It’s Poetry Month.
Last year, I did my first 30/30, posting a poem a day on prairiepomes.
This year, I’m doing it with pals from the Stroll of Poets, thanks to the organizing talents of Trudy Greinhauer. My own will also be posted, like last year, right here, this time on its very own page. I’ll post the latest here at the top, so they descend anti-chronologically. Please read and enjoy!
April 30: Taxday Homestretch
there it is, the line
and we are not the smug ones
smirking today over brunch
no, for us, the race is on
cross-country, in the rough
hacking with pens like machetes
through this bristling, sucking
undergrowth of paperwork
that bays around us.
how does it come to this?
every year, astonished that
left alone for the merest moment
(or unadmitted month or two or more)
these receipts and forms and memos
tangle into snarls resistant
to all known spread sheets.
the sun is out, a winged thing
taunts there, against the window
even the insects are stretching their limbs
in spring’s long awaited glow
but here, we have miles to go
before we reach
that blessed exhalation.
we toil on, darkly swearing
that next year, we shall be the ones
we gnash at now, smirking over brunches
speaking of impending refunds
all that pirate gold.
but enough. it is there, the line
mocking my poetry for what it is
procrastination, my underbelly
time to suck it up and file.
it is there, the line. i must get across.
excelsior!
April 29: Sidewalk Astronomy
we set out to see the stars
my friend and i suddenly
the old gals, our kids
so nearly grown, all of us
so full of desire to see
the astronomers, white haired
at first didn’t know what to say, but
we loved the moon they showed, and so
they urged us to hope the sky
would clear as twilight deepened
so jupiter could appear, southeast
out over the high level bridge
to while away sunset we walked
along the promenade, all the way
to the museum grounds – the old
museum, now; groat road bridge
replaced by broad commodious span
analog for our spreadout hips
mothers’ wisdom, indulgent hope
that these young ones might see
days as fine as we did then
jupiter is waiting, proud with moons
arrayed above the river, night king
aglow in our distant praise, and then
they turn back the scope again:
it’s morning on the moon, says
our host, a shy boy’s smile
in leather of his face, renewed
by sharing his connection to love
of first light on celestial mountains
we leave full of starlight.
April 28: cat tail
little cat
stretches flat
bargains made
prices paid
trust relayed
she rests for now
at peace somehow
with surgery
for injury
she lets me know
she’s let it go
she understands
mine was the hand
i hadn’t planned
to have to serve
pain, to preserve
the rest of her
the best of her
suggests a purr
begins to stir
believe in cure
my friend and i
went out to buy
needed supply
of healing stuff
this friend is tough
she’s seen enough
of blood and guts
offers no buts
won’t go nuts
has no disgust
will just adjust
do what we must
to heal this cat
that is that
this is the deal
it’s old and real
domestication
means co-obligation
cooperation
small operation
tail amputation
recuperation
friendship and patience
all my relations.
April 27: in 3
take one: text
she suddenly sends
a text message
her daughter will be ten
family and family-like friends
are invited to celebrate
we have not spoken as friends
since my own daughter’s ninth
so, is this love or hate?
i do not miss her, judgmental
and loud, but her daughter
is a blood relative, and besides
has been a tiny bird with mine
she sends no address, despite
knowing i’ve never seen
her new house, she ignored
my messages of congratulations
when i heard she’d found a home
is this friendship, or bullshit?
Day 27, take 2: Love or Hate
she holds a grudge, why
did my metis friend ask her
if her kid was aboriginal?
she cannot see that, to me
that question is not an insult
and hers, very much so.
Day 27, take 3: peavey mart
the cat runs in bleeding
her tail, tip torn open
we do not have eight
hundred
and fifty dollars
for surgery
i call my sister, who sends me
to the peavey mart, for
thirty bucks worth of tools
bandaging, medicines
i call a sister-friend, who drives me
out to the peavey mart, back
to our shared rural roots
on the highway, we trade news
and talk about tubs full of fish
laughing, because academia
cannot fathom a bear’s head
in the bathtub, our world so gross
she holds the cat, i band the cat
swab, wrap, and concede
that the plastic head collar is necessary
courage
how often she must have
questioned her convictions
gone to the crochet needles
to the garden, to the cards:
play the hand dealt, don’t cry
laugh in the teeth of defeat
count yourself lucky to win
how often, making
something out of nothing much
old jeans into a sleeping bag
large enough for her ginap husband
hardpan clay into a winter’s food:
parlay life’s awful offers
into bargains, treasures, strength
that what is may be accepted
how often might she have wished
for peace? and now, cocooned
in quiet, she lies making her peace
with life, with god, with her beloveds
i want to run to her crying
mama mama mama
mama wait, let me sing to you
what i learned from you
the least, the low, the ugly can be
transformed into a kind of plenty
legacy from necessity.
