet us.
I put my hand out for the dogs to sniff,
prequel to the pat pat pat,
but these were not lick-your-hand dogs—
voiceboxes on legs, they strained the lower octaves
of sleep with their Out! Out! Out!
In flank formation, they advanced.
(Insert here: flashback to dog bites past.
Phantom bites on fingertips, hip.)
The back of my knees
where an hour ago you had kissed,
now freeze, flinch.
Your hand caught mine, held
tight as we walked backwards,
calling softly under our breath
red rover red rover and I knew then
what it would take me weeks
and a couple of cheap beers to say.
words (or) the life of a poet in may...
strewn about my
apartment in the trees
words, in waiting.
in my yellow room
they keep me warm.
intimately removed,
awaiting inspiration i
watch squirrels and
dragonflies mate,
i listen to birdsong
and motorbikes
at dusk
i am safe here
in my home in my life (?)
draped in scraps
of paper
scribbled with the
blood of my heart.
add imagination
,courage, hope.
swallow, spew. sigh...
apartment in the trees
words, in waiting.
in my yellow room
they keep me warm.
intimately removed,
awaiting inspiration i
watch squirrels and
dragonflies mate,
i listen to birdsong
and motorbikes
at dusk
i am safe here
in my home in my life (?)
draped in scraps
of paper
scribbled with the
blood of my heart.
add imagination
,courage, hope.
swallow, spew. sigh...
another poem by rob mclennan,
I'm at a conference at the University of Ottawa this weekend, so not a lot of time for finishing new poems; here, over the next few days, are some older ones:
from apertures:
Fred Wah’s breath
a raw exhalation,
w/ pictures
pictographs from the minds
interior
walks along two paths
of colour
& concern
stations a response
from Kootenay jazz, a
mountain gust
a coffee cup that knows
no bounds
his name, that
which is not said
but heard, escaping
slow, a twig
from kissing mouth
from apertures:
Fred Wah’s breath
a raw exhalation,
w/ pictures
pictographs from the minds
interior
walks along two paths
of colour
& concern
stations a response
from Kootenay jazz, a
mountain gust
a coffee cup that knows
no bounds
his name, that
which is not said
but heard, escaping
slow, a twig
from kissing mouth
soldier walk
M.,
Do you know I stopped. A second? Watched you walk. Away (again). Your gait. Head left, head right. Infantry. Hawk twitch stiff, scanned. Doorways sidewalks. Through car windows. Down Commercial Drive. For me. You faced north. The mountains.
From south, daffodils in gloved hand. I wore purple. And black. For you. Walked strides, the rainy sidewalk. Towards. My rhythm. Honed across mountains. Desert plain, 800 kms across Spain. Last year. Hoping to pace you. Out. One step at a time.
Last year I thought walk removed. Obliterates. But now. I know. Walk drives deep. Straight. Into ancient brain stem.
You wrote to me your shudder. How you grab for pack and gun. Hand grenade. When you see grape leaves. In a restaurant. Hear roman candles crack autumn. You have marched Afghanistan. The left the right. Of mud villages. The cess of wadis. Fields of grape vines. Radio'ed. Wired.
And now I write. Want to tell you. My shudder. When I see hazel. The colour of the civvies you wore. The colour of your eyes. Green temperate. Fawn tans. Desert CADPAT. Soft camo. On leave, your leather jacket, soft and black as the ink of your letters. Walked into me.
Soldier, that day on Commercial Drive, I saw. The back of you. Searching. Down the spring street. The crown of your head, sited into me. You turned. Half-curved a smile. Walked towards. My ungloved hands. Your naked face. Your skin soft. Your kiss, body straight. Pressed. Hard against, soft, flowers. Dropped. Their yellow burnt deep. Into wet ground.
S
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
how to be shy: parties
1.
stand next to the chips,
never move
2.
gaze thoughtfully
into the middle distance
as if heartily entertained
by the complex workings
of your own mind
3.
eavesdrop and smile
at the apt contributions
you could, but do not,
make to conversations
roiling around you
4.
hone invisibility
5.
drink your wine
too quickly
6.
make a selection
from the bookcase,
skim the jacket,
nod and return it,
working your way
through each shelf,
ditto the CDs
7.
if someone speaks to you,
even a single word,
seize him or her
with a quantity of questions
appropriate only to twins
separated at birth
1.
stand next to the chips,
never move
2.
gaze thoughtfully
into the middle distance
as if heartily entertained
by the complex workings
of your own mind
3.
eavesdrop and smile
at the apt contributions
you could, but do not,
make to conversations
roiling around you
4.
hone invisibility
5.
drink your wine
too quickly
6.
make a selection
from the bookcase,
skim the jacket,
nod and return it,
working your way
through each shelf,
ditto the CDs
7.
if someone speaks to you,
even a single word,
seize him or her
with a quantity of questions
appropriate only to twins
separated at birth
Whale Watching
A whale of a time
washed up on the beaches
raving and writhing and
glugging for air
Sanguine I had been
all afternoon, all week, all year
watching the waves
in mindless repetition
of all they'd been up to
for millions of years,
but this arrival delivered
a body blow
to my mind and the shore
flying, pressing, kneading
the sand like bread.
