Dreaming with fishes

Posted by riverwriter on Mar 31st, 2009 | 0 comments

In memory of Tamia Doll

She would be out in the boat
near Summerstown
outwitting sundry perch.
She would watch the other boats
scattered like distant ducks
at the desultory edges of weed beds.

When it was impossible
to fish, she would commit
painting:
silent boats
scattered like lost stars
at the edges of possibility.

The fingers that twisted
worms and minnows
onto hooks
also twisted pigment
and oils into
real dreams.

Some time after she was
dragged down into her own dream,
they found her works
stacked in her flooded basement,
muddied beyond even
the power of sleep
to recall.

The voice of the poet

Perch Fishing near Summerstown . by Tamia Doll

Incident in a framing store

Posted by riverwriter on Mar 30th, 2009 | 0 comments

It was a painting
of a Glengarry cow.
The artist, who may be here tonight,
had rendered it from the side
with her own unique vision
the way Van Gogh did.
Price: $320, sturdily framed.

Into the store
which has long since vanished
came, breathless,
a young woman.
“I got your call.”

“Yes,” said the proprietor.
And pointed dramatically
to the latest
framed pencil-signed
every-blade-of-grass
hyper-photographic
limited edition reproduction
of a foraging racoon

“Number 3407 of 4500–
a good number:
only eight-fifty,
beautifully framed.”

“I’ll take one,”
said the breathless woman
and forked over $850
plus tax.

The cow’s udders
hung, massive,
reproaching the farmer
who was elsewhere occupied.

The voice of the poet

Circling the Moon

Posted by riverwriter on Mar 28th, 2009 | 2 comments

I invoke the spirit of Jack Wright whose light was the heart of our theatre
Rosamund Laberge who awoke the strings in our children
Berenice Dickson who created our dancers for a dime each week
Rose Stephens who made theatre fun and drove us crazy
Marie Keenan-Gignac and Mary Parisien who were our pianos
Hume Wilkins who was our poet
Rick Forrester who drove our musicals before him
Carm Aube who lived our music
Grace MacLeod who painted our sugar bushes
Tamia Doll who painted our river
J.T. Mackenzie who was the first to arrange “Amazing Grace” for the pipes of our world
and all the other crazy people who once lived among us and those who still do,
who tell us who we are, what we can be.

Here tonight in the light in the dark
on the stage of this wondrous asylum,
this source of hope and desperation
we gather to honour the insane.

Oh, artists!
In the quiet rooms where
you spin out your unique madness–
your village idiocy–
that leaves your neighbours wondering
when lunacy begins
lopping her ear,
howling at the moon.

In elemental space you rehearse,
shape, weave, compose, revise and
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat
until boredom is torture
inspiration is addiction
and passion has reverted to desperation–
where feet, fingers, tears,
brains and ignored loved ones
are pushed past brutality
for a few moments of
applause or beer-bleary disregard.

After the astronauts have gone limping home
you draw the lines that define us:
the ink sketch on the yellowed page
the quilt on the comfy bed
the pow-wow unity
the moment of observation
saved on a page
on a monitor
in a chord
in a movement
in clay or bronze
on a canvas
on a stage
in a digital repository

The scene is realistic
almost photographic
except for the annoying
yaketa-yaketa
of the artist
who is always in the way
insistent, distorting, visionary
mad.

We are here tonight to honour
this productive insanity
that thrives outside the realm of acceptance
in the silences
in the loneliness
in the selfless passion
that will circle the moon
howling:
“This is who we are,
what we can be.”

The voice of the poet

In the wings

Posted by riverwriter on Mar 26th, 2009 | 0 comments

The heavy black velours swallow sound, light, dust.
I touch one: dessicated time cascades:
I have to resist the tickle in my throat
the trickle in my armpits.

In the light, time cascades, draws me;
my belly lurches toward the red exit sign:
but I stand my ground, ready for the certain:
I will stumble out across the wood.

Familiar patterns dissolve, refocus:
words become notes on an alien scale,
emphases become cues, false promises,
vertical threatens to become horizontals.

I rediscover breathing, chant resolutions:
resolve to walk deserts, climb mountains,
give to the homeless who might be baby
Jesus or Mohammed or the Bhudda—oh

The voice of the poet

sitting on a log

Posted by riverwriter on Mar 19th, 2009 | 0 comments

It is the change of seasons that brings this unease:
with spring comes the  digging out;
with summer the shedding of clothes;
with autumn the donning of same;
with winter the burial.

In spring we scrape away old skin
from bones that barely rattle when shaken;
we scrub walls, wash heavy wools and comb furs;
skin tingles, fairly aches with raw freshness
it is so
invigorating

In summer, we are naked to the breezes
that snuggle into our light cottons;
we rub ourselves raw against the sun;
and we peel and drown in water
it is so
exhausting

In autumn we reap the yellowing growth
that has burdened the fields;
we weary ourselves with preparations
for the invasion to come
it is so
paranoid

In winter we huddle inside the warmth
that comforts us in this darkness;
we scan the horizon for the return
of the invigorating, exhausting paranoia
it is so
predictable

But if you decide
to sit here with me
on this log
in the middle
of the sky blue river
we might splash
some blue
at someone
silly.

The voice of the poet