Birthday morning
[thanks!]
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Edisonia: the poor grey men
The world in dirty bundles, Dad used to say.
And after a day on the tracks, a day tucked under arms
as I walked the pitching aisle, garlanding
them with headlines, then trucked home, none of us was sure
what was ink and what was cinders and what was the sod
of the walk home in the dark.
But Dad used to like to open the paper
like it was a napkin and there was something tasty
in the crease. And there was: all the world
brought home and him not needing to move
a muscle. Not needing to stick by Mama’s newsprint
ration, neither. (Samuel, with all you spend on newspapers
and periodicals, we could have raised
a new barn by now!) By midnight, he’d be sick
with the news and would spend the next morning
leaning on fences and captive
shopkeepers.
Myself, I gladly handed over the day done
and spent half the night tapping dots and dashes
across the yard. Until Mum noticed that the scraps
intended for Tannie’s wedding quilt had been used
to wrap the wire we strung from yard
to yard, until Dad was made to notice
the smudges under my eyes. And then I was a child
in need of a goddamn curfew.
I didn’t begrudge Mum my keep and more but I could pitch
the papers at the station instead, give them to the poor
grey men for their shoes and burning barrels – newsprint burns
beautiful, I hear – instead of shouldering
them home, couldn’t I? So I sent the bundles home
with receive since I couldn’t send. And village idiot-ed it
to Dad. Within a grumble-tumble well-rested week, Dad was gassy
with news again and I was dotting
and dashing my inchworm way out the door.
(Until our wire nearly took off
the head of an end-of-day cow making
for the barn and bits of Grandma’s linen
tablecloth were found
in the gash. ..)
All the world in dots and dashes, say I.
And after a day on the tracks, a day tucked under arms
as I walked the pitching aisle, garlanding
them with headlines, then trucked home, none of us was sure
what was ink and what was cinders and what was the sod
of the walk home in the dark.
But Dad used to like to open the paper
like it was a napkin and there was something tasty
in the crease. And there was: all the world
brought home and him not needing to move
a muscle. Not needing to stick by Mama’s newsprint
ration, neither. (Samuel, with all you spend on newspapers
and periodicals, we could have raised
a new barn by now!) By midnight, he’d be sick
with the news and would spend the next morning
leaning on fences and captive
shopkeepers.
Myself, I gladly handed over the day done
and spent half the night tapping dots and dashes
across the yard. Until Mum noticed that the scraps
intended for Tannie’s wedding quilt had been used
to wrap the wire we strung from yard
to yard, until Dad was made to notice
the smudges under my eyes. And then I was a child
in need of a goddamn curfew.
I didn’t begrudge Mum my keep and more but I could pitch
the papers at the station instead, give them to the poor
grey men for their shoes and burning barrels – newsprint burns
beautiful, I hear – instead of shouldering
them home, couldn’t I? So I sent the bundles home
with receive since I couldn’t send. And village idiot-ed it
to Dad. Within a grumble-tumble well-rested week, Dad was gassy
with news again and I was dotting
and dashing my inchworm way out the door.
(Until our wire nearly took off
the head of an end-of-day cow making
for the barn and bits of Grandma’s linen
tablecloth were found
in the gash. ..)
All the world in dots and dashes, say I.
Night letters #2
A
is for
amo
amas
amat
amamus
amatis
amant
it begins with,
shall end with,
yes, love,
(it always does).
&
A
is for
the
inbetween,
acid, anxious, anger, arid, absence, alarm,
alone.
courage,
bon courage mon
amour, mes
amours,
it is
spring.
is for
amo
amas
amat
amamus
amatis
amant
it begins with,
shall end with,
yes, love,
(it always does).
&
A
is for
the
inbetween,
acid, anxious, anger, arid, absence, alarm,
alone.
courage,
bon courage mon
amour, mes
amours,
it is
spring.