Unhinged I waited
with bated breath,
tried not to dwell
on the barnacles
clinging to its chin
or the shit flying out
of its spout.
A beaver a squirrel and a blue jay
who'd been watching the show
all took off
the scene too stark
for them to handle.
Nothing had prepared me
nothing could drag me away.
Something worthy of my attention
at last, at last.
The youthful moon rose
as I waited for more
but more was not allowed --
my new pal's egress regressed to an ingress
as he dove back into the sea
from which he came.
He was through with me,
with this sandy oasis
perhaps his own boredom
had been abated
in our too-brief rendezvous.
I walked back up the dune
became a farmer plowing thoughts
of all I'd seen,
awash with a vision
a dream, a cure.
washed up on the beaches
raving and writhing and
glugging for air
Sanguine I had been
all afternoon, all week, all year
watching the waves
in mindless repetition
of all they'd been up to
for millions of years,
but this arrival delivered
a body blow
to my mind and the shore
flying, pressing, kneading
the sand like bread.
Unhinged I waited
with bated breath,
tried not to dwell
on the barnacles
clinging to its chin
or the shit flying out
of its spout.
A beaver a squirrel and a blue jay
who'd been watching the show
all took off
the scene too stark
for them to handle.
Nothing had prepared me
nothing could drag me away.
Something worthy of my attention
at last, at last.
The youthful moon rose
as I waited for more
but more was not allowed --
my new pal's egress regressed to an ingress
as he dove back into the sea
from which he came.
He was through with me,
with this sandy oasis
perhaps his own boredom
had been abated
in our too-brief rendezvous.
I walked back up the dune
became a farmer plowing thoughts
of all I'd seen,
awash with a vision
a dream, a cure.
Semioviparous
- or "the bearing of young that are incompletely developed." Webster's New World Dictionary, 1957.
1.
In late spring, ponds are full
of broken broom-handles
& sodden wrapping-paper tubes, none of us
believing in lurid shoots or rootstalk’s
floury sustenance or even babies
that get up hours after birth.
But out in the pasture, afterbirth cures
like sausage between the bison’s legs
as her kinked calf hobbles over ruts
& wallows. Footsore, bored,
you spin so you can fall
& you spin so you can see me again
& again & you spin to spin
& fall, laurelled with sere grasses
and attention.
2.
When the calf is eight months old
its headbutts to its dam’s udder
will almost unseat her
the bison will be almost as bruised
as when she presented the prairie
with her bloom open
& raw.
3.
In late spring, ponds fill
with lusty frog-song & shorebirds shriek
sleek counterpoint at flashes of leg
at the eyeless lids of opening leaves
& the sound washes over me
as though through skin.
The pond offers marbled sheets of algae
& water weed, silence
& din & I want to stay. But you
believe in me even through a screen
of willow, its branches buckshotted with galls
& even that cancer
shows shoots:
Mum-mum! Mum-mum!
4.
Out in the pasture, the bison is delivered
from the sway of her pregnant sisters
& stands apart. The calf, sensitive
to haunch & hip, to fillips of movement
jumps as the tractor works the other half
of their range, as I give up
& cart you off.
shot in the woods - the poems
Sorry, I am a computer idiot . . . let's try this again:
set out
alone on
foot into
the night
to sit
be still
like the farmer's wallet
quiet like an open bible
hymns to dissect
magnify, reflect upon
birds
calm like hunter
hat turned funny
weighing the end
fire curtains aside
stars and sky and embers
it is black out
***********************************************
forest night
stars to follow
to ponder
a miserable life
laugh at surroundings
spines of jack pines backing
up against
unrecognizable
unobstructed
evidence of
a snap here a scrape there
where the target i envision
disappears and
in that instant
no sound and no flash
cold
*************************************************
the things i now never will be
sock puppeteer
gamer
hitchhiker (overseas)
sucker
foam hand vendor
watchmaker
model
movie critic
twiddler
fonz
shot in the woods
Howdy Y'all. I am John Toone from Winnipeg. Sorry I'm a bit of a late bloomer, but here goes, a few poems written this past week. I am working on a collection that I call "shot in the woods". In October, I was shot while deer hunting and lost a portion of my thumb. I will never know what really happened, and I suppose these poems help to get at a truth while exploring larger issues like food security, gun control, urbanization, and the environment.
