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

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'm sorry that family grieving and other pressing personal matters have kept me from writing as I wanted this year. I hope to be here next year.

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.

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

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)

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.

untitled

for M

in the space between

the ticks

the thousand clicks

my Mission clock

brass pendulum/oak

keyed and wound

by hands, mine/other

women's hands

a century and a half

it stands still on

the sideboard still

and I am still

but for my heart

it skips but still

another beat to keep

this life, my time

in the space between.

O Johnny

Johnny, über-soldier on Shilo’s Carl G range,
I knew you’d cover more than arcs, tread dust,
test, not second-guess, you’d take the hit
first before me, before your men. Ever.
At Suffield your platoon white teeth black-face grinned
after live-fire, the hail, LAV turret, gun break-down,
taught me how much shit infantrymen can take,
how the heavier the load, weirdly, the happier you all get.
Then Afghanistan. 11 Platoon only a kilometer away
but roads too mined for poets to come to tea.

Trenton, repat. We hugged, waited for one of your boys,
cried before he arrived, his coffin unloaded.
O Johnny, believe what Col. says. There’s nothing more
you could have done. It was that young boy’s time.

What will come

At 26, I was told I was no longer young.
Crow’s feet had hopped on my eyes.
There’d been many dresses—
black with white
polka dots, pink
strapless, red
floral prints—worn to weddings
of friends, who disappeared
after creating little men
who cried
and begged to be fed.

At 28, I had no desire
for a regular nine to five
behind cubicle walls—
a comfortable salary while the Boss drained
my energy until all I could do was watch TV
on the couch with sleepy eyes. I
free range, fend for my self-
employment and shop
in empty grocery stores on Mondays at 2 p.m.
I’ve seen what will come.
I’ll disappear. Thin
skin, liver spots, the thickening of hips, a desire to cut
my hair as short as can be.
I’ve seen us
at the gym, lethargic and slow
with the desire to repossess the value
of our bodies. Diligently skip
chocolate desserts
in front of house guests. Alone,
reach for potato chips. In the end,
it’s what we want
now that’s important, not what we really want—
youth, beauty,
to be seen again.

All For Show

Thursday, 28th May Have been having a rather lazy time since our arrival, drilling but for an hour or two. On Monday, the 25th, we celebrated the Queen's Birthday by a review and a general salute, or was it a Royal Salute...

Victoria Day for the victors.
We marched up and down
the slightly muddied grounds
impressing a pair of crows
and a few gophers. The grass
and weeds, downtrodden by our feet,
spring back in the dewy mornings.

The bark of our guns echoed
smartly down the banks, rolled
across the valleys and the water.
I was more impressed by what caught
my eye as it flitted drunkenly by: black
and orange and brown, spring's first butterfly.
***
It would be a comfort if we prisoners
could be together, but isolation is always
the tactic. Divide and conquer. The rustle of
uniforms, canvas, drills called out by day, snoring
of these Easterners by night, all I wish for is my own
family around me. The sight of sky. To be a free man once more.

The smallest things count for my happiness now.
Today, I
saw a mouse.
With my eyes I placed my love for my wife and children
in that tiny body and wished it a speedy
trip south.

Before riding off, our warriors sold
beaded moccasins, tobacco pouches,
horse decorations
to the soldiers from the east,
eager to take mementoes home.

Then they rode south to Eagle Hills - knowing
we would know, despite their unflinching faces
their shrugs that leaving their men, their Chief
behind was of no great consequence or loss

- south is where sorrow is taken. They walk
to the South Wind, Sawan, to release
grief and pray for healing.

My hands are bound so tightly they've lost
all feeling.

lingerie, a hymn for the open road

neatly folded and compressed,
housed lovingly
among other intimates in the soft
darkness of your top drawer, wrapped
in the essence of a woman, a scent
never strong enough to shade
the humid breath
of your body.

like the Greeks you believe
in the thing and its essence.
this is why you squeeze, lift,
and flatten that which has exceeded
its purpose, you agree
to be lavender, lace
and love.

but what if you undressed
and actually got down to it - this
devious thing, the tortured skin, angry
bones and excess flesh. what if
you told the story without props, placed
his hands along the twisting plot and told him
what it means to ache.

you are old enough to know
that men will eat apples and snakes
will be snakes. you are old enough to give up
on hiding, to step
onto the dusty road, the heat
of their gaze on the scars
of your skin, wise
and unafraid.