Night Game
Fat bugs ping off
the dark side of the pane
heading for
but never reaching
the light
all drive and thrust
with no means to
pierce the unseen
edge of black
no way to gain
access to white
voltage pong
a hollow missile
against the still
hard invisibility.
the dark side of the pane
heading for
but never reaching
the light
all drive and thrust
with no means to
pierce the unseen
edge of black
no way to gain
access to white
voltage pong
a hollow missile
against the still
hard invisibility.
trainer
you watch him
measure each fighter
with his fists,
calculate how far to push
past confines drawn
by muscle, mind
calibrate his own power
one notch higher,
make each believe
he’s within reach
the heavyweight
whose energy is slowly pared away
in hard, tight scoops
to the belly
the bantam who crumbles
under soft pawing
but at your turn in the ring
you can’t see him
yielding to your gear,
can’t tell he’s pulling punches
when each one comes
so heavy and hard
* * *
Only day 2 and already I'm struggling. Yeesh! I'll try to catch up with comments later in the weekend.
measure each fighter
with his fists,
calculate how far to push
past confines drawn
by muscle, mind
calibrate his own power
one notch higher,
make each believe
he’s within reach
the heavyweight
whose energy is slowly pared away
in hard, tight scoops
to the belly
the bantam who crumbles
under soft pawing
but at your turn in the ring
you can’t see him
yielding to your gear,
can’t tell he’s pulling punches
when each one comes
so heavy and hard
* * *
Only day 2 and already I'm struggling. Yeesh! I'll try to catch up with comments later in the weekend.
Chickens
Through sawdust wet with urine and shit,
the chicken dragged its broken leg, pink and package-ready.
The other chickens using it as a springboard
to brawl their way to fresh water,
the meager half bag of feed we found
and wrestled into the pen of meat birds,
who hadn’t been fed in five days.
The owner had buggered off and now
they were ours to tend till the SPCA stepped in.
Bethany in her rubbers, swarmed by beak and claw
while we held up the mesh frame,
held our noses away from the stench
that buddy would have sold for organic.
Debating, we took the injured chicken out,
and put it in a cardboard box in the garden.
All afternoon we chased the cat off it,
gave food, water. At night, we put it in the shed
and left the light on, like you would for a child
afraid of the dark. And in the morning,
without the heat of the others, found it dead.
***
Hi everyone! I'm happy to be posting my first poem. My goal is to post for three poems a week. Not all of these will be brand new. Some are poems I wrote in January and February that I'm working hard to revise. Hope that's not bending the rules too much. Look forward to the frenzy. Bren
the chicken dragged its broken leg, pink and package-ready.
The other chickens using it as a springboard
to brawl their way to fresh water,
the meager half bag of feed we found
and wrestled into the pen of meat birds,
who hadn’t been fed in five days.
The owner had buggered off and now
they were ours to tend till the SPCA stepped in.
Bethany in her rubbers, swarmed by beak and claw
while we held up the mesh frame,
held our noses away from the stench
that buddy would have sold for organic.
Debating, we took the injured chicken out,
and put it in a cardboard box in the garden.
All afternoon we chased the cat off it,
gave food, water. At night, we put it in the shed
and left the light on, like you would for a child
afraid of the dark. And in the morning,
without the heat of the others, found it dead.
***
Hi everyone! I'm happy to be posting my first poem. My goal is to post for three poems a week. Not all of these will be brand new. Some are poems I wrote in January and February that I'm working hard to revise. Hope that's not bending the rules too much. Look forward to the frenzy. Bren
post to post
flashing yellow lines morse code hypens saying not so fast
telephone poles carrying words, messages, party lines
following the highway more closely than most cars
empty crucifixes, places for crows to rest
("as the crow flies" isn't incessantly)
ohmy, someone's on a road trip
asphalt smoking, music
cranking and full
STOP
***
I liked the shape. Won't it be fun to edit in a few days. There are ideas I like in there. A.
telephone poles carrying words, messages, party lines
following the highway more closely than most cars
empty crucifixes, places for crows to rest
("as the crow flies" isn't incessantly)
ohmy, someone's on a road trip
asphalt smoking, music
cranking and full
STOP
***
I liked the shape. Won't it be fun to edit in a few days. There are ideas I like in there. A.