Bear Etiquette
Do:
Avoid easy calories.
Keep your distance.
Plan ahead.
Inform someone where you are at all times—
In case of a line-up, make loud noises.
Avoid becoming a problem bare.
Don’t:
Try to get a closer look—
Never corner a chef for any reason.
Never leave your plate unattended.
Never store food in your vehicle.
Avoid easy calories.
Fill your plate with lettuce, radishes
sliced seasonal fruit. Fibre
is the backbone of the brain.
sliced seasonal fruit. Fibre
is the backbone of the brain.
Keep your distance.
Hunger creates an opportunist.
Plan ahead.
Know your route.
(Always start at the back, work
methodically from sour to sweet).
(Always start at the back, work
methodically from sour to sweet).
Inform someone where you are at all times—
Example: I am stuffed as a bear
after a party of four
(bears are not known to attack
half a dozen writers at once).
after a party of four
(bears are not known to attack
half a dozen writers at once).
In case of a line-up, make loud noises.
Keep day old buns in your pockets
at all times. Defend your space.
Throw them ahead of you in line.
(Don’t aim for the writers—
distraction is key).
at all times. Defend your space.
Throw them ahead of you in line.
(Don’t aim for the writers—
distraction is key).
Avoid becoming a problem bare.
Don’t:
Try to get a closer look—
Lamps will scorch your cheek’s
soft flesh as you lean
half your body in
to the canopied containers—
mechanical thrusts of light will blind
any greenhorn.
(People will ask about the burn, insist
the sun is a criminal, don’t explain the half-
moon scar around your eye).
soft flesh as you lean
half your body in
to the canopied containers—
mechanical thrusts of light will blind
any greenhorn.
(People will ask about the burn, insist
the sun is a criminal, don’t explain the half-
moon scar around your eye).
Never corner a chef for any reason.
The most recent instance —
heartburn, has slain
all revolutionary spirit.
heartburn, has slain
all revolutionary spirit.
Never leave your plate unattended.
Skirted creatures speaking
ancient dialects will dive down
skilfully removing what remains
of your meal.
ancient dialects will dive down
skilfully removing what remains
of your meal.
Never store food in your vehicle.
Promptly remove all fruit
from open sources
before sitting at the computer.
Blackened banana syndrome is incurable.
from open sources
before sitting at the computer.
Blackened banana syndrome is incurable.
alexander graham bell
there are laws of thermodynamics
I have invariably broken.
he turned on the light. he invented
the first phone.
he turned on the flicker of what.
for the rest of his life, silence bound him as golden.
I pull leaves off your knees.
will we ever go back to that sandpaper church,
you asked, when your camera caught up
in its digital senses.
I am holding a phone book.
I am holding a phone.
from my office a view
that looks only indoors. I pull & I pull
but the blinds will not close.
you are the architect
of my unmaking, she signs.
so kiss me, he calls,
tens of miles from home.
I have invariably broken.
he turned on the light. he invented
the first phone.
he turned on the flicker of what.
for the rest of his life, silence bound him as golden.
I pull leaves off your knees.
will we ever go back to that sandpaper church,
you asked, when your camera caught up
in its digital senses.
I am holding a phone book.
I am holding a phone.
from my office a view
that looks only indoors. I pull & I pull
but the blinds will not close.
you are the architect
of my unmaking, she signs.
so kiss me, he calls,
tens of miles from home.
@ 9am u txtd me, snd me sxy lyrics
drling M.,
papaya
avacado
ruby red grapefruit
one small head lettuce (buttery)
olive oil from little italy
juice from whole lemon (cut lemon in half, squeeze, let juice drip through cup of hand, use fingers to strain pits, pulpy lemon bits)
blue poppy seeds (somniferous)
salt
black pepper
peel/cut/cube papaya, avacado, grapefruit (size to feel good inside mouth/your tongue)
tear lettuce into shreds (like adulterers' letters)
mix it all
gently,
pour into clear glass bowl
stream a little olive oil over top,
then lemon juice,
scatter poppy seeds
grind just a tiny bit of salt
pepper
let sit for a few minutes, let papaya, avacado and grapefruit get to know one another a little bit
then eat my sweet, eat
x
conditional
if math were fake i'd be better at it
if fictions were less constructed if plot
insisted less on understanding
this & that if books were quantum
if lines were built like tables
or frames if the human eye perceived
space between particles if i
understood myself as mostly empty
if paintings in 'Bucks were less
solid if walls were if walking was a
causal connection if physics was
poem if biology was destiny &
destiny was fake if fiction wasn't so
convinced if plot was quantum if books
were built like floors or frames
if lines were the space between thought
if the eye understood itself as illusory
if i were less solid if the paintings were
causal connections if waking were poems
if physics was destiny if biology was fake
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
she writes to him (again)
o M,
did I tell you I pitched my tent beneath the hoodoos
that summer? the coyotes ow ow owwwwwed me to sleep.
