Identity: Tracy Hamon

Years on Planet MayDay: 4

Place of inspiration: Regina, SK

Goals: The idea this year is to gather evidence about an old allegorical tale and make it contemporary. The story is Samson and Delilah; however, due to the privacy of the aforementioned individuals, the names shall henceforth be known as Jay and Ellie. How many poems I post will depend on how the poetry seems to be working. Or not.

Allô - À l'eau, bientôt?

Has it really been a year since our last affaire de poésie, toi et moi? With such a very long winter season barely behind us, I can only hope that I will have tossed my scarves and gloves at the very back of the hallway closet come May 1st.

I'm happy to see so many familiar names on this year's list of poets - it will be très cool to meet you all again! I look forward to feeding myself on your words, and growing in my own with the help of your critiques.

My goal for 'May Day V' is to (do I dare?) publish daily. But, I've already decided that SIZE DOESN'T MATTER. Yes, you heard right. It's all about content, baby!

Here's wishing you all inspiration out the yin yang, and
A happy May to all my creative cohorts!
See you in a week . . .

.

.

May Day! May Day!

On May 1st, the fifth year of the May Day Poetry Project will whir and hum and kick and come to life again.

This means poets and poetry and commentary on said poetry.

It means thinking about the poem you're going to write today, tomorrow, later this week. Thinking incessantly about poetry.

Fun!

And: email me if you want to sign up!

.
I thought I might share my happy publishing news with you (I was told y'all do this here, though I'm a bit doubtful about it, seeing no others here..hmm). Well . . .
My short story, "She", has been published in the Spring edition of Other Voices literary magazine, due out in mid-to-late April. It will be my first published short story, so I'm very excited about it!
: -).

may day, year four

Hey all,

Thanks ever so much for making May Day, year four, an interesting place to be for much of the month.

As ever, I appreciated (and learned from) the conversation, but most of all, I was bowled over by the poetry.

Many of you wrote/posted poems that I would have been fiercely proud to write myself, so congratulations!

I look forward to seeing the poems out in the world and also, already, to next year.

(Personally, this wasn't the most stellar May Day for me.

Too much to do besides May Daying, so I contributed far fewer poems/comments than previous years.

But I did the best I could, looking back over the month, and I'm pleased with the clutch of poems I wrote over the course of the month...)

A new year begins for me...

.

...but I will miss these days of May...

I just want to take a moment to say thank you all for sharing your poems & a bit of your lives with me. A great big thank you to those of you who took the time to comment on my poems, hugely appreciated!

And since, as it turns out, so many of my words were written about Eric (truly the man of my dreams), I want to introduce him to you. The little boy with pockets full of butterflies is my nephew. He is also a social butterfly (an extrovert in my family?) who loves hangin' out with me in Little Italy, my hood and my home.

À la prochaine!

a poem by Marcus McCann;

call this, then, my last post for MayDay 2008 (by the time you read this, I will already be back in Ottawa). A poem by Ottawa poet Marcus McCann, author of a couple of chapbooks, including So Long, Derrida (2006; winner of the 2005 University of Ottawa 48-Hour Novella Contest), the collaborative Basement Tapes (with Nicholas Lea and Andrew Faulkner) and Heteroskeptical (above/ground press, 2007), where this poem is from. He also has poems appearing in a number of other publications, including various issues of The Peter F. Yacht Club and recent publications from Warren Fulton's Pooka Press.

Rates of change

A limit is a kind of
holding constant,

imperfectly
near.

Function depends on
variable, the root of. The square

roof of.
Not to validate calculus but

the lesson was integral:
the Power Rule.

What was committed to memory?
What was committed too:

function held
constant.

Held. Constant.
And hurt by calculus,

its rates of change, its
gaffe sex ed.

Congratulations Poets!

What an amazing month of poetry!

By my calculations (and please let me know if I got your count wrong), we had over 150 poems from this years May Day-ers, and several more from other Canadian poets offered up for our perusal.

Congratulations to all who participated! I know I had a lot of fun writing and reading - hope you all did too! Hats off to Kerry, for hitting the poem-a-day mark!

Be sure to report here if you end up revising and publishing poems we saw here, so we can see the final versions in print...

Good Luck

We wake up to rain
pounding the window
while across town
you get ready.

Right now your mom
is telling you rain is lucky
on your wedding day.
But really, what else
is she going to say?