Evening, (i)
…..…l'homme orange
tu étais là quand
le soleil toucha la terre
un éclat de jaune-orange brillant
et quand je t’ai nommé ‘Orange’
tu m’as demandé pourquoi.
je n’avais aucune réponse, mais,
je t’ai rappeler que c’est là,
entre le jour et la nuit, où nous
nous sommes rencontrés, toi & moi.
.
tu étais là quand
le soleil toucha la terre
un éclat de jaune-orange brillant
et quand je t’ai nommé ‘Orange’
tu m’as demandé pourquoi.
je n’avais aucune réponse, mais,
je t’ai rappeler que c’est là,
entre le jour et la nuit, où nous
nous sommes rencontrés, toi & moi.
.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Garden Fare
In the blink of a bird
the day folded over on itself
turned up its paper wings
and flew away
into tomorrow
where blue flaming buds
unfurled into iris candelabras.
Parchment blooms light
the grey brocade sky and help
set the green-bladed surface
for brunch. An open menu
of leaves lays next to silver twigs
bent in perfect positions
place settings for
moving meals
emerging from moist
bits of wet fallen yesterdays
served up
before another day
folds into a flying
napkin and wipes
away the crumbs.
the day folded over on itself
turned up its paper wings
and flew away
into tomorrow
where blue flaming buds
unfurled into iris candelabras.
Parchment blooms light
the grey brocade sky and help
set the green-bladed surface
for brunch. An open menu
of leaves lays next to silver twigs
bent in perfect positions
place settings for
moving meals
emerging from moist
bits of wet fallen yesterdays
served up
before another day
folds into a flying
napkin and wipes
away the crumbs.
Happy May Day
Hello, everyone. This is my second time participating in this project and my goal is to write anything at all. Having been locked in deadly writer's block for the better part of a year, I would be satisfied to get anything accomplished. I look forward to reading everyone else's stuff.
preamble, poem
Once again May tip toes in, then startles me. Likewise, May Day. Here we are; year 4 for me.
While I never like to commit to posting 31 poems, I've been able to do it twice in the three years I've taken part in May Day. I hope it'll happen again this year, but I know how mentally draining it is, and how much -- by the end -- I resent the obligation, even though it's just one made to myself, by myself. But, it's been worthwhile and my most productive time of year for writing.
No real plan this month, but lately I've been working on a series of poems about boxing, so I expect that will find it's way here (as it does today). Every year my goal is to not write about the weather. I have yet to achieve it. I live in Winnipeg.
gloved
punch deep, hook fingers
into dark, dead-end of glove
braced in your coach’s belly –
soft, slow dig to the gut
as she cinches laces
around forearms
tied and taped, you can’t pat
sweat from your face,
sweep hair from eyes
gloves turn hands dumb,
useless except for hammering
nose flush with cheekbone
testing for hollow
behind ribs
between rounds you beg
to have water
poured into your mouth,
tip your head back
and swallow
While I never like to commit to posting 31 poems, I've been able to do it twice in the three years I've taken part in May Day. I hope it'll happen again this year, but I know how mentally draining it is, and how much -- by the end -- I resent the obligation, even though it's just one made to myself, by myself. But, it's been worthwhile and my most productive time of year for writing.