the plains a sauna, I slept naked on my sheets. o M.,
did I tell you dusk in the canyon is a wild rose, and you,
a wild rose? fragrant. stinging. I press you between paper.
I press you against breast. my skin prickles thorn and heat.
when I sleep. without you.
o M.
how to be shy: meeting
1.
remove a damp hand
from your pocket,
(dislodging used tissues)
allow it to be shaken
2.
let the name bounce
irretrievably off your forehead
3.
speak your own
too softly,
repeat it, step closer,
repeat it, step closer,
until you’re standing
within the precinct
of body heat
4.
when you’re called
by a name one degree off,
consider changing
your driver’s license
5.
nod with enthusiasm
at teeth and lips
until they pause
and you realize
you’ve been asked
a question
6.
wait for the red, hot spread
to be steamed
from your cheeks
1.
remove a damp hand
from your pocket,
(dislodging used tissues)
allow it to be shaken
2.
let the name bounce
irretrievably off your forehead
3.
speak your own
too softly,
repeat it, step closer,
repeat it, step closer,
until you’re standing
within the precinct
of body heat
4.
when you’re called
by a name one degree off,
consider changing
your driver’s license
5.
nod with enthusiasm
at teeth and lips
until they pause
and you realize
you’ve been asked
a question
6.
wait for the red, hot spread
to be steamed
from your cheeks
How to Water Your Lawn Effectively
1. Avoid relationships with classical scholars prone to grand gestures or at least get one on a low-sodium diet.
2. Drink so much water that you run clear. Mark your territory, you dribbling homeowner you.
3. Your neighbour’s hose, 4 a.m. (Dreams of running water, of loss.) Mouth to bronze spout, you know: this is what happens when the nail in your veins is loosened. This is the taste of a mouthful of change.
4. Being neither a cooper nor a carpenter, invest in (the sour emptiness of) whiskey barrels. Invest in eaves, mulch plugs, unfolded ladders - no ladder! - how lightning and elm canopy intersect.
5. Rip out grass like carpet, like end-roll hastily bought and rejected by the next tenant who 'has an eye for these things.' Tramp dirt, raising peaty clouds and lining your mouth with sod.
6. Ask a farmer if you can pick rocks (his fields overturned, rocks come to the surface as teeth come through gums). Don’t think about drunks, vitrines, and convenient projectiles.
Later, train moss onto your rocks the way you train pets onto paper.
7. Plant densely.
8. Lie on the lawn, aching and chill. Turn on the sprinkler. When your hair is plastered among blades broad and wet, your fingers twined with half-drowned worms, turn off the water.
9. If beer is good enough for slugs, how about chardonnay for the weeds? Hooch for the home/hinterland??
10. Push a shovel into the ground. Spread the soil so you can see several inches below the surface.
2. Drink so much water that you run clear. Mark your territory, you dribbling homeowner you.
3. Your neighbour’s hose, 4 a.m. (Dreams of running water, of loss.) Mouth to bronze spout, you know: this is what happens when the nail in your veins is loosened. This is the taste of a mouthful of change.
4. Being neither a cooper nor a carpenter, invest in (the sour emptiness of) whiskey barrels. Invest in eaves, mulch plugs, unfolded ladders - no ladder! - how lightning and elm canopy intersect.
5. Rip out grass like carpet, like end-roll hastily bought and rejected by the next tenant who 'has an eye for these things.' Tramp dirt, raising peaty clouds and lining your mouth with sod.
6. Ask a farmer if you can pick rocks (his fields overturned, rocks come to the surface as teeth come through gums). Don’t think about drunks, vitrines, and convenient projectiles.
Later, train moss onto your rocks the way you train pets onto paper.
7. Plant densely.
8. Lie on the lawn, aching and chill. Turn on the sprinkler. When your hair is plastered among blades broad and wet, your fingers twined with half-drowned worms, turn off the water.