I can tell you
it rained on ours.
And I won't say
it's been easy
but here we are
these years later
opening the window
in our hotel room
fingers lightly touching
wet from the rain.

over and out

hey there May Dayer's, thanks for all the good comments and even better, thanks for all the great work. I'm going to miss you guys. and I'm going to miss the little deadlines.

f.y.i. I go next summer it looks like. just heard from Ottawa the other day. I'm going to set up a website. if anyone wants to keep in touch, drop Ariel a note and she can forward my email to you. I'd love to hear from you and hear what you're up to.

this has been such an interesting month... I had no idea what I would write, just as I had no idea of what I would post every day (and sorry I missed a few days but I was in edmonton checking out the garrison and wainwright).

the challenging thing for me is not to be melodramatic. and yet this is war. life, death, love, all the big things. and ultimately, I think I'm writing for the soldiers (though maybe not just... who knows?) any advice greatly accepted. 

finally, wouldn't it be fun to have a May Day summit somewhere?

all the best, keep writing, and thanks again,

S

THE LAST OF THE FAMOUS INTERNATIONAL PLAYBOYS

here is my last post for may day hooray.
the #'s represent martial's poetry, the source
etc., book # and poem #. study and witness my
hostile changes NGM


1.73

when you complaisantly allowed
any woman, without rubber gloves
to lay their hands on your houseplant,
some trickle into your husband’s study

dressed as open-mouthed gardeners
forming an enormous randy crowd
raising their roofs, corporeal loitering;
lips moved like gummy butterfly wings

Smallpox, you’re a card, as you leave
your home for work crying,
“Once I watered
him alone!”


1.107

Dear Quill, you often sigh,
‘Write something great— you lazy head
case!’ Give me leisure, all the time Council
this transient fever, I will quench with
my own torched eyes,
save me from ashes, shredder
or worse still, another box
returned in between rich soils,
seven days of this:
parts unknown, the longest slide
cant get no satisfaction in a razor’s
flint, tears will ignite a swell leak
and my words don’t miss it.
Quill will write, ‘falls short, channell
ing, not marquee enough for we.’

Love those powerful pills.

2.9

I wrote he never replied
That goes on the debit slide
And yet I’m sure he feels it:
Someone else’s pin number,
Filling him with credit

2.20

He buys up plums for recital
We watch the author read
Why not? The purchase proves the distance
His words become his feed

2.26

Because the old men gasps for breath
And sprays saliva on flat-screen eyes
And sings as if he’d caught his death,
Do you suppose you’re home and high?
Taylor! Viagrus is trying
To flirt, birth control, not lying
Get you pregnant from here?
Long distance charges?
You drop out,
Of course we’re crying!

To Ezra on my 45th Birthday

He orders the usual:
Cranberry muffin, tea - orange pekoe.
I feel the poet's eyes on me as
I leave him to his morning scribbles.

Feeling worn from a dream-filled
Sleep, my feet do not move so eagerly -
His gaze in my direction then was
Not my beauty captured, was it?

He has noticed the crow's feet recently
Discovered framing the eyes that were once
Ocean blue and now nearly grey, my hair
Yet blonde with some help from Domingo.

I am fighting time, a battle never won
And when dawn cast its first light on me
There was no anticipating this day, for
Today I turn forty-five...

Will I no longer be worthy of your ink,
Dear Ezra? Will the muffins I bring you
Taste a little less sweet, the berries
Within not quite ripe, the tea weak?
.

the end.

31


set your books on fire,
smash the phone
on the sidewalk,
shove your husband
into a corner

clear space for 31
small stacks of words

another (short) history of l.

nearness is the vertebrae attached,
the smell of your sum.

across a bruise of long grass,
you call me sweet prairie boy

to the swells of your coast.
one recovers success

& then failure, like a seed
from the fingernail. pinched one

& then one.

from a footprint of hats,
settled down along Whyte.

the first pleasant encounter
every time it occurs.

starting over, again
& as fresh.

Rawa Tander

days passed. no email. no call. since last. your words. your voice. anything. and now I know why. Rawa Tander. rolling thunder.

pg A18 (they can’t even put it on the front page any more. not even when you die. the fuckers). today it's somewhere between maxime bernier’s biker chick and margaret boring wente.

Pashmul. AK-47s. rocket-propelled grenade. launchers. suicide bomber (s). Hellfire missiles. (did the americans bomb the right guys this time M.?)

and you were there weren’t you? C Company. doing your job. you’ve trained for. all these years. loving. every. minute.

fighting season. just like the NHL playoffs. your teams. fresh-pressed rookies. old men. and you. sharp point of spear. infantryman.

while we’re left here. drinking beer. trying not to think about it. we pack camping gear. burn steaks on bbqs. try not to look out the window. to see who’s coming to the door.

