http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents riverwriter's selected poems and comments Thu, 09 Sep 2010 14:54:22 +0000 en hourly 1 Selected poetry and comments by Canadian poet, Douglas J. Hill, whose blog http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/ is well-known for its wealth of poetry and theatre reviews. These podcasts are read by the poet, who also gives backgrounds on the work. New podcasts are added periodically. riverwriter\'s selected poems and comments riverwriter http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/PAIjf-sTalOMOmVyjc9HVQ?authkey=zrDTpWwb1uA&feat=directlinkhttp://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents rumination,social,relationships,cats,nature,spirituality,aging,family,satire,comedy,arts,poetry clean Douglas Hill douglasjhill@gmail.com http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2010/01/08/anatomy/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2010/01/08/anatomy/#comments Sat, 09 Jan 2010 04:20:28 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=2887 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2010/01/08/anatomy/feed/ 0 Ten pounds since summer solstice I have gained: and any talk of diets is in vain; for air will turn into the purest fat on me, it’s what my brain does to my poor anatomy. I’ve tried to argue interest in gastronomy; but bulbous belly never did look good on me, so I must really start to lose this gut before all that retreats onto my butt. And was it pies created this disaster? Or maybe cakes or chocolate bars are faster. Or maybe nuts or eating something after supper? Or maybe toast and jam and piling on the butter. Those things I love, and will until I die. So I must sacrifice, ’til by and by I’m thin again, and all my clothes look good on me and then it starts again as I put food in me. The Battle of the Bulge, not by the First Airborne Division, but by me, at home, at the table. (#1028) riverwriter 00:01:07 poem clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2010/01/03/the-drive-to-the-beach/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2010/01/03/the-drive-to-the-beach/#comments Mon, 04 Jan 2010 01:51:27 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=2856 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2010/01/03/the-drive-to-the-beach/feed/ 4 These white days in the heart of winter the heat that sustains me is in the warm grass that cradles my bare feet in summers past and yet to come. I think of hopping into the car, not bundled within layers of warm fabric against the cold, but hanging loose in shorts and tee. In the trunk are the makings of a picnic. On the way, we all know there is a stop at the little gas station where they sell fresh curds after eleven on Tuesdays and Fridays. Bags of them on the counter. They entwine intimately in sealed bags, pale squared finger length strips, almost cool in traces of their slightly salty whey. We buy two bags: one for the trip, one for the beach. Rip open the bag and pass it around. Squeaky sighs of contentment as each of us chews into the buttery, slightly salty and yes squeaky wondrous food. Sometimes I think of poutine: hot gravy over curds and french fries, and my mouth waters. But mostly, I think of a bag of curds and a pitcher of draft beer, bare feet and sunshine. Readers who viewed this page, also viewed:RemotePowered by Where did they go from here? K'ay suggested I write a poem about curds. There is a lot of dairy farming around here, mainly Holsteins. This has always been cheese country. We have always had a thing about curds: they have to be fresh, never refrigerated—crucial. (#1023) 00:01:46 summer,curds clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/05/26/giant/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/05/26/giant/#comments Tue, 26 May 2009 13:27:02 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1804 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/05/26/giant/feed/ 0 The fist that clutches at my throat drags me gasping from the deep twisted waters of sleep leaves me beached in tangles of linen, panting in these scattering shadows. No rescue this: a provocation, a brutality. I am not ready for this island nor it for me; I wade out to the tangled flotsam that is my raft my vessel, and argue the waters against the uncertain winds and tides until, at the edge of famine I roll into their clammy embrace yet hear the lurching tread of that cruel colossus calling me. Readers who viewed this page, also viewed:Powered by Where did they go from here? This poem I wrote in early morning after another night in the sleep lab. CPAP is not a cure; it is an affliction too. riverwriter 0:00:51 poetry,sleep apnea, CPAP clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/31/dreaming-with-fishes/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/31/dreaming-with-fishes/#comments Tue, 31 Mar 2009 12:30:42 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1711 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/31/dreaming-with-fishes/feed/ 0 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. Perch Fishing near Summerstown . by Tamia Doll Tamia Doll died of cancer a few years ago. I discovered her in the early nineties when I was Chair of the now-defunct Seaway Arts Council. I was fairly heavily involved in the local art gallery at the time, and discovered that there was an artist [...] riverwriter 00:01:16 death,cancer,painter,art,St. Lawrence River,loss clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/30/incident-in-a-framing-store/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/30/incident-in-a-framing-store/#comments Mon, 30 Mar 2009 12:14:18 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1704 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/30/incident-in-a-framing-store/feed/ 0 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. This poem was a candidate for my reading at the mayor's celebration of the arts at Aultsville Theatre March 28, 2009. iverwriter 00:01:24 poetry,art,painting clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/28/circling-the-moon/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/28/circling-the-moon/#comments Sun, 29 Mar 2009 00:00:03 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1683 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/28/circling-the-moon/feed/ 2 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.” 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 [...] riverwriter 00:04:20 live,reading,poetry,art, artists clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/26/in-the-wings/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/26/in-the-wings/#comments Thu, 26 Mar 2009 11:54:33 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1687 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/26/in-the-wings/feed/ 0 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 Readers who viewed this page, also viewed:On Having ReadSoft diamondsPowered by Where did they go from here? Experienced performers usually can mobilize stage fright to give energy to the performance. Standing in the wings of a stage anticipating can be a daunting or exhilarating experience. This poem depicts one such experience. riverwriter 00:01:12 poetry,stage fright,theatre,theater,performing,acting clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/19/sitting-on-a-log/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/19/sitting-on-a-log/#comments Thu, 19 Mar 2009 19:16:11 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1640 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/19/sitting-on-a-log/feed/ 0 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. This poem examines the pressures that distract us from living in the moment. riverwriter 1.55 poetry,social,relaxing,seasons clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/11/inconsiderate/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/11/inconsiderate/#comments Wed, 11 Mar 2009 13:43:21 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1618 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/03/11/inconsiderate/feed/ 0 Justa few days ago he was fillibustering, twisting my ear this time about my abominable economic ignorance. For an hour after he left I panicked about my mounting bills. Today there is a blank space in that chair a silent node that ignores my execrable hunger for his disapproval. How could he dare to choose the silent inside of a small urn over my aching riposte? This short poem examines the emptiness left after a departure. riverwriter reads it and comments in the accompanying podcast. riverwriter 2:02 poem,death,fiendship,reading,commentary clean http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/02/27/consider-defeat/ http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/02/27/consider-defeat/#comments Fri, 27 Feb 2009 19:53:14 +0000 riverwriter http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/?p=1582 http://riverwriter.ca/wordcurrents/2009/02/27/consider-defeat/feed/ 0 His huge leather tunic gleamed; his massive hippopotamus hide shield proclaimed his bloody history. There he beat the side of his iron blade as the drums pounded, shaking the dusty hillside, heating his hungry blood. The marine’s gleaming boot hesitated for a second then lifted into the helicopter bay from a frazzled rooftop in Seoul as the streets swarmed screaming chaos below. In the empty locker room the bruised rookie realized only one winged victor can dance on the head of a pyramid and the pharaoh is entombed deep below. The poem: Commentary: Poetry: In sports, as in most human endeavours, there is only one victor, and it may not always be whom you expect. Life's experience is more about learning to lose than learning to win. When Tiger Woods lost the second round of his first [...]