9. If beer is good enough for slugs, how about chardonnay for the weeds? Hooch for the home/hinterland??
10. Push a shovel into the ground. Spread the soil so you can see several inches below the surface.
a poem by Sarah Manguso;
Here's a poem by American poet Sarah Manguso, from her first poetry collection; see the note I posted on her first and second poetry collections here.
Beautiful Things
Sometimes I think I understand the way things work
and then I find out that on Neptune it rains diamonds.
On this world you can get out of work early, unclog the drain,
hear music. Any of the above should prove the existence
of God or at least some kind of beautifying engine
but in Germany when they couldn’t figure out
how to tranquilize the polar bear and he was standing
in the park, the cage door broken, they shot him dead.
Nine hundred pounds—that’s a lot of dead bear.
Neptune’s pretty close to immortal,
as we understand the word, and I wouldn’t like to be
that planet. But if I had to I would take it,
the decades of punishing rain, and the fires
on neighboring planets I would watch,
thankful I was never touched by them,
and that the diamonds were mine. (The Captain Lands in Paradise)
Beautiful Things
Sometimes I think I understand the way things work
and then I find out that on Neptune it rains diamonds.
On this world you can get out of work early, unclog the drain,
hear music. Any of the above should prove the existence
of God or at least some kind of beautifying engine
but in Germany when they couldn’t figure out
how to tranquilize the polar bear and he was standing
in the park, the cage door broken, they shot him dead.
Nine hundred pounds—that’s a lot of dead bear.
Neptune’s pretty close to immortal,
as we understand the word, and I wouldn’t like to be
that planet. But if I had to I would take it,
the decades of punishing rain, and the fires
on neighboring planets I would watch,
thankful I was never touched by them,
and that the diamonds were mine. (The Captain Lands in Paradise)
Eric et les papillons
.
poches pleines de papillons
rouge bleu jaune (je peux presque les voir..)
relâchés à l’azur
une journée de printemps
(si je ferme les yeux, fort fort?)
le petit aux yeux verts
grands ouverts
me raconte ce qu’il voit.
je n’ai qu’à écouter
grands soupirs et sourires
remplie, je suis
ça dégoutte ici, de
papillons verts,
de bonheur.
.
poches pleines de papillons
rouge bleu jaune (je peux presque les voir..)
relâchés à l’azur
une journée de printemps
(si je ferme les yeux, fort fort?)
le petit aux yeux verts
grands ouverts
me raconte ce qu’il voit.
je n’ai qu’à écouter
grands soupirs et sourires
remplie, je suis
ça dégoutte ici, de
papillons verts,
de bonheur.
.
11 p.m. in the Vegas Airport
This is my seventh time
in the Vegas Airport
an unplanned excursion
a road trip rerouted to air
Seven times has not proven lucky
The star wars game
won me over with graphic
emblems of my youth and
sucked up my 5 dollars
like so much space debris
on a tractor beam
Someone's playing Wheel of Fortune
one last time on their way out
They spin the wheel,
a cheer goes up from the electronic crowd
as they piss away the few remaining dollars
the Strip forgot to strip from them
The bar's still open for a few last guests
you can tell who has bets on the game
by how far off their stools they lean
meanwhile three feet from the entrance,
a set of kids sleep on pillows
pilfered from circus circus
The hat lying on the chair here
seems like an unlucky loss
one more thing left behind
snatched away by the town's cruel fates
until the young Asian dude scoops
it up, fortune with him again
in the Vegas Airport
an unplanned excursion
a road trip rerouted to air
Seven times has not proven lucky
The star wars game
won me over with graphic
emblems of my youth and
sucked up my 5 dollars
like so much space debris
on a tractor beam
Someone's playing Wheel of Fortune
one last time on their way out
They spin the wheel,
a cheer goes up from the electronic crowd
as they piss away the few remaining dollars
the Strip forgot to strip from them
The bar's still open for a few last guests
you can tell who has bets on the game
by how far off their stools they lean
meanwhile three feet from the entrance,
a set of kids sleep on pillows
pilfered from circus circus
The hat lying on the chair here
seems like an unlucky loss
one more thing left behind
snatched away by the town's cruel fates
until the young Asian dude scoops
it up, fortune with him again
EARTH POEM
Earth Poem by Nathaniel G. Moore
using a "flinty" voice
Whenever I think of the way we were
I can see our faces, trembling before
photographic flash/flint: like we're looking
at a large golden chest being opened
many coins are in the mouths of a golden Flint.
What is a Flint?
