song sparrows waken her at dawn
fearful she will otherwise forget
winter's gone
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
March 6: St. Colette, Virgin
Nicolette is a plausible name, virginity
a likely state of first breath. Hermitesses laudable
role models, even those who believe themselves
assaulted by bees
and zombies.
Traitors hanged in the public square,
rapists and poachers,
swinging their bulging arms at her
right out of their sockets. While the bees swarmed.
Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. Slutty slut. Buzz buzz.
Hunched fetus-like, squat and swatting.
Let them go, let them go, my God, my God.
Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.
She showed the priests her bruises.
There was less awareness back in those days
about anti-zombie strategy.
Today, many reclusive virgins
with ears ringing, whispering surround-sound,
would know just what to do.
Late in the Season
Hearing a chickadee call so late—
the others already flitting in
and out of tree cavities and nest boxes
with insects for their young—
swee-tie, what once was hopeful,
a sign of longer days and leaf out,
now urgent like a child calling
for a lost dog, swee-tie? swee-tie?
Then, the pitch changes—
a response? For all of us
whose clocks run a little late,
I offer another who, after chase,
will gather moss, dog hair and dryer lint
to line the nest, then lift her tail
for that quick cloacal kiss.
the others already flitting in
and out of tree cavities and nest boxes
with insects for their young—
swee-tie, what once was hopeful,
a sign of longer days and leaf out,
now urgent like a child calling
for a lost dog, swee-tie? swee-tie?
Then, the pitch changes—
a response? For all of us
whose clocks run a little late,
I offer another who, after chase,
will gather moss, dog hair and dryer lint
to line the nest, then lift her tail
for that quick cloacal kiss.
Team colors
On the train ride home tonight,
the first day of real tshirt weather,
I'm surrounded by a conspiracy
of blue and red
jerseys, t-shirts, caps,
even a dress
that barely covers boobs
CU -- neckline-- BS
They chatter loudly in pairs,
couples, families,
taking up seats
two by two,
like they will at the park,
sipping colas and Red Bull
as if they need to get
more jacked up.
They pity me perhaps,
heading home without a seat-mate,
just my book for company.
But I was them once.
On my way to a game,
secure in the happiness
that no runs have yet to score,
anything is possible,
the home team could still win
despite recent statistics.
This could be the night
the star player beats his slump.
I don't even know anymore
who that star player is -
I haven't had to care,
haven't had to check daily websites
to keep up with intense speculations
about streaks, batting order, standings.
I had in fact thought until now
that since we finally struck out,
this would be a summer without baseball,
unthinkable as that once would be.
But I see tonight
baseball goes on without me,
surrounds me, befriends me.
And summer reaches out --
in blue, in red --
to pull me in.
the first day of real tshirt weather,
I'm surrounded by a conspiracy
of blue and red
jerseys, t-shirts, caps,
even a dress
that barely covers boobs
CU -- neckline-- BS
They chatter loudly in pairs,
couples, families,
taking up seats
two by two,
like they will at the park,
sipping colas and Red Bull
as if they need to get
more jacked up.
They pity me perhaps,
heading home without a seat-mate,
just my book for company.
But I was them once.
On my way to a game,
secure in the happiness
that no runs have yet to score,
anything is possible,
the home team could still win
despite recent statistics.
This could be the night
the star player beats his slump.
I don't even know anymore
who that star player is -
I haven't had to care,
haven't had to check daily websites
to keep up with intense speculations
about streaks, batting order, standings.
I had in fact thought until now
that since we finally struck out,
this would be a summer without baseball,
unthinkable as that once would be.
But I see tonight
baseball goes on without me,
surrounds me, befriends me.
And summer reaches out --
in blue, in red --
to pull me in.
allegrias
o guapo guapo mi amigo
mi Mayo
hola hola mi alma mi espiritu
apples, cherries, plums blossom
petals salt, pepper the earth
mi corazón flies flies
all my springs back to me.
20th and P
Slow for a pedestrian clutching her coffee
crossing one lane at a time, and in sunlight
she smiles, spry lean against the breeze, white teeth in a brown face.
Behind us cars honk, swerve around, a screech
coffee splashes on the ground. She
grimaces, raises her cup to me as if to say
"Cheers."
Keeps walking head-high to a downrolled window,
Racist invective, fountain of pennies and a thrown
Slurpee cup. Another spring day in the 'hood.
crossing one lane at a time, and in sunlight
she smiles, spry lean against the breeze, white teeth in a brown face.
Behind us cars honk, swerve around, a screech
coffee splashes on the ground. She
grimaces, raises her cup to me as if to say
"Cheers."
Keeps walking head-high to a downrolled window,
Racist invective, fountain of pennies and a thrown
Slurpee cup. Another spring day in the 'hood.
Fade
The westbound bus is ailing,
lights, air conditioner turned off
to spare the battery. No one complains.
Ceiling vents open to the sweet
end-of-summer night.
Sun slips lower, pastel colors
burn hotter. Late-August blue
grows deeper, the land falls under
a wash of shadow, darker than sky.
Small pools of water in the fields,
gaps of reflected light in the dark
landscape, holes in the black
cloth cast over the world
like the cover of a birdcage:
Shh. Quiet now. Settle down.
And we do, the cool air tranquilizing.
Talk fades to a murmur,
children retreat into video.
You hold my hand.
It's the end of the day. Don't worry
if there's nothing left to say.
Growing pains
Toes cramped inside shoes
from eternal curling.
Ankles, wrists, always bitten
raw by frost.
Throat gripped tighter by noose
of collar with every swallow.
Knees, elbows, forehead,
blued with bruise.
Heart stamped flat
with every vicious whisper
of the Devil in my veins.
from eternal curling.
Ankles, wrists, always bitten
raw by frost.
Throat gripped tighter by noose
of collar with every swallow.
Knees, elbows, forehead,
blued with bruise.
Heart stamped flat
with every vicious whisper
of the Devil in my veins.
The world
is a funny place.
Fly to Vancouver to Beijing reading
En Route about the rise of cerealism—
breakfast clubs after dark. Bowls of pumpkin
porridge with lobster and truffles, steel-
cut oats topped with chocolate pudding.
Opposite page—Wayne
Gretzky sells watches. Read
About elitist private members’
clubs in Hong Kong—similar to people’s homes,
not my home.
Another page—go
to Camont to make sausage
from pig shoulder in the eighteenth-century
farmhouse. The instructor an American
who came to moor her barge.
Along the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia,
a golf course. What a shrine to the old
country. Expect a fickle wind.
And now in Beijing, step over
the thin man missing limbs, sitting
in the street.
* * *
Hello everyone. I've been traveling through China and haven't had regular access to the Internet. I'm back on May 15 and will be posting more then. Until then, here's a poem.
Best,
Kelly
Fly to Vancouver to Beijing reading
En Route about the rise of cerealism—
breakfast clubs after dark. Bowls of pumpkin
porridge with lobster and truffles, steel-
cut oats topped with chocolate pudding.
Opposite page—Wayne
Gretzky sells watches. Read
About elitist private members’
clubs in Hong Kong—similar to people’s homes,
not my home.
Another page—go
to Camont to make sausage
from pig shoulder in the eighteenth-century
farmhouse. The instructor an American
who came to moor her barge.
Along the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia,
a golf course. What a shrine to the old
country. Expect a fickle wind.
And now in Beijing, step over
the thin man missing limbs, sitting
in the street.
* * *
Hello everyone. I've been traveling through China and haven't had regular access to the Internet. I'm back on May 15 and will be posting more then. Until then, here's a poem.
Best,
Kelly
How to Celebrate Mother's Day, part three
1.
Because she sat in the kitchen with the curling tongs, most afternoons. And she spread my hair like a blanket over my shoulders and brushed it until it crackled. And then, section by section, she curled my honey hair. The hair that was just as hers was, when she was young.
And then she would re-tie the sash on my dresses, making it big and pretty.
And she’d send me out to skip and prattle for the newspapermen on the afternoon train, all of them young men new to suits, to pencils and telegraph wires and column inches.
And I know my hair caught the sun like waves on the ocean. The sun and their surprised eyes.
And that Mama saw it from behind the blinds, her hands empty and still.
2.
Because she taught me that bolts of lace and cards of pearl buttons were as potent a message as those punched in telegraph tape.
3.
That Mama wouldn’t let the servants clean the sheets in the guest room. The ones he blackened and stained with smuts from the lab, him falling into bed after a week or more away.
He would sleep for a day or more and look at us, bleary-eyed, when he awoke.
After he left, she’d bundle up the sheets like they were something sacred. And take them down to the basement and scrub them clean again, her soft fingers burning in the soap.
I read how women used to hang the sheets out the window after their wedding night, the blots of blood a badge of purity.
I think Mama’s triumph was keeping his badges, his hard work, his neverending work, all to herself.
4.
Because she stroked my cheek when she was happy with me. Even now, someone touching my pocked face makes me intensely happy.
5.
That when Papa dumped an armful of broken clocks before going away, that Mama got down on the floor with us, even though the servants laughed at her.
She’d taken apart chickens, she told me, a streak of rust across her cheek, a screwdriver in her hand. How different could this be?
(Likely story, said cook, smirking.)
6.
A crock of milk gone sour; you don’t know it’s off until you pour it out. That’s how it was with Mama, those last few years.
But I knew she was sad and drunk most of the time. And I didn’t say anything to Papa.
I didn’t say, “I know you love Mama. And if you come home for a week, a week or maybe a month at home because you love Mama, she will be a little bit better.”
7.
Because she smiled crooked. And often, when we were little.
Because her happiness was stitched into Papa’s shirts
and he never knew it. Because I see now that she was young
and foolish, when she married him.
When she died.
Because she sat in the kitchen with the curling tongs, most afternoons. And she spread my hair like a blanket over my shoulders and brushed it until it crackled. And then, section by section, she curled my honey hair. The hair that was just as hers was, when she was young.
And then she would re-tie the sash on my dresses, making it big and pretty.
And she’d send me out to skip and prattle for the newspapermen on the afternoon train, all of them young men new to suits, to pencils and telegraph wires and column inches.
And I know my hair caught the sun like waves on the ocean. The sun and their surprised eyes.
And that Mama saw it from behind the blinds, her hands empty and still.
2.
Because she taught me that bolts of lace and cards of pearl buttons were as potent a message as those punched in telegraph tape.
3.
That Mama wouldn’t let the servants clean the sheets in the guest room. The ones he blackened and stained with smuts from the lab, him falling into bed after a week or more away.
He would sleep for a day or more and look at us, bleary-eyed, when he awoke.
After he left, she’d bundle up the sheets like they were something sacred. And take them down to the basement and scrub them clean again, her soft fingers burning in the soap.
I read how women used to hang the sheets out the window after their wedding night, the blots of blood a badge of purity.
I think Mama’s triumph was keeping his badges, his hard work, his neverending work, all to herself.
4.
Because she stroked my cheek when she was happy with me. Even now, someone touching my pocked face makes me intensely happy.
5.
That when Papa dumped an armful of broken clocks before going away, that Mama got down on the floor with us, even though the servants laughed at her.
She’d taken apart chickens, she told me, a streak of rust across her cheek, a screwdriver in her hand. How different could this be?
(Likely story, said cook, smirking.)
6.
A crock of milk gone sour; you don’t know it’s off until you pour it out. That’s how it was with Mama, those last few years.
But I knew she was sad and drunk most of the time. And I didn’t say anything to Papa.
I didn’t say, “I know you love Mama. And if you come home for a week, a week or maybe a month at home because you love Mama, she will be a little bit better.”
7.
Because she smiled crooked. And often, when we were little.
Because her happiness was stitched into Papa’s shirts
and he never knew it. Because I see now that she was young
and foolish, when she married him.
When she died.
Flooded, iv
Monday morning brought camouflaged men
to his door, stating he should make sure the tank is full, and
-don't forget your medication and a change of clothes-
but forgot to ask if he had anywhere to go.