J. told me about you getting DAGged. inoculations. social workers. filling out your lastwill and testament.

J. says it’s pretty weird seeing 18 year olds list their worldly possessions. as if anyone could give a shit about their PS2s. when they’re no longer here.

J. says your wife asked for J. to be the one. to come with the padre. and your CO.  he told me the preschool’s got it down. to a fine art. what to do with the kids.

I asked J. not to be the one. to come. to phone. email. txt.  tell me you are dead. I don’t want to shake. every time he calls. calls emails txts. knocks on my door. and anyway, I said to him. 

(o M., love, love. my love. you must know this. by now.) I don’t need anyone. to tell me.

I’ll already.

know.

 

 

S

sleeping in portugal


we rest our eyes
from the squint –
constant sun
on whitewashed walls –
calves from perpetual uphill,
minds slack after days
grasping after language

red wine locks our bodies
to the bed, only dreams move –
flying back and forth
with strands of home

deep into night we wake together,
laughing at the bray
of the nearest donkey,
then sleep until roosters
begin to rev the day

hover

The translucent tip of a condom
through the rain
of elm seed: sex in cars / sex for money
just another cultivar. A dozen hollow-cheeked
mattresses make a house of cards.
Wrapped against the goodwill of open boxes
left next to the dumpster & inscribed:
bed bugs. Shoes twirl & two-step from wires. The overhead
toss, the answering gesture of shoes
filling with rain. The Portuguese man daydreaming
of strips of soft rag & vines as thick
as swollen fingers. He – we, they – bear the newsprint
shadow of the man beaten
to death
with a post from our fences-make-good-neighbours
philosophy one street over. When a woman
in a fuchsia hijab hovers by I want to say
that above the chemical wash / the clever
mimicry her cheek is plump
& tender but she looks
skeptical.

drugs

o M., 

your voice the other night. soft. warm as this May night. tell me, why. soldiers speak so. soft. do they teach you that?

J. says you are my heroin. says I should get out. find some methadone. wean off my delicious drug. so I did. tonight. a party. poets. live band. sushi (your favourite). wine. beer. dancing. and four men. came to me. one almost made the cut. said he liked my laugh. told me he’s a good kisser. scrawled his hotmail acct. on the back leaf of my moleskine.

too close to where I stash your pictures. you marching. Bosnia. Golan Heights. Afghanistan. new tan uniform. sharp. needles. straight into my blood.

J. says opium fields reek of fetid rhubarb. cannibis grows ten feet tall in Afghanistan. I asked J. if you guys grab handfuls. smoke it. he says no. they make us take the pee test. random. besides, he says, nobody wants to patrol. with other guys all fucked up. 

o M., it’s May again. I left the party drove to the river. wide and green. walked the banks. still light that late. picked long stalks of grass. held them to my face. txted you. again.

 

S

the calgary zoo

what bits in the legend that arent
on the map, a divergence of lines

& the wrong camera angle. 'You are Here'
beside greenhouse jungle, clinging mass

& crowds, a lovers hand, in the staunch heat
of the butterfly cages. watches as she steps

thru plastic, & i follow, & thin wings
flit quiet thru sudden anticipation,

landing, & perching on flowers that only
compliment colour. as one piece fits

so easily in the next, the humid air
fogs her glasses, but clear in the snap

of still october air. its a dry chill,
& walks the length of the bridge to see

tigers, bears, & postcard the gift shop.
baby warthogs. the rope tiger built

for lone male for reasons the children
are too young to know, & grandparents

fake. the blue water. its a long day
made longer. holds a pose & cleaves

to the skin wall, a membrane. sly eyes
over frayed sculpture, & bored tiger

decorating shore. watches loose birds
& giraffes behind bars, the refuge

of snakes. some things are impossible
to answer. seeks out her hands,

& seeks, hands, at the calgary zoo.
touching once to her back, thru

her sweater, wishing her sweater
not there, or the crowds. the question

eludes us, white sediment tears
on the glass. we are here, but no

further. we have always been here.
the map makes a mess of us.

Poemo de la koro

(a love poem in Esperanto)

Mi doni li mia koro post
longa varmega sordida tago

Li puri gxi kun lia lango
poluri gxi kun lia propra
kaj redoni gxi al mi nova