It's a type of bird, very rare, who specializes in ESP education
and administration, very big in Detroit. As large as car parts,
FACTION
the pot you cook it in, like a copper coffin, is actually acute,
tempura mental, clasped to its juices.
As air parks and parkas, teeming with goose down.
it's very familiar.. throaty, almost flinty ...
The size of the bird is not meal-ready.
You have to do some work. Prep work.
You'll have to do some amazing work.
FRACTION
What is a Flint?
The female flint unrolls with tight discordance
on the left ventricle
for a full a half
minute before the guilty teens are killed.
Her voice has arrived. "Shall we kiss on the lips, nose bridge or unlock
the tool die set, mend the serpent rash fix it task?"
You can answer, "Sure."
Or shall I say that I'm sorry? That on any other day of the week
I would have asked you to comb your hair with lavender, honey
and lemon rind trails."
Such a simple opening and so assertive. Within forty-five seconds,
planet announces she is not tied to her guts, not tied to boys,
not particularly concerned about pedestrian ether.
FACTOR
A flint is a source of low density proteins, baked size
A way of feeling the air across coins,
A way of determining an economic return not resolve.
A way to bridge the gap between oxygen, intent and bone
FRACTURE
It's a sonic emblem of hostility, sustenance and cerebral policies.
It's the sight of someone getting up off a couch/cake with coins
stuck to their behind.
It's the way you can't leave things behind.
Your voice will sound flinty
Did you say flinty?
Flinty.
it's very familiar.. throaty, almost flinty ...
FENDER
this poem was from the 12th episode for the 5th season
--
Monday, May 05, 2008
how to be shy: small talk
1.
forget everything
you may already know
about this person
with whom
you can’t avoid speaking
2.
allow an interval –
awkwardly long –
in which he or she
will choose not to speak
3.
if you are in winnipeg,
offer a question
about recent meteorological events
4.
repeat
5.
inquire about pets or lovers,
offer condolences
6.
lose track of the order
in which words
leave your mouth,
hear them
and cringe
7.
use hand gestures
for the first time,
wonder why
you are doing this,
watch your own hands
for the rest
of the conversation
8.
attempt humour,
fail
9.
wish so fervently
for the light to change/
line to move/
movie to start
that it shows
on your face
1.
forget everything
you may already know
about this person
with whom
you can’t avoid speaking
2.
allow an interval –
awkwardly long –
in which he or she
will choose not to speak
3.
if you are in winnipeg,
offer a question
about recent meteorological events
4.
repeat
5.
inquire about pets or lovers,
offer condolences
6.
lose track of the order
in which words
leave your mouth,
hear them
and cringe
7.
use hand gestures
for the first time,
wonder why
you are doing this,
watch your own hands
for the rest
of the conversation
8.
attempt humour,
fail
9.
wish so fervently
for the light to change/
line to move/
movie to start
that it shows
on your face
if you are almond I am almond too
thirteen ways of describing anything has become the archetype
for the worst kind of poem
the airplane flies east & pulls just at the hook between
my third and fourth ventricle
all carved up with rust
I have been without you so long I can no longer distinguish
the colours red, blue
would rather be happy than right
you talked of this once, when the lights went quick down
& you asked if I noticed
in my dream, the streets fill with little epiphanies, and pockets
are already full
three men in the same suit
checkmark boxes on bright yellow foolscap
an advertisement for car audio
obscures a young girl reading scripture
I know this is more than a series
of mere moments
are you receiving me?
for the worst kind of poem
the airplane flies east & pulls just at the hook between
my third and fourth ventricle
all carved up with rust
I have been without you so long I can no longer distinguish
the colours red, blue
would rather be happy than right
you talked of this once, when the lights went quick down
& you asked if I noticed
in my dream, the streets fill with little epiphanies, and pockets
are already full
three men in the same suit
checkmark boxes on bright yellow foolscap
an advertisement for car audio
obscures a young girl reading scripture
I know this is more than a series
of mere moments
are you receiving me?
Making Potato Salad
Making Potato Salad
The hot potatoes warmed our fingers
as we scraped away the papery skins
exposing white flesh all crumbly and rich
steaming still from the giant water baths.
This is the way they do it
and I’m just here to help.
Chopping onions till tears flow,
dicing red yellow green bell peppers
color like confetti through the white
starch smooth as clouds in a blue bowl.
More chopping, celery ribs into tiny chunks
full of flavor and crunch, right there
with pickle relish for tang and tradition.