Door to door the troops moved onward
the roar of military trucks battling with the music
played over loudspeakers to the weary
dike builders on the banks of the Assiniboine .
And the rain came down with no sign of ceasing
as the river snaked its way through southern cities
and what used to be shades of green and gold
mosaic patches on the Manitoba prairies.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Flock
No difference between me and the blade-faced, ash-eyed working girls, except the side of the striped canvas from which we try to snare attention, solicit ooohs, aaahs.
Between shows, I slouch out of the crowd, watch the flock of grackles in tattered taffeta scratch and squawk behind the tents. They smear lips red, sip from small, stoppered bottles. Spit at their sisters, then pinch roses into one another’s cheeks.
They whistle to me and I raise one hand to my waist, half-open the palm in a wave.
Plump one means me to hear when she says: I’d like to take his measurements, and I don’t mean the inseam. Elbows her friend. Just north.
Plenty of room inside those trousers for all of us, honey, says another.
I turn my face, as if away from a campfire. Let wind cool my flushed cheeks, my smile.
Between shows, I slouch out of the crowd, watch the flock of grackles in tattered taffeta scratch and squawk behind the tents. They smear lips red, sip from small, stoppered bottles. Spit at their sisters, then pinch roses into one another’s cheeks.
They whistle to me and I raise one hand to my waist, half-open the palm in a wave.
Plump one means me to hear when she says: I’d like to take his measurements, and I don’t mean the inseam. Elbows her friend. Just north.
Plenty of room inside those trousers for all of us, honey, says another.
I turn my face, as if away from a campfire. Let wind cool my flushed cheeks, my smile.
March 5: St. Ciaran of Saighir
Foxy fox on the chain gang. Ginger fox.
Wolf whistles with the whip.
Badger badgers.
Only fox the jealousy of the underfoot.
Fox carries wood between her jaws,
builds the monastery and gets no credit
'cept this slinky rage. This fit
of underhanded pique. This is what
we write her down about.
But three ill-gotten shoes
is a magic number
and desire is punishable by death.
The first shoe found in the stream where she'd been
admiring herself. Some say it was the shoe of power.
In her cave she rested her head on the shoe,
on its fickle leather. She licked and stroked it and
looked on it with unforgivable anguish and love.
Then a collar. And an axe. And becoming wood-bearer.
And the two shoes imposing on her downturned sight
and kicking in her small kidneys.
When they came for her, they came to her den,
the wolf and badger were afraid and carried
amulets made from the gnashing of her ancestors.
They stuffed her tail down her throat and nailed the shoes to her paws,
carried her to the monk with the cold eyes,
oh he could look at a fox and make her wish she was dead.
He put a spell on her using the bones of her comrades
(the wolf and the fox expendable in the pursuit of a penitent)
and made her to roll over and pray.
She repented and returned the shoes
bloody and unhinged
and picked up wood.
Seasonal Orchestra
No conga line of perennials and songbirds
more a slow waltz in 6/8. Sometimes
the music fades, the score wanders.
Notation of hard buds, closed brown and grey
in one movement guitar riff to green.
A wan and diluted sun
conducts butterflies out for weeks:
spring's suicide-bombers, hoping
in vain for flowers.
Flourished finish:
an arpeggio of
swallows.
(And lingering after, violin
whine: the first
mosquito.)
more a slow waltz in 6/8. Sometimes
the music fades, the score wanders.
Notation of hard buds, closed brown and grey
in one movement guitar riff to green.
A wan and diluted sun
conducts butterflies out for weeks:
spring's suicide-bombers, hoping
in vain for flowers.
Flourished finish:
an arpeggio of
swallows.
(And lingering after, violin
whine: the first
mosquito.)
SPANISH RIVER LUMBER COMPANY
Grand Trunk talk says it's the land of a thousand
lakes. Rapids and falls. An old fur trader
peddling his wares on an empty cabin’s stoop.
The last 16 acres of unspoiled forest and there’s nothing
virgin about the wilderness in the tales told
over a bottle of whiskey, his toothless
grin before he poses for a photograph
beaver skins held in his hands,
those hard-bitten slabs, dark like wet granite,
his shabby coat and too short pants —
One man’s isolation advertised
as he smiles for the camera, this golden nugget
found in a northern Eden, the Canadian lumber yard
where I’ll spend the next two climates of life
knee deep in 160 miles of water and trees,
my arms paddling for days, my boat
nosing trout, smallmouthed bass, and the daily
stops, flyfishing for a meal. An old logging dam
spills the shore with signs I paint—
rocks, severed logs, water lapping,
and one overturned canoe.
lakes. Rapids and falls. An old fur trader
peddling his wares on an empty cabin’s stoop.
The last 16 acres of unspoiled forest and there’s nothing
virgin about the wilderness in the tales told
over a bottle of whiskey, his toothless
grin before he poses for a photograph
beaver skins held in his hands,
those hard-bitten slabs, dark like wet granite,
his shabby coat and too short pants —
One man’s isolation advertised
as he smiles for the camera, this golden nugget
found in a northern Eden, the Canadian lumber yard
where I’ll spend the next two climates of life
knee deep in 160 miles of water and trees,
my arms paddling for days, my boat
nosing trout, smallmouthed bass, and the daily
stops, flyfishing for a meal. An old logging dam
spills the shore with signs I paint—
rocks, severed logs, water lapping,
and one overturned canoe.
How to Celebrate Mother’s Day, part two
1.
The time I fell off my bike at 6 and skinned my neck and chin raw on the sidewalk. And she held me as close as she could until I fell asleep.
2.
At 19, I taught myself to skate again, doing laps at a local rink. And I was slowly skating backwards, hip checking all the miles I’d done on pavement, when I nearly toppled. Righting myself, breathing hard, I turned around and saw her, standing with her elbows on the boards. And she was smiling. Not because I’d fallen; this wasn’t a pratfall guffaw. No, it was pride. And I’ll REMEMBER that grin until the day I die.
3.
Because she worked full-time and raised three kids and kept house because ALL of that was somehow her responsibility. That her resentment was a nasty dog she kept leashed, most of the time.
4.
That she put up with the bulk-bin peanut brittle. Oh, wait, first we burnt toast for her...
5.
When she let us raid our uncle’s stash of old Playboys at the cabin, curious about all the naked women. And didn’t say a damn thing, just put the magazines back in the cupboard when we were done.
6.
That she didn’t just get up and leave when all THREE of us spilled our milk during a single meal. Any number of times during our long adolescence.
7.
Because she sang You Are My Sunshine while she wiggled the loose tooth in my jaw, my head in her lap. She sang it like sunshine, like sugar, like love, put into words.
The time I fell off my bike at 6 and skinned my neck and chin raw on the sidewalk. And she held me as close as she could until I fell asleep.
2.
At 19, I taught myself to skate again, doing laps at a local rink. And I was slowly skating backwards, hip checking all the miles I’d done on pavement, when I nearly toppled. Righting myself, breathing hard, I turned around and saw her, standing with her elbows on the boards. And she was smiling. Not because I’d fallen; this wasn’t a pratfall guffaw. No, it was pride. And I’ll REMEMBER that grin until the day I die.
3.
Because she worked full-time and raised three kids and kept house because ALL of that was somehow her responsibility. That her resentment was a nasty dog she kept leashed, most of the time.
4.
That she put up with the bulk-bin peanut brittle. Oh, wait, first we burnt toast for her...
5.
When she let us raid our uncle’s stash of old Playboys at the cabin, curious about all the naked women. And didn’t say a damn thing, just put the magazines back in the cupboard when we were done.
6.
That she didn’t just get up and leave when all THREE of us spilled our milk during a single meal. Any number of times during our long adolescence.
7.
Because she sang You Are My Sunshine while she wiggled the loose tooth in my jaw, my head in her lap. She sang it like sunshine, like sugar, like love, put into words.
Attila triomphe
Contre toute attente
la tulipe hâtive casse croûte de neige
pour saluer les passants
de la rue McMillan.
En retour, eux,
trouvent espoir.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Spider dreams
This one's in black and white.
Man, bald like a cartoon villain,
his laugh low and humorless:
I am the spider.
This one is muted brown and green.
The bush behind the neighbor's field,
derelict van with rear doors open,
spiders pouring out the driver's window.
This one's full color, real life.
Hairless seed of a body suspended
from legs like jointed threads.
I watch its progress through the grass,
unwilling to kill it
(those grey guts smeared
on my shoe), still less to feel
that filament of a leg
on my wrist.
How to Celebrate Mother’s Day
“Warning #2. Don't bring up past issues. She may have been into drugs when you were a kid, and forgot you at school a lot, but don't talk about that today. Try to focus on the better times, when she supported one of your decisions, or when she did something silly and made everyone laugh.” – How to Celebrate Mother’s Day, wikiHow.
1.
Leave the house RIGHT now.
2.
In the name of home economics, efficiency, and Rorschach-like splatter, set off a small bomb in the kitchen at 8 am.
3.
Spray paint a loving tribute on a nearby bridge the night before. Go for a drive after dinner and see that the liquor made you write “I wuv you Momo.”
You’ll find that a brutal you-ee will stifle her contemptuous snorts.
4.
You’ve heard of vodka-infused watermelons? Get out the turkey baster and get…creative.
5.
Seriously. Don’t come home until DARK.
6.
You've been giving your father Seven Eleven-grade plasticized porn and your mother bulk-bin peanut brittle for every major holiday since you were four...why stop now?
7.
Enlist your twitter minions to call your mother every minute the ENTIRE 24 hours of mother’s day.
8.
Black roses.
Breaking
1.
Square his huge world
with rough wood, pen in even the sky.
Let him tire of thrashing,
give up sniffing for freedom.
In a day, he’ll forget the luxury
of untangling legs.
If needed, choke his will.
2.
Approach from the front
with hushed promises:
a lifetime of feed.
Whisper I’m your only friend.
Watch trust bud, flower,
let him sidle to your touch.
3.
Hide intentions in your left hand,
low, holstered along the thigh.
With your right, smooth away his wariness.
Ready the hackamore silently,
below his line of vision,
reassure -- low tones, always -- natural,
for the best, then buckle it quick.
4.
Let his dignity starve at the post,
spirit snuffed before he knows he’s tied.
5.
Saddle him with your ambition, his destiny.
Dig in your spurs until he bleeds.
Square his huge world
with rough wood, pen in even the sky.
Let him tire of thrashing,
give up sniffing for freedom.
In a day, he’ll forget the luxury
of untangling legs.
If needed, choke his will.
2.
Approach from the front
with hushed promises:
a lifetime of feed.
Whisper I’m your only friend.
Watch trust bud, flower,
let him sidle to your touch.
3.
Hide intentions in your left hand,
low, holstered along the thigh.
With your right, smooth away his wariness.
Ready the hackamore silently,
below his line of vision,
reassure -- low tones, always -- natural,
for the best, then buckle it quick.
4.
Let his dignity starve at the post,
spirit snuffed before he knows he’s tied.
5.
Saddle him with your ambition, his destiny.
Dig in your spurs until he bleeds.
flooded, iii
in the morning he stands on a mound of clay
looking over fields that will soon be swallowed up
by rivers that run through this prairie, his.
the seeds should already be in the soil
sprouting hope
giving vision to mid-summer sheaths of gold
from the kitchen window she watches him, worried
about the man on the radio
(spouting dread with a smile in his voice!)
and the outcome of tomorrow's elections,
and with two boys still at home
she prays to the man in charge for mercy
when he returns she will pour him a cuppa
comfort the weathered lines on his worried face
tell him it will all be okay, make
love to him into the night
her spirit silently flooding with the pitter-patter of
rain that keeps falling outside their bedroom window.
fall
big men, I mean really big men,
the kind whose muscles wrap
their torsos like two-foot thick vines,
are falling, falling, heavy into the swamp,
it is a terrible thing to hear the first crack,
the tear, the roots snap from the earth,
the listing, the leaning of the massive trunk,
then hit of hard land, the man cracks,
branches pulled back, tattoo'd arms splayed.
