sometimes I wonder (revisited)
Sometimes I wonderif she ever existed.
—found poem
Sometimes I wonder
if she ever existed.
Only a smile now
a gesture
copper hair flashing
she fades even in dreams
artist in the supermarket
She stands in the aisle like reverse Stendhal:frozen, her hand extended over the mound of apples.
Apples push into her like the fists of a lover
knocking at a locked door, urgent, juicy, plump.
It's always like this: fruit overwhelms, vegetables
scream longing; fresh trout imagines a sizzling grill,
beef lounges in a marinade, ready to sear.
She wants to paint, to cook, to knead warm
transit
Night. City street after rain.Early autumn leaves cling to the pavement
like wet hair on a waiting face.
Amber and blue incandescence
lies in pools for walking entrances,
performances and exits,
as the occasional soloist mimes
man walking alone on the street
concert
engine idle just beyond theancient boathouse
river calm and waiting silent
to the weed beds
and the spaces vast, beyond
ease the throttle slowly forward
hear the engine twist
inside the music
The part I sing in our quartethovers above or below the melody;
often it sounds like the French horn.
The Lead's note sounds familiar;
the Bass is the solid foundation;
the Tenor lilts above all, thrillingly;
my part, the Bari, fills it all in.
cocoon
Inside the silk threadsis what will come:
beautiful wings,
gleaming reds, yellows, blues,
curves and strength,
the freedom of flight
instead of plodding,
gnawing eating.
lotus eaters
This is the first in a series I started a while back. I should write a few more on this . . .everyone on the street was
somewhere else
listening to music
words from another time
another place
after
She used to purr when she leaped onto the bed;I prefer to think of her arrivals.
I could read her expressions through the fur:
glad to see me (and usually was):
relaxed eyelids, fur sleek off the face;
impatient with my stupidity:
Mauve and Gold
If a god were eating strawberriesWhen that sunset happened,
I know he'd stop in mid-bite
With red sweet juice dribbling
Down his chin onto his toga
And just stare and do a god-thing:
driving home
The sun set just before we turned west onto the roadthat curved into the pure black landscape silhouetted
against the absolutely clear tangerine and indigo sky.
As our headlights revealed and dismissed the familiar
meanderings of this riverside route and its clusters of cottages
On being mistaken for myself
Photos never lieexcept when they must,
with a minimum of mendacity,
tell welting whoppers
about how egregiously old
the old codger has become.
I have studied photos
taken years ago
that make me look
what was left
First they took away the all moneypoured it into the government trough
and they fed the war in Afganistan
but still that wasn't enough
so they crucified the artists
and they stood around and laughed
Poetry: j’accuse!
When I am preparing to announce that I am a poet or have written a new poem or am reading a poem, I find myself searching for a way to say it without employing the words “poet”, poetry” or “poem”, because I know it will deter most people from reading or listening or giving the announcement any respect or even interest. Underneath it all, when I go public with it I feel defensive; I am embarrassed for my art. I find myself wondering if this has to be so.
The poet has through history often occupied a place of incredible power, as witness Celtic clans that, having to choose between fighting the rival clan’s poet or best warrior, would chose to fight the warrior, as there was more chance of victory against the sword than the words; hence the expression, the pen is mightier than the sword.
How we have fallen! In this age, if you say there will be a poetry reading, (more…)
Review: blood.claat: one oomaan story by d’bi.young anitafrika
As I watched this tour de force one-woman show performed by the playwright herself, I was struck by her ability to project and maintain a high intensity of very colourful and passionate expression, and to switch ingeniously among a variety of clearly defined characters. As well, I was impressed by the very effective and visceral soundscape and the simple, but flexible and appropriate set, as well as the tight unity of the script, which is very focused upon its thematic base: various manifestations of blood in the life of a young Jamaican woman.
As if those successes are not enough, Anitafrika successfully navigates the tricky territory of her central manifestation of blood: menstruation. This taboo subject is represented to us physically by the fabrics that the central character frantically (more…)
wantering
Of course, no promises were made in words;
it’s more a matter of belief
that the planet will revolve
around the Sun, and gradually
our countryside will be inclined—
literally—
in such a way that we
and all the ice and snow,
thereafter, grass (more…)
what is left behind
Think of departure as a kind of death:
a stone draws out of water, and if
the empty space stayed, as in
a photograph we see it still
captured by the fast lens that
freezes drops of water
as we could never see them
beautiful, arching, glorious.
But the hole that was a rock
remains,
wonder/miracle/phenomenon
unnatural.
I look at the abandoned toy,
the desultory pencil,
the place you sat
but I can regard only
the play of light on dust motes
the bass thrumming of passing traffic
the softness of upholstery
as we could never see them
beautiful, arching, glorious.
Review: Mrs. Dexter and Her Daily by Joanna McClelland Glass
I felt really good about Canadian theatre Saturday night. Joanna McClelland Glass’ script is a tour de force of playwriting, particularly of writing monologues, a form that demands a great deal of ingenuity from the writer. There are several instances of dialogue in the first act; but the rest of the play, including the entire second act, is all incredibly skillful work for a solo actor on stage. I have one published monologue, “Old Wives Tale”, a short comic piece on which I laboured considerably; so I can appreciate the form and marvel at the playwright’s mastery of it.
I admired Glass’ management of the main action: at the end of Act I, she raises the stakes (more…)
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