Stir in the chopped eggs with sun gold centers
and whiter whites firm as moon slices
slide into mayo and good mustard
into the tub of all things good and tasty,
soon to sit alongside ribs and chicken
all the makings of a birthday feast
assembled by steady loving hands.
Friends and family of every color and description
blend together in the busy yard, a salad of bits
come together, more delicious combined
than just sitting alone untasted.
The hot potatoes warmed our fingers
as we scraped away the papery skins
exposing white flesh all crumbly and rich
steaming still from the giant water baths.
This is the way they do it
and I’m just here to help.
Chopping onions till tears flow,
dicing red yellow green bell peppers
color like confetti through the white
starch smooth as clouds in a blue bowl.
More chopping, celery ribs into tiny chunks
full of flavor and crunch, right there
with pickle relish for tang and tradition.
Stir in the chopped eggs with sun gold centers
and whiter whites firm as moon slices
slide into mayo and good mustard
into the tub of all things good and tasty,
soon to sit alongside ribs and chicken
all the makings of a birthday feast
assembled by steady loving hands.
Friends and family of every color and description
blend together in the busy yard, a salad of bits
come together, more delicious combined
than just sitting alone untasted.
#2 (as long as love)
as this ring neither begins nor ends
as the earth rotates
as the ocean currents persist
as rivers rush and tumble
as crocus lilac rose raspberry returns
as mint colonizes the yard
as trees root themselves
as winter remembers grass
& grass imagines sunlight through the snow
tardy introductory post
This is me, Regan Taylor, semi-permanent Vancouverite, looking unusually contemplative.
This past week I've been on vacation, visiting with my family in Montreal , and so haven't had much time to
a) introduce myself
b) read everyone's first few posts
c) post anything.
This is my second year doing this, and though I fizzled fast last year, I found it thoroughly inspiring and productive. I finished a writing MFA (out at UBC) last year and I'm having some luck publishing things here and there, but I still consider myself a beginner.
I should have a poem and comments ready to shoot into the ether by this evening. It's lovely to be here!
How to name a cougar
Call these stealthy creatures CAT—
long-jointed paws with black
bulging veins flex greased muscles
at people passing by. They live
behind an eight-foot cage,
a yellow metalled family. Sometimes you
can’t stand to watch. They smell
cultivated when you step near. They hunger
six days a week; consume their fill
of rock and soil, those unearthed
bones aching in the elements; stalk
bare land with controlled skill; moan
open mouthed on stones, their powerful
haunches squatted. And you
can’t ignore the endless yelp
of their frequent appetite, the tireless scratch
at mountain’s throat, that ripping
away of earth’s soft belly,
your heart gutted
with each diesel breath.
long-jointed paws with black
bulging veins flex greased muscles
at people passing by. They live
behind an eight-foot cage,
a yellow metalled family. Sometimes you
can’t stand to watch. They smell
cultivated when you step near. They hunger
six days a week; consume their fill
of rock and soil, those unearthed
bones aching in the elements; stalk
bare land with controlled skill; moan
open mouthed on stones, their powerful
haunches squatted. And you
can’t ignore the endless yelp
of their frequent appetite, the tireless scratch
at mountain’s throat, that ripping
away of earth’s soft belly,
your heart gutted
with each diesel breath.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Holly Show
Holly Show
I never considered holly trees in spring
but sat beneath one
just tonight.
I watched a gliding robin for an hour
at least
while she ferried thrashing
worms and angry bugs across
breeze-rippled foil water
to her gap-mouthed
baby, very round and
not so red-breasted,
perched on the rim of it’s nest—
too-small cup of twigs wedged
in the waxy stellar leaves above me.
I wanted only to rest a moment
on a cool bench after finding
thousands of black tadpoles mass
at the edge of the stone pond,
wriggling apostrophes
in the evening sun
beneath the exclamations
of emerging iris,
but instead I was enchanted
by bird tasks, calls and all sorts
of dusk feedings—
swallows swooping high overhead,
mallards and wood ducks
sliding iridescent reflections in green light
until the birdsongs, traffic noise
and passing leashed
dogs greeted me with awareness—
I regretted I had to leave
and could not spend the night
there in the shimmer of pointed
holly trees
holding baby birds
over the dark water.
I never considered holly trees in spring
but sat beneath one
just tonight.
I watched a gliding robin for an hour
at least
while she ferried thrashing
worms and angry bugs across
breeze-rippled foil water
to her gap-mouthed
baby, very round and
not so red-breasted,
perched on the rim of it’s nest—
too-small cup of twigs wedged
in the waxy stellar leaves above me.