Mother's Day, Gray
8 a.m. silent the stairs
cloud filtered light
through windowpanes
there comes a day
when all you get is calls
maybe an email,
a greeting card pinking
(in the bills)
always a mother but
retired from active duty
or grandmothered
to a new role
pleasing but distant
(like spring, or summer)
birds chip, whistle, call
bragging of a nestful
click the kettle for tea
happy mother's day, me
I just happened to be first up and it made me think of the future. I had a really nice day, for the record. Well, mostly really nice. There were a few moments. Funny qotd: "I don't see why we should honour women for reproducing. I'm only 13 but what if I wanted a present today too? See! Mother's Day should be discouraged!"
cloud filtered light
through windowpanes
there comes a day
when all you get is calls
maybe an email,
a greeting card pinking
(in the bills)
always a mother but
retired from active duty
or grandmothered
to a new role
pleasing but distant
(like spring, or summer)
birds chip, whistle, call
bragging of a nestful
click the kettle for tea
happy mother's day, me
I just happened to be first up and it made me think of the future. I had a really nice day, for the record. Well, mostly really nice. There were a few moments. Funny qotd: "I don't see why we should honour women for reproducing. I'm only 13 but what if I wanted a present today too? See! Mother's Day should be discouraged!"
Prairie Winters are the Longest Winters
Edmonton smokers are the toughest bitches,
James Dean shadows along government brick
taking what they can get, giving nothing more,
cutting -40 with their sharp exhales.
Fuck you, global warming, we’ve got data to input.
Stacey brought Timbits & the Oilers
got a decent pick this year.
The Coliseum has new turf and the Grey Cup
should be ours this year. We’re Festival City.
We got class. We’re gonna be all right.
James Dean shadows along government brick
taking what they can get, giving nothing more,
cutting -40 with their sharp exhales.
Fuck you, global warming, we’ve got data to input.
Stacey brought Timbits & the Oilers
got a decent pick this year.
The Coliseum has new turf and the Grey Cup
should be ours this year. We’re Festival City.
We got class. We’re gonna be all right.
untitled
In Scotland, sea-side villages
full of fishermen and miserable seal-brides.
Here, were-ducks snooze
in insurance office gardens where once
there were gardeners trimming hedges
picking up
all the coffee-break butts.
In South Korea, entire days yellowed
by sand lifted from the Gobi by wind and wind and wind
and wind and dropped
on millions. Here, buses blow by,
creating curb-side simoons,
gritty instants.
In Brazil, exotics destined
for cages and corners of living rooms.
Here, rusted wrought iron full of bird
and then empty, each one a perfect mimic
of treed plastic bags
insistent ringtones
and smouldering dumpsters.
* * *
This is such a uncooperative fragment. But it's all I wrote this week. So it'll have to do...
full of fishermen and miserable seal-brides.
Here, were-ducks snooze
in insurance office gardens where once
there were gardeners trimming hedges
picking up
all the coffee-break butts.
In South Korea, entire days yellowed
by sand lifted from the Gobi by wind and wind and wind
and wind and dropped
on millions. Here, buses blow by,
creating curb-side simoons,
gritty instants.
In Brazil, exotics destined
for cages and corners of living rooms.
Here, rusted wrought iron full of bird
and then empty, each one a perfect mimic
of treed plastic bags
insistent ringtones
and smouldering dumpsters.
* * *
This is such a uncooperative fragment. But it's all I wrote this week. So it'll have to do...
Saturday, May 07, 2011
siberian squill
unaware of the state of emergency up above
purple flowers poke their heads through the sodden prairie soil
just because
Email your attachment
Doubts, they swing open
a door
into a room
with no
walls. They are never
entertaining.
I fall asleep knowing I have
failed my parents.
I write poetry.
In the morning, truth still
matters. So does the sun. I think of
a title: "A Hard Rock To Swallow".
The phone rings. It's you.
A door shuts.
The main difference between a poet and a madman is
.
a door
into a room
with no
walls. They are never
entertaining.
I fall asleep knowing I have
failed my parents.
I write poetry.
In the morning, truth still
matters. So does the sun. I think of
a title: "A Hard Rock To Swallow".
The phone rings. It's you.
A door shuts.
The main difference between a poet and a madman is
.
Friday, May 06, 2011
Lasso
Twist rope into a jaw
(large enough to swallow
the calf whole, horns first).
Hemp tail limp in your left hand.
Wrist bones knitted into a honda knot,
pulse with each precise turn.
Your arm the axel, lariat the kicking wheel
of an overturned cart.
Hoop of rope level, steadily catching
lip of wind, whip-whistling,
lashing like an aspen’s arm.
You throw a hawk.
Watch it soar, snatch its prey,
squeeze.
(large enough to swallow
the calf whole, horns first).
Hemp tail limp in your left hand.
Wrist bones knitted into a honda knot,
pulse with each precise turn.
Your arm the axel, lariat the kicking wheel
of an overturned cart.
Hoop of rope level, steadily catching
lip of wind, whip-whistling,
lashing like an aspen’s arm.
You throw a hawk.
Watch it soar, snatch its prey,
squeeze.
Walking the dog
What a day--surprised a crane in a sudden clearcut
takeoff fast, not a speck ungainly.
Vole-holes and inhale juniper,
brand new long-haired dog, happy
the way only dogs can be happy with their noses buried in underbrush following the breeze
into the trees, like birdwatchers, novice spring
forest-walkers, tempted so often off path.
Ticks in the upholstery for weeks.
Tail thumping as we tweezed them each.
Happier than me running
fingers through my hair.
But no parasites go to dog heaven.
Scatter her ashes in the boreal forest,
off mossed and faint path,
tuck our pants into our socks,
and wag our tails.
takeoff fast, not a speck ungainly.
Vole-holes and inhale juniper,
brand new long-haired dog, happy
the way only dogs can be happy with their noses buried in underbrush following the breeze
into the trees, like birdwatchers, novice spring
forest-walkers, tempted so often off path.
Ticks in the upholstery for weeks.
Tail thumping as we tweezed them each.
Happier than me running
fingers through my hair.
But no parasites go to dog heaven.
Scatter her ashes in the boreal forest,
off mossed and faint path,
tuck our pants into our socks,
and wag our tails.
The Impossibility of Fireflies
She wants to believe
in the impossibility of fireflies,
their existence a rumour
perpetuated by friends from the East
and their poetry and songs.
Briefly, she confuses them with bees
and their ridiculous honey, then remembers.
Syrup, she’s been told, comes from trees,
but she’s sucked the sap off palms
after days spent amongst pine and sagebrush
and wonders why the world
continues to lie to her. She concludes
it may as well come from fireflies
or their cousins, the fairies.
She know roads have been diverted
to appease the elves. She can’t think
of anything that could appease her.
in the impossibility of fireflies,
their existence a rumour
perpetuated by friends from the East
and their poetry and songs.
Briefly, she confuses them with bees
and their ridiculous honey, then remembers.
Syrup, she’s been told, comes from trees,
but she’s sucked the sap off palms
after days spent amongst pine and sagebrush
and wonders why the world
continues to lie to her. She concludes
it may as well come from fireflies
or their cousins, the fairies.
She know roads have been diverted
to appease the elves. She can’t think
of anything that could appease her.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Breath
Our baby's breath is small and white, and it smells like milk.
I used to lie, senses open, in the path
of your heavy sleep, watching your giant mouth hang slightly open,
your girlish lashes flutter tinily. Your breath
smelled of beer and Mexican food,
your skin like chiles and sweat.
It was hot. We were broke.
Her breath is sedative, a hot toddy.
It might as well sound like warm rain, the kind I wake to wondering
why did I sleep in? Because the rain is still resting its grey sleep down.
A rare mid morning, and on her face, your ample mouth puckers.
Your eyelashes on her eyes. Twitch-crack--and
up.
June says
Hurry up and plant, hurry up and grow.
Fitsbew, bzeee, your time is now.
June itches to go swimming, go barefoot, go.
Gorges on strawberries and cherries—
hatches fruit flies inside the house.
June wobbles its bike in the tennis courts,
sports t-shirts and shorts, lakeside girls
flipping front to back like toast.
June has a heady nose: larkspur, peony,
and rose, the night air freshly laundered, warm
enough to sleep with windows open.
June swells with pea pods
and days fat as beach balls.
June brings the frenzy before the lull,
each rounded letter a cup about to overflow.
Fitsbew, bzeee, your time is now.
June itches to go swimming, go barefoot, go.
Gorges on strawberries and cherries—
hatches fruit flies inside the house.
June wobbles its bike in the tennis courts,
sports t-shirts and shorts, lakeside girls
flipping front to back like toast.
June has a heady nose: larkspur, peony,
and rose, the night air freshly laundered, warm
enough to sleep with windows open.
June swells with pea pods
and days fat as beach balls.
June brings the frenzy before the lull,
each rounded letter a cup about to overflow.
Secret Ops
The big ugly on the news
flies past my head—
no cell in my brain cares
about far-flung death
or wants to be reminded
of so much hate
hidden in bunkers
plotting new deaths
in the name of holy hates.
I am powerless.
Tonight when I scan
my wits for any link
to strong protection
do I spot the Navy Seals pin
left one night years ago
when my high school lover
visited this small house
shook my husband’s hand
hugged me with his steel arms
and left before dawn,
the pin on my side table.
In a writer’s desk clutter lies
my golden link to one man passing by,
my human history still caring,
checking to find me safe
calling the situation
all clear, in good hands.
flies past my head—
no cell in my brain cares
about far-flung death
or wants to be reminded
of so much hate
hidden in bunkers
plotting new deaths
in the name of holy hates.
I am powerless.
Tonight when I scan
my wits for any link
to strong protection
do I spot the Navy Seals pin
left one night years ago
when my high school lover
visited this small house
shook my husband’s hand
hugged me with his steel arms
and left before dawn,
the pin on my side table.
In a writer’s desk clutter lies
my golden link to one man passing by,
my human history still caring,
checking to find me safe
calling the situation
all clear, in good hands.
Bound
Height my constant companion, Cheng to my Eng. It is my wife, my work, my home. The one familiar in these stuffy cities, so alien and greasy with privilege, where coins slide too easily out of pockets and into frippery, petty entertainments. (How can the hulk of a man be worth a whole dime? Papa had to work for one until his legs quavered, jaw too weary to chew his skimpy supper. I make my living on God’s back.)
This body my glory and shame. Cross and salvation.
I could lop off my foot at the instep and never squeeze into a standard shoe, never take a staircase without turning sideways. Grind down my shoulders and I’d still clip both door jambs.
But, even days I dream of being skinned of my burden like a buffalo, I lean on it with the full beast of my weight. Savour the luscious odyssey made by a slow swallow of whiskey down and down my long throat.
This body my glory and shame. Cross and salvation.
I could lop off my foot at the instep and never squeeze into a standard shoe, never take a staircase without turning sideways. Grind down my shoulders and I’d still clip both door jambs.
But, even days I dream of being skinned of my burden like a buffalo, I lean on it with the full beast of my weight. Savour the luscious odyssey made by a slow swallow of whiskey down and down my long throat.
First ride
Each day thinking soon, soon
as snow recedes from pavement,
water slips down storm drains
thinking of chrome fenders flashing sun
the comfort of a padded seat, a bell,
a taillight blinking. The hairpin turn
by Omand's Creek, the bridge,
the birdsong trail. Rush of air
past bare arms, magic of gear ratios,
power of these less-than-muscular
legs, my slow flight beneath arching elms.
That will come later. The first ride
is scarf and gloves, cold seat, cold ears.
Mere minutes till thighs grow stiff,
slightest incline becomes a hill,
and thoughts turn to how far
I should venture before
I can say that's enough
for now.