No real plan this month, but lately I've been working on a series of poems about boxing, so I expect that will find it's way here (as it does today). Every year my goal is to not write about the weather. I have yet to achieve it. I live in Winnipeg.
gloved
punch deep, hook fingers
into dark, dead-end of glove
braced in your coach’s belly –
soft, slow dig to the gut
as she cinches laces
around forearms
tied and taped, you can’t pat
sweat from your face,
sweep hair from eyes
gloves turn hands dumb,
useless except for hammering
nose flush with cheekbone
testing for hollow
behind ribs
between rounds you beg
to have water
poured into your mouth,
tip your head back
and swallow
l'amour, la mort
hundreds of miles as the crow walks, picking ripe blackberries and begging directions from strangers. strange pilgrimage to a stranger reunion; how the eyeballs have collapsed by the third or fourth day.
cover receeding sockets, something round cold and metal shiny, anything hard-edged and gilt-real and earth-dirty. edges that dug into clutching hands and jutting hipbones in jean pockets. two handwarm quarters to queen your marblecold stoneflat sunken orbs. cheek-kiss an unknown plateau, whisper instructions into cold ears to call from the afterlife [turn to the man standing discreet and hand-clasped and cuff-linked in the shadows, say blindly and violently next time - knowing there is no next time - for godsakes don't use blue eyeshadow ] demand a kleenex. lick one chalky corner of drywhiteabsorbantblank expanse, taste perfume that isn't there, try to wipe the eyes of the one who will never cry again.
two weeks later wake up from a dream unremembered, smell lilacs before seeing a fifty-cent piece on the bedside table.
cover receeding sockets, something round cold and metal shiny, anything hard-edged and gilt-real and earth-dirty. edges that dug into clutching hands and jutting hipbones in jean pockets. two handwarm quarters to queen your marblecold stoneflat sunken orbs. cheek-kiss an unknown plateau, whisper instructions into cold ears to call from the afterlife [turn to the man standing discreet and hand-clasped and cuff-linked in the shadows, say blindly and violently next time - knowing there is no next time - for godsakes don't use blue eyeshadow ] demand a kleenex. lick one chalky corner of drywhiteabsorbantblank expanse, taste perfume that isn't there, try to wipe the eyes of the one who will never cry again.
two weeks later wake up from a dream unremembered, smell lilacs before seeing a fifty-cent piece on the bedside table.
***
Maybe the italics are the poem. It never tells me on a first draft.
Crow 3
Do the crows build nests? They build them from your lost toys. Do the crows feed? They feed upon your missing keys. Do the crows speak? They speak only if you cut their tongues. Do the crows steal? No, they take your eyes and leave you coins.
Crow 2
Use of anesthesia is recommended
during the dissection of live crows.
The human animal has a tendency
to anthropomorphize other animals.
Anesthesia is helpful in this regard.
It numbs you to the screaming.
during the dissection of live crows.
The human animal has a tendency
to anthropomorphize other animals.
Anesthesia is helpful in this regard.
It numbs you to the screaming.
Edisonia: An account of a drowning, circa 1853
The creek, mum. I went to swim
in the creek with –.
And I took off
my shoes & shirt this time like you
told me & I stayed in
the rocky shallows – the cold
an open-handed slap, mum – and he charged
ahead, water in waves around him,
water in shiny coins that fell back
into the water: wishes for longer afternoons
of creeks & shallows & inky
tadpoles nudging at the split
cup of my fingers
And then he came back
& we pushed each other down & splashed & I tore
his shirt a bit. He tromped away, mad,
& I had a leech between my toes & it was a tongue,
mum, rasping between my toes,
so I sat on the shore
& pulled it off.
And I laid back, watching
a robin building in a tree overhanging
the creek with the hanks of wool leftover
from spinning and the strands of hair from your brush
I set out in the yard this morning
& then I didn’t hear him. But I thought
he was just around the bend
or hiding in the reeds so I put my shoes on
& carefully – carefully, mum – buttoned
And then I heard you calling out
the back door so I came, thinking he’d snuck
home & I was hungry & that man
who came in just now was crying, mum.
It was –‘s dad & he was crying & he popped
two of my buttons.
I’m sorry, mum. About – lying cold
and dead at the bottom of the creek. I didn’t know.