I wanted only to rest a moment
on a cool bench after finding
thousands of black tadpoles mass
at the edge of the stone pond,
wriggling apostrophes
in the evening sun
beneath the exclamations
of emerging iris,
but instead I was enchanted
by bird tasks, calls and all sorts
of dusk feedings—
swallows swooping high overhead,
mallards and wood ducks
sliding iridescent reflections in green light
until the birdsongs, traffic noise
and passing leashed
dogs greeted me with awareness—
I regretted I had to leave
and could not spend the night
there in the shimmer of pointed
holly trees
holding baby birds
over the dark water.
how to be shy: the hug
1.
receive only,
do not initiate
2.
watch for the signal:
body traveling within range
of your breath,
arms mimicking the inhalation
of an accordion
3.
hesitate,
do not intercept,
be certain
you are the intended,
then hesitate again
4.
corral panic
away from your face
5.
miscalculate
the landing of arms,
hastily rearrange
your limbs,
laugh self-consciously
6.
prepare for variations:
palm scrubbing
your shoulder blades,
dry kiss on the west side
of your face
7.
lose control
over a small sound
in your throat,
act as if
this hasn’t happened
8.
pretend you are one
who hugs easily, blithely
9.
wait one or two seconds,
release
1.
receive only,
do not initiate
2.
watch for the signal:
body traveling within range
of your breath,
arms mimicking the inhalation
of an accordion
3.
hesitate,
do not intercept,
be certain
you are the intended,
then hesitate again
4.
corral panic
away from your face
5.
miscalculate
the landing of arms,
hastily rearrange
your limbs,
laugh self-consciously
6.
prepare for variations:
palm scrubbing
your shoulder blades,
dry kiss on the west side
of your face
7.
lose control
over a small sound
in your throat,
act as if
this hasn’t happened
8.
pretend you are one
who hugs easily, blithely
9.
wait one or two seconds,
release
flamenca txts Malángel
unlace my shus
i wll dnce tangos 4u
sguiriya & seco/
i wll dnce,riojas blud
irth th mseta in jun/
u wll tste frsh cut
lemnz&salt on yr
lps/u wll cry slvr o’s
th oliv grovs wld rses/
blck swllows wll halo
abuv/whn i dnc
4u
i wll dnce tangos 4u
sguiriya & seco/
i wll dnce,riojas blud
irth th mseta in jun/
u wll tste frsh cut
lemnz&salt on yr
lps/u wll cry slvr o’s
th oliv grovs wld rses/
blck swllows wll halo
abuv/whn i dnc
4u
Rush-light
Storm-light’s grey clarity and you bluster.
Syllables batter against the rear-view, cling
to the meat of my earlobes
still half-a-city from home.
Rainclouds unroll over rush-hour, its ticking
stale from storage. Mouth open, I blare My Bonny
shoulder-checking headlights
and grit twisters
at the curb.
In evening’s rush-light and traffic’s flare
your face goes bone before you drop off
leaving a body to bob
over swells of asphalt and tar,
a body for me to bundle inside.
* * *
Hey all,
Sorry I've been absent from these parts, lo the first few days of May. And my prodigal poem doesn't entirely redeem me, does it?
But still, glad to be here, glad to see all the activity...
More - much more - later!
A.
Syllables batter against the rear-view, cling
to the meat of my earlobes
still half-a-city from home.
Rainclouds unroll over rush-hour, its ticking
stale from storage. Mouth open, I blare My Bonny
shoulder-checking headlights
and grit twisters
at the curb.
In evening’s rush-light and traffic’s flare
your face goes bone before you drop off
leaving a body to bob
over swells of asphalt and tar,
a body for me to bundle inside.
* * *
Hey all,
Sorry I've been absent from these parts, lo the first few days of May. And my prodigal poem doesn't entirely redeem me, does it?
But still, glad to be here, glad to see all the activity...
More - much more - later!
A.
from The Banff Sessions;
a lovers place is often ambiguous
darkness like trees, smell a mountain failure
batch, how much
not of hunger but of heart, a trauma
paper-thin weight
is not enough of me blood in pages you
bare lifted hands another
note in pencil shipwreck, there you plied a written
, why you different I am
one spring day fundamental arguments,
through telephone disguise
falls out, pushes love
, you first
darkness like trees, smell a mountain failure
batch, how much
not of hunger but of heart, a trauma
paper-thin weight
is not enough of me blood in pages you
bare lifted hands another
note in pencil shipwreck, there you plied a written
, why you different I am
one spring day fundamental arguments,
through telephone disguise
falls out, pushes love
, you first
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Saturday's Poem
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.
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.
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)...
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