Myhead
soround sofull sowide soflat contains mybrain mysoul myeyes mynose myears mymouth
so fat: mythoughts
gotsmacked sohard myhead sawspots and onlyholes wherewords oncelived where
language
breathed
nowcavities
gape
theback of myhead above thenape of myneck. can'tcheck. can'tsee. a mystery to wake upstaring at thesky calling "anyonethere" existentially
myname begins andstarts with"A" ithink aboutthat nightandday.(AmnesiaAphrodesia. WhoAmIandWhatAmIDoingHere) AnnoyingAndAwesome AllAlone, annoyingawesome or awesomelyannoying: Ithink ofwords
thatI coulduse to
legitimize
my personalviews, theway iam theway iwas theway iwrite atnight
because
i'mscared wheni wakeup i'llbe somethingmuchless thanonce wasme.
smacking
yourhead isclose to obscene,only beat bymeetinga
guillotine/CUT
so fat: mythoughts
gotsmacked sohard myhead sawspots and onlyholes wherewords oncelived where
language
breathed
nowcavities
gape
theback of myhead above thenape of myneck. can'tcheck. can'tsee. a mystery to wake upstaring at thesky calling "anyonethere" existentially
myname begins andstarts with"A" ithink aboutthat nightandday.(AmnesiaAphrodesia. WhoAmIandWhatAmIDoingHere) AnnoyingAndAwesome AllAlone, annoyingawesome or awesomelyannoying: Ithink ofwords
thatI coulduse to
legitimize
my personalviews, theway iam theway iwas theway iwrite atnight
because
i'mscared wheni wakeup i'llbe somethingmuchless thanonce wasme.
smacking
yourhead isclose to obscene,only beat bymeetinga
guillotine/CUT
Table graces
Mornings while we dress
water bubbles in the kettle,
news and weather murmur
from the kitchen radio.
Reading and prayers, each
of us in turn, and finally
Come dear Lord
and be our guest. Then
corn flakes with milk, one small glass
of juice, toast with gooseberry jam.
Or bran flakes in the bowl,
rhubarb jam on the toast.
We come home at noon to brown buns
with salami, a little lettuce, maybe cheese.
Canned fruit and cookies after.
It's Come dear Lord quickly mumbled, then
a reatreat into separate worlds:
the Old West, the Future, Middle Earth.
For supper, a steaming casserole,
dill pickles, bread and butter.
Dessert every night. We're fond of sweets.
But first: and let this food
tu use be blessed Amen. We joke,
argue, fall silent. We remark on
the state of the world.
We pass the milk.
Desecration
for D.M.
You buy your anger by the carton,
light the tip and watch it smolder. You're
still here, what's one day less from a doubtful
future. Not all grow older. Smoke
rises
at the trial of your sister's
death at a stranger's
hand. Your mother's
cry in the courtroom when they read the charges
to the bland-faced
man.
"Indignation to a body",
adjourning to
your mother's
scream.
You flick
the Bic,
inhale tobacco.
Exhale:
dirt
dead leaves
charred
flesh
Daleen.
You buy your anger by the carton,
light the tip and watch it smolder. You're
still here, what's one day less from a doubtful
future. Not all grow older. Smoke
rises
at the trial of your sister's
death at a stranger's
hand. Your mother's
cry in the courtroom when they read the charges
to the bland-faced
man.
"Indignation to a body",
adjourning to
your mother's
scream.
You flick
the Bic,
inhale tobacco.
Exhale:
dirt
dead leaves
charred
flesh
Daleen.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Homebound
On a sick day with enough sun
to keep tears locked in the sky
the squishy ground sinks
with each rain soaked step,
like nose wet marks
heading home to dry,
stepping through patch
after patch of emerging colors.
Dozens of poppies vibrate
in the silver fuzzy patch
just past the blue iris clumps—
jade tongues frame
the violet tinge in each
humble bowing bloom.
I long to pass through the glass
storm door and gather
an armload of May to carry inside—
but the sky is too big
the clouds too close
too much all of it
and even the knowing robin
makes her nest outside my window
in an abandoned strawberry pot
so I may watch the purest clutch of
four blue eggs sit like petals
of an amazing flower
until life cracks appear
and allow me to bear witness
in my fragility
to the unfolding of tiny wings
gifts to carry my limits away
into the open bigger blue above.
to keep tears locked in the sky
the squishy ground sinks
with each rain soaked step,
like nose wet marks
heading home to dry,
stepping through patch
after patch of emerging colors.
Dozens of poppies vibrate
in the silver fuzzy patch
just past the blue iris clumps—
jade tongues frame
the violet tinge in each
humble bowing bloom.
I long to pass through the glass
storm door and gather
an armload of May to carry inside—
but the sky is too big
the clouds too close
too much all of it
and even the knowing robin
makes her nest outside my window
in an abandoned strawberry pot
so I may watch the purest clutch of
four blue eggs sit like petals
of an amazing flower
until life cracks appear
and allow me to bear witness
in my fragility
to the unfolding of tiny wings
gifts to carry my limits away
into the open bigger blue above.
Shrinking
The world shrinks. A little every day, as if brick buildings, steel railway cars, wither in the sun. Rooms everywhere close in; walls slowly march toward one another, ceilings cede to gravity. How long before I’m suffocated?
An eating apple becomes a crab in the bowl of my palm. A ladle a teaspoon. Woman’s face a cameo.
Children lost to me now. Though their thin voices sometimes tiptoe, reach up, grab at my chin. Trees have shed all authority, all majesty. Like a father, the first time he cries before his son. At age nine, I outgrew his hand-me-downs.
An eating apple becomes a crab in the bowl of my palm. A ladle a teaspoon. Woman’s face a cameo.
Children lost to me now. Though their thin voices sometimes tiptoe, reach up, grab at my chin. Trees have shed all authority, all majesty. Like a father, the first time he cries before his son. At age nine, I outgrew his hand-me-downs.
14th and Woodlawn
the park with crows calling
is still there, though
that time is done and it is
light out now.
you are still the same lost boy
and I am still hiding
between the door and the wall
behind blue velveteen robes
that smell like dust and coffee.
they invite me up again
into the same black branches
where the view is all feathers
flapping downy down and rain,
yellow moss, bark, bird legs and claws.
is still there, though
that time is done and it is
light out now.
you are still the same lost boy
and I am still hiding
between the door and the wall
behind blue velveteen robes
that smell like dust and coffee.
they invite me up again
into the same black branches
where the view is all feathers
flapping downy down and rain,
yellow moss, bark, bird legs and claws.
Housekeeping
Hey May Day poets! PLEASE tag your posts with your name! (And preferably only your name!) So I don't have to waste valuable May Day time tagging them for you!
Delusional Parasitosis
Doubt covers the skin.
And yet not doubt, yet as sure as spring.
A new creepiness: one, two, three
thousand little doubts and frustrations crept up
from the past, and descended finally in a Biblical deluge.
An innocent box of matzoh, seal broken, a conduit
for decades of unscratched itches.
One plague, two plagues, three plagues times the number of fingers, etc.
But the worst plague of all descends alone, on only one,
the worst plague is invisible and improbable,
tingling skin static humming: ignore ignore ignore ignore ignore.
4 mai
hola mayo!
bonjour mai!
hello mon beau!
o
o
o
je suis ici (hallu hallo I'm calling down to you, from the top of your rabbit hole)
et je t'attends
patiently patiently
o mon beau, mon beau, mi amigo (guapo guapo in your deserts, you are quite frankly, delicious)
the plum blossoms are opening
they are fragrant as Shiraz,
they are the colour of Persian carpets
yellow finches balance like drunkards
in my fruit trees
o mon amour, mon amour
this winter you kissed and kissed me
in my kitchen, whispered,
this love will take great patience,
then went out, took the axe, cut and stacked
my winter's wood (it kept me warm)
I cried
when you drove away
o may, o mai, o mayo, o may
my love come swiftly
o may you, my love,
come swiftly,
o mai, mon amour
come swiftly
like white homing doves
swiftly, swiftly,
to me
May Poem #1
Eating vanilla yogurt, 10pm,
straight out
of the container, standing
at the counter
with the company
of the half curved off
cresent moon
tin-foil lid, facing me.
The road sounds
like an ocean, each car a wave
crash, I suck yogurt foam
off the spoon, another dip,
another thing pulled in
by the moon.
-Kaitlyn Boulding
straight out
of the container, standing
at the counter
with the company
of the half curved off
cresent moon
tin-foil lid, facing me.
The road sounds
like an ocean, each car a wave
crash, I suck yogurt foam
off the spoon, another dip,
another thing pulled in
by the moon.
-Kaitlyn Boulding
Fashionably Late Introduction
Hello, May
I introduce myself,
I realize I am a few days
late for the month
but I hope to make up
in poetry
what I may
lack
in promptness.
--Kaitlyn Boulding, new May-Day writer (aiming for 3/week) writing from my kitchen in Winnipeg.
I introduce myself,
I realize I am a few days
late for the month
but I hope to make up
in poetry
what I may
lack
in promptness.
--Kaitlyn Boulding, new May-Day writer (aiming for 3/week) writing from my kitchen in Winnipeg.
Returning from seeing the man with the beard of bees
The rain is a field of snapdragons.
We avoid the orchard—rotting plums bite ankles.
There is another baby on the way, skin
first a slick eel, then inevetibly, powder.
I am impatient your tongue is not a scroll
inked mystical, clairvoyant, stern.
Instead, we choose the comfort
of a half-packed suitcase and stones
polished by a blue-eyed girl
and I let the peppermint grow wild.
We avoid the orchard—rotting plums bite ankles.
There is another baby on the way, skin
first a slick eel, then inevetibly, powder.
I am impatient your tongue is not a scroll
inked mystical, clairvoyant, stern.
Instead, we choose the comfort
of a half-packed suitcase and stones
polished by a blue-eyed girl
and I let the peppermint grow wild.
Fuck you, hair gel
I think it's time
to throw out
this hair gel
I bought at the Walgreens
next door to the church
for your wedding
to a guy you now fight
for who gets to love
the kid more
where I met the man
who became my lover
then my husband
then my not-lover
then my not-husband
The Walgreens
was burned down
a few years ago
by bored 11 year olds,
one of whom lost
a hand in the flames
So fuck you hair gel
Your patented
super-hold formula
hasn't held anything
to
gether
at
all
to throw out
this hair gel
I bought at the Walgreens
next door to the church
for your wedding
to a guy you now fight
for who gets to love
the kid more
where I met the man
who became my lover
then my husband
then my not-lover
then my not-husband
The Walgreens
was burned down
a few years ago
by bored 11 year olds,
one of whom lost
a hand in the flames
So fuck you hair gel
Your patented
super-hold formula
hasn't held anything
to
gether
at
all
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
Bird watching
The nest yoked to willow branches strung with galls
the nest cured over winter
empty
is an dry mouth flooded
with saliva
and no prospect of food
trees to either side gnawed and dragged into the bog
the willow in-fill housing
a crown.
Imagine the egg. The shell mulched
underfoot, bird
watching from a nearby tree.
the nest cured over winter
empty
is an dry mouth flooded
with saliva
and no prospect of food
trees to either side gnawed and dragged into the bog
the willow in-fill housing
a crown.
Imagine the egg. The shell mulched
underfoot, bird
watching from a nearby tree.
Coyote
That coyote's no cat-killer,
can't even jaw a hare, just
stares at it, ears aquiver.
Thin as a rat, mangy coat--
can’t you see it’s too weak
to hunt, too young
to be orphaned to railroad
and back alley scratches
with raccoons over trash--
that coyote won’t make it
through winter without
a little help. Vegetable peels,
dog food left out, just till
it fattens up.
Fixture of the parking lot.
Whistle and it comes.
Photographers win close-ups
of its trim trot and sleek waist,
see the fur’s grown in—
no show dog, but toddlers
outstretch their mittens.
Do not feed wildlife
signs paper every post. Incident
waiting to happen, a nip
to the hand or collared throat. That coyote
won’t make it through winter,
going to get shot first.
can't even jaw a hare, just
stares at it, ears aquiver.