I didn’t. And the hole in my foot
where the bloody leech was aches.
But I’ve got the buttons here in my hand
and if you teach me how,
* * *
My name is Ariel Gordon and this is my fifth year May-Day-ing. Polly Washburn and I started the site back in 2004 and I'm glad glad glad at how it's grown.
This year, after several years where it just wasn't possible, I'm going to try to write a poem a day.
I'll most likely write/post poems in two veins. The first will be what I call 'exercize' poems, based off the wikiHows (How to Seduce a Woman, How to Rip a Phonebook in Half, How to Connect with Your Father). They'll be one-offs, riff-raff, volunteers.
The second will be poems like this one, that will eventually find their way into my manuscript of poems about absent parents. Though much of this manuscript is intensely, frighteningly personal, there's also a section based on the relationship between inventor Thomas Alva Edison and his eldest daughter Marion Estelle Edison, also known as "Dot."
A bit about me: I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. I've a couple of things being published this spring and my first book will be published next spring. (Fun!)
in the creek with –.
And I took off
my shoes & shirt this time like you
told me & I stayed in
the rocky shallows – the cold
an open-handed slap, mum – and he charged
ahead, water in waves around him,
water in shiny coins that fell back
into the water: wishes for longer afternoons
of creeks & shallows & inky
tadpoles nudging at the split
cup of my fingers
(oh the poor boy!)wasted.
And then he came back
& we pushed each other down & splashed & I tore
his shirt a bit. He tromped away, mad,
& I had a leech between my toes & it was a tongue,
mum, rasping between my toes,
so I sat on the shore
& pulled it off.
And I laid back, watching
a robin building in a tree overhanging
the creek with the hanks of wool leftover
from spinning and the strands of hair from your brush
I set out in the yard this morning
& then I didn’t hear him. But I thought
he was just around the bend
or hiding in the reeds so I put my shoes on
& carefully – carefully, mum – buttoned
(oh his poor mother!)my shirt & waited.
And then I heard you calling out
the back door so I came, thinking he’d snuck
home & I was hungry & that man
who came in just now was crying, mum.
It was –‘s dad & he was crying & he popped
two of my buttons.
I’m sorry, mum. About – lying cold
and dead at the bottom of the creek. I didn’t know.
I didn’t. And the hole in my foot
where the bloody leech was aches.
But I’ve got the buttons here in my hand
and if you teach me how,
(oh my poor boy!)I’ll sew them back on.
* * *
My name is Ariel Gordon and this is my fifth year May-Day-ing. Polly Washburn and I started the site back in 2004 and I'm glad glad glad at how it's grown.
This year, after several years where it just wasn't possible, I'm going to try to write a poem a day.
I'll most likely write/post poems in two veins. The first will be what I call 'exercize' poems, based off the wikiHows (How to Seduce a Woman, How to Rip a Phonebook in Half, How to Connect with Your Father). They'll be one-offs, riff-raff, volunteers.
The second will be poems like this one, that will eventually find their way into my manuscript of poems about absent parents. Though much of this manuscript is intensely, frighteningly personal, there's also a section based on the relationship between inventor Thomas Alva Edison and his eldest daughter Marion Estelle Edison, also known as "Dot."
A bit about me: I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. I've a couple of things being published this spring and my first book will be published next spring. (Fun!)
Crow 1
its eyes were black its beak was black and its feathers were black . it had been dead for a long time and i thought that by now it must be black on the inside
i watched it from a safe distance . i had been watching it for some time . i had killed it and hung it on a cross and it had not come back and i was starting to believe it would never come back . i could still see it when i looked away . i looked away and looked again it was the same black . still . the same black as the spaces in between the stars
its wings were black and its tail was black and its talons were black too . everything was black . it could have been a crow or it could have been nothing
i watched it from a safe distance . i had been watching it for some time . i had killed it and hung it on a cross and it had not come back and i was starting to believe it would never come back . i could still see it when i looked away . i looked away and looked again it was the same black . still . the same black as the spaces in between the stars
its wings were black and its tail was black and its talons were black too . everything was black . it could have been a crow or it could have been nothing
printemps premiere/May 1 & intro
LOCATION: 3rd curling rock from the suncentre of the universe, ~ middle of the prairie.