Thirty-day pass: 6. From the dome car

The train is a moving tunnel through

the rain that falls from grey cloud-pall

that slants against curved windows

ripples the glass

that puddles on soggy fields

pockmarks the surface of ponds

that slides off oiled feathers

of pintails, canvasbacks,

mallards in pairs

that falls and falls

The Hostage

On Tuesday evening, the 26th, Chief Poundmaker came in with his band and surrendered. He had a big pow-wow with the General (at which I was lucky enough to be present) and justified his action at Cutknife by a plea of self-defence. Many of his braves too are rather fine-looking men. The General kept the Chief and a few of his principal followers prisoners and sent the rest away.

We have won this thing
cheaply. We sit in forts
accepting terms of peace
from rebels and Indians.

When Poundmaker put his hand out
in peace, Middleton waved it aside
saying he did not shake hands with
rebels. The translator hesitated,
explained in Cree there is no such
word.

Both men expounded at great lengths
words drifting off and away like gulls
or clouds or so much smoke
from a campfire.

I confess, I favoured the Cree.
***
Poundmaker speaks much verbatim, c/o Stan Cuthand
"From the beginning, the Great Spirit created
Indians and white persons.
He put them on separate countries.
He provided us with buffalo.
He provided you with cows and sheep.

We lived in contentment.
We were well off.
The whole country was ours.
From the place of the rising sun,
to the place of the setting sun,
the buffalo roamed in great numbers.

We did not covet your land,
neither did my father.
But the white persons seemed unhappy.
They left their land.
They came across the great waters.

When you came, we treated you well.
What did you do in return?
You stole our land.
You shared a little food with us.
And you said you paid for it.
You killed off our buffalo for no useful purpose for you.
We did not destroy the buffalo. We know they are useful.
Everything we needed came from them. What will you destroy next?

When I was a young man, I often went on a war party.
We rode all day. And all day we passed through herds of buffalo.
The plains were black as far as one could see with herds of buffalo.
We killed one only for food.

After the whites came, the buffalo became fewer and fewer.
We all know that.
We began to hate the white persons.
They were robbing us of our birthright.
We became very poor.
We wandered to the south.
The buffalo were not coming back.
We were told, "the land is not yours anymore."
We were to stay only on our small patches of land that were leftover (iskonikana).

Our grandfathers travelled on these great plains and called it their own.
Why do I now have to live on a small patch like the white persons?
I only want my freedom."

Poundmaker spoke of Aniyen-they-call-Riel, of his own fear
for our people, of me and his other warriors
who hungered to take action against the many
whites, no matter their strengths and numbers.

Then he spoke of Cut Knife and holding
us back. He called it "a gentle war"
and it is true. All their men would have died
but for him. The prisoners also, he treated
like his own children.

"Now I urge you to be gentle,
as I have advocated with my men.
Let all be 'given back' (forgiven).
Let the tribes (Cree and Assiniboine)
be reinstated upon their reserves.
Rations and payments be continued.
That is all I have to say."

As Poundmaker turned around to face his people his wife said, "I also must speak for the women and children."

"Ahaw, tapwe!" was expressed by the warriors.

The Chief Soldier looked confused, replied to Poundmaker,
"You are speaking for all your people."

A quick reply came from the crowd, "You always tell us that the Great White Queen speaks at the Supreme Council."

"Why should not a woman speak?" added Poundmaker.

Middleton laughed, said, "She does not speak in her Parliament. Her men
do all this for her. This is a war conference and we will listen only to warriors."

Poundmaker was a Chief, not a warrior. Middleton
was wrong. And his wife wanted to speak not only
for the women and children, but on behalf
of a mother whose innocent son had been taken prisoner.

The Chief Soldier said we had defied the government
by taking up arms (this is their right alone?)
and that our men must be given over, tried,
and punished. (also their right, alone.)

Poundmaker, as chief, would be taken hostage
and remain a prisoner
for the good behaviour of his people.

All good men, it seems,
go the way of the buffalo.
This is my sorrow.