Thin as a rat, mangy coat--
can’t you see it’s too weak
to hunt, too young
to be orphaned to railroad
and back alley scratches
with raccoons over trash--
that coyote won’t make it
through winter without
a little help. Vegetable peels,
dog food left out, just till
it fattens up.
Fixture of the parking lot.
Whistle and it comes.
Photographers win close-ups
of its trim trot and sleek waist,
see the fur’s grown in—
no show dog, but toddlers
outstretch their mittens.
Do not feed wildlife
signs paper every post. Incident
waiting to happen, a nip
to the hand or collared throat. That coyote
won’t make it through winter,
going to get shot first.
Catching up
Here since the beginning, working through distance, cancer, blockages and confusion, I come to write again with friends who gather in May. Recent medical issues delayed my 2011 entry but I will be posting as ability allows. Some days I limp; some days I run. Other days I am perfectly still, silent as a poppy unfolding in the dawn.
Birth Defects: The Tongue
Did they explain the deeper mysteries of the birds
and the bees with a few simple exercises
in Mendelian genetics, blue eyes
versus the brown-eyed peas?
Or in Scotland. I saw in Bonnyrigg
more teen mothers than even in Winnipeg.
Roads crowded by stone walls, ditches crusty
with shattered Victorian dishes, and buses bursting
with pale incomprehensible babies.
In Scotland, a failed homework assignment:
a third of students with impossible blood types.
Birds: 1.
Bees: 0.
If all blood types hold true,
then my father's father's mother's mother's
father died falling off an Edinburgh roof.
His greyish-skinned teen bride,
the chimney sweeper's wife, smelling of spent fossil fuel,
with her lightly smudged and also incomprehensible child.
But in school. There was something about the tongue,
rolling the tongue, like a pancake
just waiting for a greasy fellow to slip a sausage in it.
When I brought the baby home, she rolled her tongue at me.
Does this mean I am not her mother?
Or did I learn it wrong?
Like that other girl, in a science lab,
dutifully scraping her tender cheek
for cells to dollop with yellow dye and magnify
beyond lack of recognition. But the diagram must be wrong.
She records it graphically with a number 1 Deep Yellow Laurentian.
Cells still swimming from lunch hour under the stairs.
and the bees with a few simple exercises
in Mendelian genetics, blue eyes
versus the brown-eyed peas?
Or in Scotland. I saw in Bonnyrigg
more teen mothers than even in Winnipeg.
Roads crowded by stone walls, ditches crusty
with shattered Victorian dishes, and buses bursting
with pale incomprehensible babies.
In Scotland, a failed homework assignment:
a third of students with impossible blood types.
Birds: 1.
Bees: 0.
If all blood types hold true,
then my father's father's mother's mother's
father died falling off an Edinburgh roof.
His greyish-skinned teen bride,
the chimney sweeper's wife, smelling of spent fossil fuel,
with her lightly smudged and also incomprehensible child.
But in school. There was something about the tongue,
rolling the tongue, like a pancake
just waiting for a greasy fellow to slip a sausage in it.
When I brought the baby home, she rolled her tongue at me.
Does this mean I am not her mother?
Or did I learn it wrong?
Like that other girl, in a science lab,
dutifully scraping her tender cheek
for cells to dollop with yellow dye and magnify
beyond lack of recognition. But the diagram must be wrong.
She records it graphically with a number 1 Deep Yellow Laurentian.
Cells still swimming from lunch hour under the stairs.
Spectacle
Among impossible occupations: thievery. Though my coat is large enough to conceal a woman held for ransom; palm could swallow the crown jewels. Eyes, always on me, hold me honest. Even a half-witted witness could pick me out, and from behind. No need to make up the wanted poster. No other man fits this description.
Of course, I don’t need to steal; wouldn’t, even if I could find a shadow large enough to slink into. I have money in my pocket and my only job is to stand up straight. Compared with men who break horses, break land, I’m already a shyster. But I envy the privacy of the burglar, silence of his work. I’d like to know stealth.
Eyes on me the way swarms fix on the rankest man. So thick, there’s no point in swatting. I’ve learned to let them crawl over my face, hold my gaze steady on the horizon, imagine my getaway.
I wake often, certain I see a figure bent over the bed, hear eyelashes brush key hole. Alone only when hunchbacked in the outhouse, I’ve come to relish the cloister of a long, hard shit.
Of course, I don’t need to steal; wouldn’t, even if I could find a shadow large enough to slink into. I have money in my pocket and my only job is to stand up straight. Compared with men who break horses, break land, I’m already a shyster. But I envy the privacy of the burglar, silence of his work. I’d like to know stealth.
Eyes on me the way swarms fix on the rankest man. So thick, there’s no point in swatting. I’ve learned to let them crawl over my face, hold my gaze steady on the horizon, imagine my getaway.
I wake often, certain I see a figure bent over the bed, hear eyelashes brush key hole. Alone only when hunchbacked in the outhouse, I’ve come to relish the cloister of a long, hard shit.
Post Election Blues
Woke up with a whine-induced
headache nothing could alleviate.
Woke up wishing the whole country
could take a morning after pill.
Woke up to find half a nation
holding a wake, the other half
nodding satisfied.
Woke up feeling newborn, but
with a cord around my neck
turning me blue, turning us
all blue. A blue country. Blue
skies seem distant. Blue
birds sing "four more years, four
more years" and beyond a flash
of orange in the bushes, all I see
is solid blue to the horizon.
Woke up wondering where I can go
until the next election.
Woke up thinking the shadow cast by the blinds
looked a lot like prison bars.
Woke up wondering when we're all going to
Wake up
Wake up
Wake.
headache nothing could alleviate.
Woke up wishing the whole country
could take a morning after pill.
Woke up to find half a nation
holding a wake, the other half
nodding satisfied.
Woke up feeling newborn, but
with a cord around my neck
turning me blue, turning us
all blue. A blue country. Blue
skies seem distant. Blue
birds sing "four more years, four
more years" and beyond a flash
of orange in the bushes, all I see
is solid blue to the horizon.
Woke up wondering where I can go
until the next election.
Woke up thinking the shadow cast by the blinds
looked a lot like prison bars.
Woke up wondering when we're all going to
Wake up
Wake up
Wake.
First shower
A drop, a drop. Water sets water in motion.
Wave-circles blink on puddles,
spread, disappear. Here and gone
before you can say there—look—
skin of water quicksilver, sprinkled
silent drops making chains of perfect
rings quickly broken, random,
prolific. Drops fall without
a splash, setting pools aflicker,
small drops just sufficient
to raise the first scent of wet earth.
Sudden florescence the signal
of what's to come: when,
after slow unfolding, mere hints
of growth, the greening world
accelerates.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Bed edge
Bed edge
We balance on the edges,
Tightropesleepwalkers,
Limbs thrust to outer darkness
Where the cold things are.
Mommy, turn on the blankets;
I'm cold, and my eyes are broken:
The only person here with
A full slate of mattress beneath.
This bed has been shrinking, while the other edge still
Grows more and more distant.
Fuller, emptier, sleepier, giddy with years.
Only this one rung visible
On a very long ladder.
We balance on the edges,
Tightropesleepwalkers,
Limbs thrust to outer darkness
Where the cold things are.
Mommy, turn on the blankets;
I'm cold, and my eyes are broken:
The only person here with
A full slate of mattress beneath.
This bed has been shrinking, while the other edge still
Grows more and more distant.
Fuller, emptier, sleepier, giddy with years.
Only this one rung visible
On a very long ladder.
Fairyland
Fairyland a city of electric lightbulbs – easier to count raindrops, blinks of your own eyelids. A skyful of stars neatened into lariats; dark tarted-up in endless blazing garland. No shadows to slouch behind, no night to melt into. No reason to pack up at dusk when dimes still glint in palms.
I prefer the honesty of sun (chance to catch my shadow at mid-day – a moment to be ordinary), flattery of a high, full moon. Breath-flicker of lantern, laughter of campfire, cracking sparks into the sky. Sweet, unrequited kiss of firefly.
These bulbs have no flames to hatch, to suckle. No life in them. So easily made, unmade. Conjured. And the buzz relentless as mosquitoes furious to pierce tent skin.
I prefer the honesty of sun (chance to catch my shadow at mid-day – a moment to be ordinary), flattery of a high, full moon. Breath-flicker of lantern, laughter of campfire, cracking sparks into the sky. Sweet, unrequited kiss of firefly.
These bulbs have no flames to hatch, to suckle. No life in them. So easily made, unmade. Conjured. And the buzz relentless as mosquitoes furious to pierce tent skin.
MayDay Intro
My first 2 poems were therapy! I was covering a body building event and needed to work through my issues. Thanks for bearing with me.
The MayDavians (?MayDayans?) rock.
This is my...3rd year on May Day. I am in SK but have some roots in MB, too. I may mostly be a lurker this year, but I'll try and contribute.
One of my poems from prior years was shortlisted for TNQ's occasional poem contest (one of Kerry's was HM I think! She has really been rocking it!) 4 Batoche poems from last year won subTerrain's Lush Triumphant poetry award (the issue that is out now, I think.) Their illustrations were amazing.
I was knocked unconscious a few weeks back and am still having head and eye (and language) trouble, so I'm keeping my expectations low for now. (Just what every writer needs, a head injury: I've been typing with my eyes closed as a coping mechanism.) I am having some tracking/comprehension/memory difficulties I'd rather attribute to being another year older. Then again if it's injury-induced, maybe it's reversible, unlike aging!
Looking forward to cheering you on. A
The MayDavians (?MayDayans?) rock.
This is my...3rd year on May Day. I am in SK but have some roots in MB, too. I may mostly be a lurker this year, but I'll try and contribute.
One of my poems from prior years was shortlisted for TNQ's occasional poem contest (one of Kerry's was HM I think! She has really been rocking it!) 4 Batoche poems from last year won subTerrain's Lush Triumphant poetry award (the issue that is out now, I think.) Their illustrations were amazing.
I was knocked unconscious a few weeks back and am still having head and eye (and language) trouble, so I'm keeping my expectations low for now. (Just what every writer needs, a head injury: I've been typing with my eyes closed as a coping mechanism.) I am having some tracking/comprehension/memory difficulties I'd rather attribute to being another year older. Then again if it's injury-induced, maybe it's reversible, unlike aging!
Looking forward to cheering you on. A
mai 2
ah me ah my ah mon
amour, amour, mon amour
la guerre nous avons blessé
et tu m'avait blessé
blessed me blessed me
white rain, phosphorous
your lips, soft bites, a thousand gorgeous injuries
blessing my spine, the back of my neck,
a year after the nights we slept a room away,
abandoned white Russian schoolhouse, Afghanistan
M6s, AKs, weapons all around me, my frag vest, helmet, ballistics tucked
under the green army cot, you sleeping
I could already feel you coming towards me
through three foot thick hand-built stone walls,
past big wooden doors, HQ's sleeping platoons, the arties in place,
the middle of the night, CP crackling like wrapping paper
you, crackling, keeping watch, watch, watch, keeping me alive,chewing your gum,
under purple Afghan mountains, the ridge of sky
la guerre mon amour, la guerre
has blessed us/wounded us, bound us,
ever.
Ladies First
Mincing onto the stage, orange plastic skin,
high heels, sparkly bikinis
quick flex, knee bow and a wave
line up at the side precisely.
"And the first five ladies, proceed
to the centre"
- a man comes out to point them into place:
you cannot be female, strong, and smart
after all
"and a quarter turn to the right"
- Malibu Barbie on a rotisserie,
flexing her biceps
"and another quarter turn..."
- they flip their styled hair to show off
their backs, some tattooes (one woman
still turned sideways until the judge says
"face the rear of the stage")
"and another..."
- legs are flexed, triceps too
tummies sucked tight
"and..."