PROFESSION: Writing. Editing. Editing what I write. Writing what I edit. Trying to pretend I'm not a poet, or else trying to pretend I am, as the season takes me.
Sometimes: great success. Lyrically. Others: epic fail. Ironically. (note use of internet cliché)
COMMITMENT: Normally commitments frighten me, however I'm scheduling myself for some heavily committed but likely brief erratic acts of poetry. Minimum of WEEKLY, maximum of DAILY.
I am keen on micro poetry just now. c'est tout, say toot.
PROFESSION: Writing. Editing. Editing what I write. Writing what I edit. Trying to pretend I'm not a poet, or else trying to pretend I am, as the season takes me.
Sometimes: great success. Lyrically. Others: epic fail. Ironically. (note use of internet cliché)
COMMITMENT: Normally commitments frighten me, however I'm scheduling myself for some heavily committed but likely brief erratic acts of poetry. Minimum of WEEKLY, maximum of DAILY.
I am keen on micro poetry just now. c'est tout, say toot.
Housekeeping...
Hey May-Day-ers,
As you may have noticed by now, the one thing this modified wordpress blog template DOESN'T have is the blogger toolbar at the top. This means there isn't yet a simple way to log into blogger directly from the site.
I'm going to sic my tech-happy partner on it tonight, but in the meantime, when you want to post you'll have to log in at blogger.com and then open a separate tab or window with the May Day blog and then move between them.
I know it's inelegant, but then, so am I...
Yers,
A.
As you may have noticed by now, the one thing this modified wordpress blog template DOESN'T have is the blogger toolbar at the top. This means there isn't yet a simple way to log into blogger directly from the site.
I'm going to sic my tech-happy partner on it tonight, but in the meantime, when you want to post you'll have to log in at blogger.com and then open a separate tab or window with the May Day blog and then move between them.
I know it's inelegant, but then, so am I...
Yers,
A.
Night letters
I'm going to try and go for it but can't promise as I'll be on ex. with the infantry for the first week of May. Here is the first from Night Letters.
I continue to be interested in the idea of letters, especially one-way letters, as I was last year.
For those interested, my letters to a lover in Afghanistan continue and are going to be staged in 2010.
Anyone curious can visit my website: www.warpoet.ca to catch up on the storyline.
Good luck everybody, I can't wait to see what you'll post.
* * *
night letters
pinned to doors, tucked into fence cracks, walls. pushed through open windows. delivered by hand. or express post. savour-letters. hide-letters. kept. in a locker at work. or waterproof box. maybe in a barn. a workshop. under the seat of a truck. or jacket pocket. folded. read. over and over. sniffed. put against lips. try to unseal the kiss. wish it never happened. wish it would again letters. laugh letters, lust letters, hurricane letters. night letters. just for you.
I continue to be interested in the idea of letters, especially one-way letters, as I was last year. For those interested, my letters to a lover in Afghanistan continue and are going to be staged in 2010.
Anyone curious can visit my website: www.warpoet.ca to catch up on the storyline.
Good luck everybody, I can't wait to see what you'll post.
* * *
night letters
pinned to doors, tucked into fence cracks, walls. pushed through open windows. delivered by hand. or express post. savour-letters. hide-letters. kept. in a locker at work. or waterproof box. maybe in a barn. a workshop. under the seat of a truck. or jacket pocket. folded. read. over and over. sniffed. put against lips. try to unseal the kiss. wish it never happened. wish it would again letters. laugh letters, lust letters, hurricane letters. night letters. just for you.
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