- told to relax, they all have
splayed fingers, painted nails
the same fixed and vaselined smile
All those muscles and you docilely go
wherever the men tell you. No posedowns
no flexes, just 3 quarter turns while the
audience whistles: nice ass.
The winners are the thinnest ones. Platinum
blondes with ribcages like bracelets.
Sorted by height, for the convenience
of the massahs.
high heels, sparkly bikinis
quick flex, knee bow and a wave
line up at the side precisely.
"And the first five ladies, proceed
to the centre"
- a man comes out to point them into place:
you cannot be female, strong, and smart
after all
"and a quarter turn to the right"
- Malibu Barbie on a rotisserie,
flexing her biceps
"and another quarter turn..."
- they flip their styled hair to show off
their backs, some tattooes (one woman
still turned sideways until the judge says
"face the rear of the stage")
"and another..."
- legs are flexed, triceps too
tummies sucked tight
"and..."
- told to relax, they all have
splayed fingers, painted nails
the same fixed and vaselined smile
All those muscles and you docilely go
wherever the men tell you. No posedowns
no flexes, just 3 quarter turns while the
audience whistles: nice ass.
The winners are the thinnest ones. Platinum
blondes with ribcages like bracelets.
Sorted by height, for the convenience
of the massahs.
flooded, ii
"The more I am, the less I know
And what I do is all too much"
George Harrison
you take a piece and
then an
other
and it's all too much
like he said it was
so take a piece but not too much
because I am
sinking.
I want to float,
be filled without drowning.
Flooded by your needs
I am
sinking
and it's all too much
it's all too much
you know...
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Mai
ah me
ah my
ah may
ah may I
ma-i
avec vous?
back for year 5 or 6? coming out of the trenches (literally and figuratively). I was thinking about writing Lazarus. not sure about it. I was thinking about writing about bull fighting. not sure about it. my daughter says, "Why don't you write about something nice? Like flowers." (she's sick of army. sick of war.)
nice. hmmm. nice.
well anyway. I have some news. I've won a big award to do my PhD (writing) in the U.K.
etc.
glad to be back
A giant undertaking -- literally
Hi everyone,
Meet Edouard Beaupre: Born in 1881 to homesteaders in Willow Bunch, Saskatchewan, he grew rapidly due to a pituitary abnormality, eventually measuring 8'3". His dream of being a cowboy dashed (so tall his feet dragged on the ground), and to support his family who were very poor, he toured with various circus sideshows, displaying his height and performing feats of strength. (This despite being very shy.) He died of TB in 1904 (age 23) at the St. Louis World's Fair.
You'll be getting to know more about Edouard over the month of May.
Not sure how often I'll post, but I'm looking forward to the work and reading what all of you are up to.
Cheers!
Kerry
David’s stone
1.
Each breath a wave that grabs a new handful of sludge from the reedy depths, dredges stones and junk to clatter along ribs, echo through chest.
2.
Dust-strafed
Hail-pocked
Wind-thrashed
Summer-scorched
Turned mush by freeze-thaw-freeze
Vine-strangled
Light-starved
Mite-infested
Blood-sucked
Lungs
slowly eroded, as if by vultures
3.
On The Pike I’m a Titan, lifting cannon balls and anchors, men and mares above my head. Ten cents to see me, another dime for a photo. The show always swarmed, but no one sees the rot under my long coat, muscle gone maggoty, skin greyed by shallow breath.
4.
Can’t laugh,
turn my head from every crude joke,
so as not to stoke the cough.
Can’t sleep,
only ten minutes in a hard chair
until my neck quakes.
Can’t eat,
no strength to cut the meat,
work the jaw.
Can’t take the handkerchief away
from my lips without thinking the blood
is like berries mashed in a child’s palm.
Meet Edouard Beaupre: Born in 1881 to homesteaders in Willow Bunch, Saskatchewan, he grew rapidly due to a pituitary abnormality, eventually measuring 8'3". His dream of being a cowboy dashed (so tall his feet dragged on the ground), and to support his family who were very poor, he toured with various circus sideshows, displaying his height and performing feats of strength. (This despite being very shy.) He died of TB in 1904 (age 23) at the St. Louis World's Fair.
You'll be getting to know more about Edouard over the month of May.
Not sure how often I'll post, but I'm looking forward to the work and reading what all of you are up to.
Cheers!
Kerry
David’s stone
1.
Each breath a wave that grabs a new handful of sludge from the reedy depths, dredges stones and junk to clatter along ribs, echo through chest.
2.
Dust-strafed
Hail-pocked
Wind-thrashed
Summer-scorched
Turned mush by freeze-thaw-freeze
Vine-strangled
Light-starved
Mite-infested
Blood-sucked
Lungs
slowly eroded, as if by vultures
3.
On The Pike I’m a Titan, lifting cannon balls and anchors, men and mares above my head. Ten cents to see me, another dime for a photo. The show always swarmed, but no one sees the rot under my long coat, muscle gone maggoty, skin greyed by shallow breath.
4.
Can’t laugh,
turn my head from every crude joke,
so as not to stoke the cough.
Can’t sleep,
only ten minutes in a hard chair
until my neck quakes.
Can’t eat,
no strength to cut the meat,
work the jaw.
Can’t take the handkerchief away
from my lips without thinking the blood
is like berries mashed in a child’s palm.
Greetings!
I'm so happy to not have a major film project distracting me from being a Real Participant this year!
I'm writing mainly from Chicago, but will also be in Winnipeg and Ohio this month, which should provide many thoughts and stimuli as good fodder for words and images. I will adopt Ariel's sagacious goal of averaging a poem every other day, but will secretly hope to build up a surplus...
Happy poeming to all!
May Day
May Day
what's even possible
she sighs.
White blossoms
float on the breeze,
nestle in our hair.
I want to
use the excuse of
brushing one
from her wrist
to turn her fingers over,
tell her my answer:
Everything, everything,
Everything.
First Winter
For months, nothing
but winter rain, slush,
the dull coordinated
plumage of stubborn
pigeons, and a changeless
dirty-newsprint sky,
as though all the city's bad
news ran together
soggy and absent
of colour. The only heat
steamed dark and fleeting
from cardboard coffee cups,
puddles of tar
in new potholes, a brief
blast from a dark doorway
closing. How did we live
here, in damp chill,
in black and white? Not well.
I stayed home, ate,
watch television, slept
late or not at all, balanced
on the thin thread
between thermometer zeros.
but winter rain, slush,
the dull coordinated
plumage of stubborn
pigeons, and a changeless
dirty-newsprint sky,
as though all the city's bad
news ran together
soggy and absent
of colour. The only heat
steamed dark and fleeting
from cardboard coffee cups,
puddles of tar
in new potholes, a brief
blast from a dark doorway
closing. How did we live
here, in damp chill,
in black and white? Not well.
I stayed home, ate,
watch television, slept
late or not at all, balanced
on the thin thread
between thermometer zeros.
Bonjour, joyeux mai!
Hello everyone! Happy to be May Daying with you for a second year. This year I'm writing from Montreal. I'm in the midst of having a houseguest and jobhunting, but I'm hoping for two poems a week, and maybe more. No set themes this year, though I expect the recent influx of spring here will prompt a flurry of naturey poems (though today's poem is decidedly unspringy! it's maybe part of a multi-part multi-season piece. I'm not really sure yet). Looking forward to reading everyone's work and swapping feedback. Thanks, Ariel, for inviting me back.
-Marika.
-Marika.
Hello!
This will be my first May Day year. Ariel kindly asked me the last two years, but I couldn't due to other commitments, but here I am this year and very much looking forward to it. I won't be as active as I'd like to be, though. We're moving in two months, so I'm packing my house, trying to find tenants, solo-parenting two boys (3 & 5), and I'm pregnant. I'm exhausted just thinking about it all!
I've recently wrapped up my second manuscript of poetry, and I have no idea what I'd like to write next, so what I will be posting will not even been full poems and literally written the night before, most likely without anything uniting them. It's scary to do this, but I think it will be a good exercise. I hope to post every three days or so, ending up with 8 - 10 first drafts of poems. I won't be commenting as much as I should/would like to, and consequently I don't expect my poems to be commented on much either.
I look forward to getting to know you through your work. Happy May, everyone!
p.s. I haven't properly introduced myself, have I? My name is Marita and my first book of poetry, All Things Said & Done was published in 2007. I have an MFA in Creative Writing from UBC, grew up in small town BC, lived in Vancouver for about twelve years, moved to Edmonton in 2007 and will be moving back to Vancouver this summer (hence the packing). You can see my poor, neglected blog here.
I've recently wrapped up my second manuscript of poetry, and I have no idea what I'd like to write next, so what I will be posting will not even been full poems and literally written the night before, most likely without anything uniting them. It's scary to do this, but I think it will be a good exercise. I hope to post every three days or so, ending up with 8 - 10 first drafts of poems. I won't be commenting as much as I should/would like to, and consequently I don't expect my poems to be commented on much either.
I look forward to getting to know you through your work. Happy May, everyone!
p.s. I haven't properly introduced myself, have I? My name is Marita and my first book of poetry, All Things Said & Done was published in 2007. I have an MFA in Creative Writing from UBC, grew up in small town BC, lived in Vancouver for about twelve years, moved to Edmonton in 2007 and will be moving back to Vancouver this summer (hence the packing). You can see my poor, neglected blog here.
IN THE SHADE OF THE PALM
Fallen leaves fasten to the bottom of my shoe
drenched green and flattened
like strangers in crowded street car
holding to an unsteady support.
We climb aboard after a quick drench
from this summer gust of wind, wetness filling
the brim of her hat, a small dam in woven straw
a heart about to burst despite the heavy-handed
nest. I keep my hands at her elbow as we ride,
her shoulder leans into me with each sudden tug
left then right. Standing room only
flattens us closer, hip/thigh, our breathing
still shallow from the short run—
darkened park of elm and young oak
opening to the slippery road.
The downpour stuns the tram's metal
roof, stings my ears before slowing,
a choir settling into a song
tenor voices from Florodora mesmerizing us
until we are all standing in front
of a piano in Seattle’s parlour
listening to the even sound
rain playing nature’s keys—
this new tune thumping the surface
of our afternoon contemplation.
But I'm roused from this spell by her palm
tapping my hand with every bump.
The soft rain beads on her coat,
drips in quarter notes along pleated fabric,
the perfect rhythm of awareness
my eyes following the path,
my foot already there.
Happy MayDay!
I'm grateful to be writing in May once again (I do believe this is my sixth year)--I'm hoping to do something thematic; I've been contemplating writing some poems based on Tom Thomson for quite some time, and perhaps now is the time to do it. I can't say that I'll keep a regular schedule of writing or commenting, but I'll post and get to some comments when I can!
Tracy.
drenched green and flattened
like strangers in crowded street car
holding to an unsteady support.
We climb aboard after a quick drench
from this summer gust of wind, wetness filling
the brim of her hat, a small dam in woven straw
a heart about to burst despite the heavy-handed
nest. I keep my hands at her elbow as we ride,
her shoulder leans into me with each sudden tug
left then right. Standing room only
flattens us closer, hip/thigh, our breathing
still shallow from the short run—
darkened park of elm and young oak
opening to the slippery road.
The downpour stuns the tram's metal
roof, stings my ears before slowing,
a choir settling into a song
tenor voices from Florodora mesmerizing us
until we are all standing in front
of a piano in Seattle’s parlour
listening to the even sound
rain playing nature’s keys—
this new tune thumping the surface
of our afternoon contemplation.
But I'm roused from this spell by her palm
tapping my hand with every bump.
The soft rain beads on her coat,
drips in quarter notes along pleated fabric,
the perfect rhythm of awareness
my eyes following the path,
my foot already there.
Happy MayDay!
I'm grateful to be writing in May once again (I do believe this is my sixth year)--I'm hoping to do something thematic; I've been contemplating writing some poems based on Tom Thomson for quite some time, and perhaps now is the time to do it. I can't say that I'll keep a regular schedule of writing or commenting, but I'll post and get to some comments when I can!
Tracy.
Introduction
K.I. Press here. This month I hope to post poems on weekdays, and take weekends off to play Sims.
I'll be creating new rough drafts, and I hope doing some second drafts from a big, big pile of roughs I have lying around.
I'm also experimenting with writing on the new iPad, so expect.... A lot of typos.
I'll be creating new rough drafts, and I hope doing some second drafts from a big, big pile of roughs I have lying around.
I'm also experimenting with writing on the new iPad, so expect.... A lot of typos.
I need you.
If a tree falls down in your yard
cut a block
and round the edges.
Then you have a small table
or a stool,
ottoman.
Wake up,
every morning early
and do something until a certain time.
Then do something else
for awhile,
repeat.
When you hear a bird,
find out what bird you heard
and remember the name.
Then you will know
for next time,
which one.
If you need me,
tell me that you need me
somehow.
Then I will decide
whether I need you,
too.
cut a block
and round the edges.
Then you have a small table
or a stool,
ottoman.
Wake up,
every morning early
and do something until a certain time.
Then do something else
for awhile,
repeat.
When you hear a bird,
find out what bird you heard
and remember the name.
Then you will know
for next time,
which one.
If you need me,
tell me that you need me
somehow.
Then I will decide
whether I need you,
too.
good may, good night
hello everyone, glad to be back in May with you all. I'm hiding in Ontario for the majority of the month, but am hoping to post new work as it arrives on the page.
for now, good night!
for now, good night!
Built.
"And pose. And relax.
And please if we could have
Some music now for the 30 second
Posedown."
Prance. Flex. Show the others up, strike
a better pose, pivot, pose again.
How many months to make
this tan-in-a-can man
dripping oil, tensing 'til he shakes.
Grimace and flex, strain against the constrain
of veined and sinewed skin.
"And front double bicep -"
- arms shiny like drumsticks
"Front lateral spread, please -"
- plastic chests gleam
"Side of your choice - "
- pivot, turn, tuck and duck, like there's
too long a line for the toilet
"Gentlemen face the back of the stage please - "
- a leg extends, plants, the muscles of the back
dance. A whole body suspended in one giant
charlie horse, a ripple of stones across shoulders.
"Front isolation - "
- washboard abs, women in the audience
absently reach for laundry baskets, recover
"Side triceps - "
- these men could rip off their own heads
if they so chose
"Final pose, most muscular -"
- how do they find clothes?
"Bring these gentlemen
their participation medals."
Unable to stop, they push imaginary
grocery carts and lawnmowers to make their
muscles pop. Ken dolls with real hair, bulging
trunks. Skeletal rolls and ropes, basted turkeys
with no dark meat.
So muscular
they can just barely move: have not
eaten real food
in weeks.
"And leave the stage so we can announce
the top three."
Reluctantly sliding out of the lights
snapping their trunks
slapping their feet.
Three come back.
Inevitably: the biggest man
wins.
And please if we could have
Some music now for the 30 second
Posedown."
Prance. Flex. Show the others up, strike
a better pose, pivot, pose again.
How many months to make
this tan-in-a-can man
dripping oil, tensing 'til he shakes.
Grimace and flex, strain against the constrain
of veined and sinewed skin.
"And front double bicep -"
- arms shiny like drumsticks
"Front lateral spread, please -"
- plastic chests gleam
"Side of your choice - "
- pivot, turn, tuck and duck, like there's
too long a line for the toilet
"Gentlemen face the back of the stage please - "
- a leg extends, plants, the muscles of the back
dance. A whole body suspended in one giant
charlie horse, a ripple of stones across shoulders.
"Front isolation - "
- washboard abs, women in the audience
absently reach for laundry baskets, recover
"Side triceps - "
- these men could rip off their own heads
if they so chose
"Final pose, most muscular -"
- how do they find clothes?
"Bring these gentlemen
their participation medals."
Unable to stop, they push imaginary
grocery carts and lawnmowers to make their
muscles pop. Ken dolls with real hair, bulging
trunks. Skeletal rolls and ropes, basted turkeys
with no dark meat.
So muscular
they can just barely move: have not
eaten real food
in weeks.
"And leave the stage so we can announce
the top three."
Reluctantly sliding out of the lights
snapping their trunks
slapping their feet.
Three come back.
Inevitably: the biggest man
wins.
flooded
.
.......The levees are lowered now
.......Inundated, her eyes
.......can no longer retain
They say the crest will soon arrive
.......Will it be soon enough
........................she wonders
Waves leap at the sand-bagged banks
Winter is forecasted, again
the muddy red has had her fill........The levees are lowered now
.......Inundated, her eyes
.......can no longer retain
They say the crest will soon arrive
.......Will it be soon enough
........................she wonders
.
How to learn morse code
1.
Put a peppercorn on your tongue. Swallow. Repeat.
2.
Sprawled on the grassy berm just behind the mall
trucks-in-reverse are to loading
docks as tagged whales
are to breeding grounds: sounding frequently.
3.
Oily fingerprints on a door.
4.
Um. When armageddon comes, your tippity-tap skills will be on par with those who can kill remorselessly.
5.
........ pitilessly.
6.
Dried raindrops on a window.
7.
Necessity may be the mother of invention, but loads of free time and a touch of OCD is the aggressive step-father.
8.
Soft fingertips on your inner arm.
9.
In a moment of crisis: your thrumming heart in your throat + your buzzing phone in your breast pocket.
* * *
Notes:
"To indicate that you have made a mistake while broadcasting the previous word, transmit eight dots. This will tell the receiver of your message to cross out the last word transmitted before the signal." - Tip #4, How to Learn Morse Code.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
May Day 7
If the May Day Poetry Project was a movie franchise, at year seven we'd be at pre-quel and post-quel already.
But it isn't a movie franchise. It's a varied group of poets who meet on-line once a year to write and post poems to a blog.
I'm always glad to be a part of it. But THIS year I'm actually looking forward to it...
Here's to a poem every other day in May. Here's to you, this year's varied group of poets!
(And if you're wanting MORE poetry, there's always the League of Canadian Poets' National Poetry Month blog.)
But it isn't a movie franchise. It's a varied group of poets who meet on-line once a year to write and post poems to a blog.
I'm always glad to be a part of it. But THIS year I'm actually looking forward to it...
Here's to a poem every other day in May. Here's to you, this year's varied group of poets!
(And if you're wanting MORE poetry, there's always the League of Canadian Poets' National Poetry Month blog.)
Friday, April 29, 2011
May Day again!
Hello fellow May Day-ers,
I'm pleased to be part of this for the third year, and am looking forward to reading everyone's work. I hope to post something every other day, distractions be damned. (We'll just see how this goes, but I'm going to try.)
Joanne Epp
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Allô!
Un gros bonjour to all my fellow May-Dayers,
My name is Marjo and I'm very pleased to take part in The May Day Poetry Project for a 4th consecutive year. I look forward to meeting up with old friends and making new ones, and as always, I welcome honest feedback from you all.
So what does May have in store for me this year? I suspect there mAy be many voices hovering about me this month, and with that in mind, I've set my personal goal to publishing daily.
Happy May Daying everyone!!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
May Day!
Hello May Day poets,
May is almost here and I'm looking forward to this annual kick-in-the pants tradition. My goals this year are modest, with working full-time and planning a wedding. I hope to post 6-8 poems over the month. I can't promise to comment on every poem, but I will try to comment when I can. Here's to setting ourselves a challenge and rising to it. Look forward to reading your contributions.
Friday, June 04, 2010
The end already?
This month has passed too quickly. I have, of course, written less than I'd hoped to, but have greatly enjoyed participating, reading so much new poetry and receiving your comments on my own work. Thanks to Ariel for organizing this again, and to all of you!
Joanne
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Ta ta
Hello fellow poets.
Thanks for a great month of writing and discussion. Thanks especially to Ariel for organizing it and to andie for always having something constructive to say. I found it interesting following certain poets and noting the development of ideas. A real pleasure participating this year.
I'd be happy to organize a reading with some of you Winnipeg area folks in the coming month, possibly in my loft...the Arlington one. It would be a chance for us to meet in person and read aloud some if what's been created here. Let me know if there's any interest.
Best of days to you all,
Michelle.
Thanks for a great month of writing and discussion. Thanks especially to Ariel for organizing it and to andie for always having something constructive to say. I found it interesting following certain poets and noting the development of ideas. A real pleasure participating this year.
I'd be happy to organize a reading with some of you Winnipeg area folks in the coming month, possibly in my loft...the Arlington one. It would be a chance for us to meet in person and read aloud some if what's been created here. Let me know if there's any interest.
Best of days to you all,
Michelle.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
M'aidez
Hey all,
Sorry I wasn't around much this month. I sort of had an inkling that this was about how things would go for me, this month/this year, but I tried to convince myself otherwise.
Anyways, I'm glad to see there were so many good poems and so much good chat around said poems.
See you next year!
A.
Sorry I wasn't around much this month. I sort of had an inkling that this was about how things would go for me, this month/this year, but I tried to convince myself otherwise.
Anyways, I'm glad to see there were so many good poems and so much good chat around said poems.
See you next year!
A.
The non-poetic end/beginning.
* Lieutenant Preston, author of the journal entries, returned, unharmed and unblooded, to Ontario...30 years later he would participate in the World War. (as with all surviving soldiers, many relatives and descendants)
* On June 3rd, The Battle of Steele Narrows (Loon Lake), the last battle on Canadian soil, was fought. Big Bear escaped and was chased for a month. On July 1st, all soldiers gathered at Fort Pitt, making it temporarily the largest settlement west of Winnipeg. On July 2nd Big Bear surrendered himself at Fort Carlton. (many direct descendants)
* Dumont fled to the US. He worked for the Wild West show, and returned when he was pardoned, and died of old age. He is buried at Batoche, under a large rock within sight of his river crossing. (His wife Madeleine died, and his adopted daughter was, I believe, married in Calgary at some point. No direct descendants, but many relatives.)
* Besides losing their homes and men - Métis Resistance soldiers defending their homes ranged from teenaged boys to old men, and everything in between - the Métis people were forced to turn in their guns, their livestock were looted or killed, and no crops had been planted that spring. (Many deaths, and many direct descendants.)
(Interestingly - according to the online encyclopedia of SK, the prairie farming method of "summer fallowing" was begun in 1885, when farmers from the Indian Head area who fought in the battle had been unable to plant, and noticed the following year of 1886 those fields which had lain "fallow" had yields of up to 20 x greater than those which were planted. And they realized giving the soil time to replenish was good policy.)
* Meanwhile - fleeing possession-less, homeless, and without even a means to hunt or defend themselves, more women and children died of starvation and disease in the year following the Resistance, than were lost by both sides during all battles. (Many deaths, many descendants)
Families were separated and dispersed across the country, and continued to suffer injustice and persecution.
It's still a hard thing to be Métis in this country. Yet the Métis are the first "true marriage" of First Nations and Europeans: the true flesh and blood of the treaties which created and founded this country we call Canada. The Métis people are the sacred trust of our founded and shared country, and 125 years later, all Canadians need to learn, respect, acknowledge this if we can move forward as a sometimes separate but needing to be sometimes united country.
* There were fierce reprisals to the First Nations as well. Leaders were removed and imprisoned, often injustly, and causing their death. Other able-bodied men were hung. An 1885 amendment to the already deplorable Indian Act forbade all First Nations gatherings and religious ceremonies. And destructive policies continued, as bands were essentially imprisoned en masse on small reserves, starved, lacking most essentials and a means of providing for themselves in any manner, while suffering the forcible removal of their children to the residential school system. (Where mortality rates were 25 to 60%, and many healthy children were exposed to tuberculosis. In some cases, deliberately.) (Many deaths, and all surviving First Nations people are 100% direct descendants of Residential School. Find out more about the work of the Truth ahd Reconciliation committee, as it works on a five year mandate to undo 5 to 7 generations of what was, effectively, physical and cultural genocide in this country. Not unlike a slow-moving holocaust, capitalized or otherwise.)
* On July 6th, Riel was formally charged with high treason - something dug out of the British Code of Law and not having been used for a couple hundred years - and never in Canada. (If found guilty, the sentence was death by hanging.)
Louis Riel was, of course, hung. During his trial, he represented himself, refusing an insanity plea, and pointing out that he could not be guilty of treason, since the Government, which had no area representatives, was the aggressor.
Riel's provisional government was legal, and remains unfinished business to this day. Saskatchewan would not be a province for 20 more years.
* Riel's wife lost their unborn baby about a month before he was hung (He was hung on November 16th). She died of tuberculosis, as did their daughter at age 12, and their son was thrown from a horse in his 20's. (No direct descendants but many many many relatives.)
* Before he was hung in November of 1885, Riel said that in 100 years, his people would rise again, and it would be the artists that led the way. (Riel was, among other things, a poet.)
A hundred years later, in November of 1985, I was sitting alone in a school library reading Maria Campbell's "Half-Breed" and though I had been familiar with Louis Riel all my life, having been conceived in St. Boniface, I would not know these particular words of his until I was in my 30's...
See you guys next year...thanks for putting up with some very long (and perhaps uninteresting, to you?) work this year. 125th anniversaries have to be marked, though! Hope I didn't chase all the other poets away, it was a quiet May.
A.
* On June 3rd, The Battle of Steele Narrows (Loon Lake), the last battle on Canadian soil, was fought. Big Bear escaped and was chased for a month. On July 1st, all soldiers gathered at Fort Pitt, making it temporarily the largest settlement west of Winnipeg. On July 2nd Big Bear surrendered himself at Fort Carlton. (many direct descendants)
* Dumont fled to the US. He worked for the Wild West show, and returned when he was pardoned, and died of old age. He is buried at Batoche, under a large rock within sight of his river crossing. (His wife Madeleine died, and his adopted daughter was, I believe, married in Calgary at some point. No direct descendants, but many relatives.)
* Besides losing their homes and men - Métis Resistance soldiers defending their homes ranged from teenaged boys to old men, and everything in between - the Métis people were forced to turn in their guns, their livestock were looted or killed, and no crops had been planted that spring. (Many deaths, and many direct descendants.)
(Interestingly - according to the online encyclopedia of SK, the prairie farming method of "summer fallowing" was begun in 1885, when farmers from the Indian Head area who fought in the battle had been unable to plant, and noticed the following year of 1886 those fields which had lain "fallow" had yields of up to 20 x greater than those which were planted. And they realized giving the soil time to replenish was good policy.)
* Meanwhile - fleeing possession-less, homeless, and without even a means to hunt or defend themselves, more women and children died of starvation and disease in the year following the Resistance, than were lost by both sides during all battles. (Many deaths, many descendants)
Families were separated and dispersed across the country, and continued to suffer injustice and persecution.
It's still a hard thing to be Métis in this country. Yet the Métis are the first "true marriage" of First Nations and Europeans: the true flesh and blood of the treaties which created and founded this country we call Canada. The Métis people are the sacred trust of our founded and shared country, and 125 years later, all Canadians need to learn, respect, acknowledge this if we can move forward as a sometimes separate but needing to be sometimes united country.
* There were fierce reprisals to the First Nations as well. Leaders were removed and imprisoned, often injustly, and causing their death. Other able-bodied men were hung. An 1885 amendment to the already deplorable Indian Act forbade all First Nations gatherings and religious ceremonies. And destructive policies continued, as bands were essentially imprisoned en masse on small reserves, starved, lacking most essentials and a means of providing for themselves in any manner, while suffering the forcible removal of their children to the residential school system. (Where mortality rates were 25 to 60%, and many healthy children were exposed to tuberculosis. In some cases, deliberately.) (Many deaths, and all surviving First Nations people are 100% direct descendants of Residential School. Find out more about the work of the Truth ahd Reconciliation committee, as it works on a five year mandate to undo 5 to 7 generations of what was, effectively, physical and cultural genocide in this country. Not unlike a slow-moving holocaust, capitalized or otherwise.)
* On July 6th, Riel was formally charged with high treason - something dug out of the British Code of Law and not having been used for a couple hundred years - and never in Canada. (If found guilty, the sentence was death by hanging.)
Louis Riel was, of course, hung. During his trial, he represented himself, refusing an insanity plea, and pointing out that he could not be guilty of treason, since the Government, which had no area representatives, was the aggressor.
Riel's provisional government was legal, and remains unfinished business to this day. Saskatchewan would not be a province for 20 more years.
* Riel's wife lost their unborn baby about a month before he was hung (He was hung on November 16th). She died of tuberculosis, as did their daughter at age 12, and their son was thrown from a horse in his 20's. (No direct descendants but many many many relatives.)
* Before he was hung in November of 1885, Riel said that in 100 years, his people would rise again, and it would be the artists that led the way. (Riel was, among other things, a poet.)
A hundred years later, in November of 1985, I was sitting alone in a school library reading Maria Campbell's "Half-Breed" and though I had been familiar with Louis Riel all my life, having been conceived in St. Boniface, I would not know these particular words of his until I was in my 30's...
See you guys next year...thanks for putting up with some very long (and perhaps uninteresting, to you?) work this year. 125th anniversaries have to be marked, though! Hope I didn't chase all the other poets away, it was a quiet May.
A.
Monday, May 31, 2010
we waited
I’m driving.
I’m driving to the airport.
for you, her beloved
her beloved we have waited
a thousand thousand thousand seconds
minutes
we have waited a billion seconds, an ice age
an ice age that covered every waking day
and night, we waited for you, to see you
her beloved, the parting of the glass doors
you walking through, the airport
the ice age of this winter
every goddamn second we waited, held our breath
kept each other warm, we waited not to hear
the midnight knock, the buzzer ring, the telephone
I am driving to the airport to come get you
she will burn your last letter to her,
the one you wrote before you left
she will burn your last will, your testament
the order of the service she kept in her backpack
for you, the details, your kilt, your dress jacket,
your shirt pressed, ready for you,
the music, the Padre, the ritual kept for you,
she will burn it, she will burn it
I am driving to the airport
her beloved, her beloved
she/we have waited for you, these last
seconds for you, to step left right left
all the way home whole, alive, breathing
not in a flag-drape coffin
from this war.
apology to my fellow May Dayers
please accept this apology for being so AWOL this year. attending the repatriation of our young soldier, Pte. McKay, whom I knew a little, spent time with over 10 days last May/June before he left for A'stan, really took a lot out of me. I came home and basically went to bed for 3 days. it has been a long, long winter on my home front where I am learning to live without a partner for the first time in my entire adult life.
the past 2 years, watching a battalion prepare for, go to war, then visiting them on the front, has been some of the most fascinating time of my life. I know I will write about it in some way or another for all my life. as a friend in theatre said to me, "you've hit the vein we all dream of".
my job is to write my work well. and as a relatively new writer, one unschooled, one who does not belong to any "school" of writing, this is challenging... form, aesthetics, etc.
this is a long winded way of saying thank you to all of you for your understanding and a request that you keep in touch with me/my work and feel free, in fact I invite you to, make comments about my more public work.
after things settle, I'll look at everyone's work. I'm so eager to and as always so pleased and grateful to be in the company of such worthy writers.
until next May Day, I am sincerely yours,
Suzanne
Petering out
Going out, like Peter, humbly,
not exactly petrified but
stone-faced at least,
solemn as the spring
drowns in its sorrows
its lost weekends, its standing
pools filling with exponential eggs
hatching bloodlust.
I prepare to be drained,
upside-down,
pained,
undone
by decadent caesars
and not enough summer
to avoid knowing
how it ends.
not exactly petrified but
stone-faced at least,
solemn as the spring
drowns in its sorrows
its lost weekends, its standing
pools filling with exponential eggs
hatching bloodlust.
I prepare to be drained,
upside-down,
pained,
undone
by decadent caesars
and not enough summer
to avoid knowing
how it ends.
Arlington House: At Once
The chambers of the house
swell and empty
all that is left
The occasion of bodies passing through
rooms that meekly brighten
sidle dim
Corners batting sound of our
feet the crow
the second hand
What the wood tells I can only guess
carve an ear of oak
and listen
Trace the seams of boarded doors
tepid temperature of May
at once
My hands are pink lenders of heat
the room is warm
and cold again
swell and empty
all that is left
The occasion of bodies passing through
rooms that meekly brighten
sidle dim
Corners batting sound of our
feet the crow
the second hand
What the wood tells I can only guess
carve an ear of oak
and listen
Trace the seams of boarded doors
tepid temperature of May
at once
My hands are pink lenders of heat
the room is warm
and cold again
Hall: Late Afternoon
light filter shade
line deeper shadow
fade deeper dim
hue after noon
shoes already on
clip knocking notes
cross-hatched light
east south north
west windows bare
(evening coming round
shade dim shadow
dark past finger
shoes already off
hush over boards)
line deeper shadow
fade deeper dim
hue after noon
shoes already on
clip knocking notes
cross-hatched light
east south north
west windows bare
(evening coming round
shade dim shadow
dark past finger
shoes already off
hush over boards)
Sunday, May 30, 2010
how
how could we leave you
all that we live
for all that we have
that we would give it
all for that we could
collapse it all that we
are have always been
for that we would
give it all this ring
this him and her and me
for all this which
we have always lived
for that I you could leave
us for it all this leave
our ring our you and her
and me for this gossy
this that we would always
live would give it all
collapse it all how
could I leave you all
that I could live for
all we have this war.
hidden (fifteen)
1. car keys on Monday morning
2. socks i swear i put in the dryer
3. laundry loonies under couch cushions
4. pimples concealed with bluck
5. chocolate bars top shelf
6. the fact that i’m not perfect
7. une boîte de souvenirs d’enfance
8. words and more words under the couch
9. wrinkles (i try)
10. weaknesses (i try)
11. strengths
12. secrets
13. secret lovers, past
14. family skeletons, present still
15. fear(s)
Swift Black Stallion
Sunday, 31st May. Received news last night that General Strange had had a brush with Big Bear [at Frenchman's Butte], and that our aid was required to hunt the redskin. Our Brigade accordingly boarded steamers early in the morning and are now on our way west...we hope to clean him out in quick order.
Should we go into action
(and we may at any moment),
I feel sure we will all be found
at the post of duty to the last.
Another tiresome steamer trip
but I welcome the action it promises.
Like the prairie fires they light up
in self-defense, or the breezes
that come and go, this rebellion
never looks to end.
But finally - our company
will take up arms, defend.
***
Frenchman's Butte
Hearing there were several
hundred troops approaching,
we burnt Fort Pitt. Took
to the hills, prepared
our trenches. Dug in
like badgers. Skirmished
with their scouts, then split:
between Wandering Spirit
and Little Poplar. Two
hundred men burrowed in at Frenchman's
Butte and waited. Main camp, two
miles away, was a safe distance but still
protected.
When they opened their devil's fire
on our position, it was early
morning. The muskeg stopped them
dead in the valley, the mud sucking
at their boots to keep us safe:
our land knows friend from foe.
To attack our steep hill was
suicide. When they sent troops
around behind, we scattered, fired,
ran, fired again. In this way
they thought we had many more men than
they imagined. Then we used their same outflanking
maneuver with success - almost capturing
their supply train.
Three hours of fire, and they
were gone again. In the heavy silence,
no birds sang. The muskeg spat out a body.
'Ma-me-nook'by was scouting with me and others
the next day when we were caught by surprise.
He was then shot - but not yet dead, and from the brush
I was concealed in, this is what I saw with my own eyes:
They stripped him, whipped him, tied him
to the swiftest horse's pommel by his neck. Dragged him
through the grasses, in circles as though they'd
plough the ground with human wreck.
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