I cannot sit with her tonight
so i offer these words, testimony:
she has made her soul’s measure
by hand, and could you see her
you would regard a holy queen.
April 26: Hope
the sky is falling. the sky is
always falling, just like that
country song about ‘it’s
five o’clock somewhere’ but
with apocalypses. the end
always nigh.
consider the travelers
on an april road, high
in snowstorm mountains
their future in the back seats
asleep at five a.m.
the five that is not happy hour, but
made of and for vigilance
the sky was falling
and hadn’t far to go, and still
hasty, arrogant vehicles hurtled
past them into whiteout
while they softly moved, telling
stories you tell at that hour
don’t dwell too long
on the wrecks by the roadside
they passed these by, speaking
limbic language of conviction
that this road would carry them
through the high danger
to hope, the green unfurling
of the lower mainland’s promise
that sky has since fallen, leaving
only memory: in hope
she closed her eyes at last, and
he reached over, cupped her hand
she turned her palm upward
the world held, and the world goes on
all the little endings, continuo
April 25: Blue Seed Pattern, 1987
for Trish Sewell and MM
What if we stayed up all night?
This was long years before Seoul
Tokyo, beloved Kyoto
singing Daijobu! with the genki boys
down on Kawaramachi-dori
down by the hot coffee machines.
What if we walked the city?
This, after years walking
the long browed hills of the north
only the starfields above us
far away, like the spangled rest of the world.
What if we followed the night? so we stepped out
scuffed down April-grey sidewalks
creatures of northern spring, our thrift
store trench coats, Army and Navy sneakers
hands in pockets like New Romantics
but we were cold, not cool.
In Little Italy, we dared Tra Amici
hunting gelato, authentic flavour
felt the true, deep, smoky closure
around each table, these men
who owned this hour in this place.
In time, we wended back to the Bay
Station, empty now with the last train sleeping
don’t sleep in the subway, darlin’ we sang
hooting ironically, admiring the shine
of tiles in orange, grey, hard blue, too quiet.
What if we go home for tea? so we did.
Back to his place, my sister and i, like
Leonard Cohen’s Sisters of Mercy perhaps
we each held something tight from that night
something we each let go, this place
not wide awake, not a world city, just a dusty
prairie gathering of souls, those awake
contemplating the far off spangle of other worlds.
Here, it was enough to drink jasmine tea
not like any other song or story, just three friends
each cupping a warm round
serving to connect us to every conspirator ever,
and to none. We were just kids, hungry for life,
satisfied with green and flowering water
and the cheap light through blue and white
crockery, none the less mysterious for its low price.
See, he said, you can see light
through the pattern; it’s meant to mimic grains of rice.
We owl-nodded, mesmerised
and comforted by patterns
in pale blue, like every night before or since.
April 24: Anne of Abegweit
On twitter i read that
Lucy Maud Montgomery was
- did i know? –
a Canlit fan. In addition to Anne
she championed
emerging voices.
How bout that? the red headed
orphan created to stand as metaphor
for new, young, bold…
I wonder what she’d make of us
the current state of Canlit fuss
over gatekeeping, erasure, sexual
assault and the old boys club
which, to be fair, lets women in.
I’d like to think LMM
would write an Anne
today, who’d stand
arms akimbo, in front of them
cry Shame! to those who’d
still, still silence those of us
who are other than #Canlit
but then again
resonant orphan, made
to stand for terra nullius
no known ancestry
everything invention
Anne never knew
she lived in Abegweit.
how bout that?
April 23: Elevensie
Poets
fiercely brown
take the stage
stand for us, deliver
pride
years
frustrating labourious
bloom here now
young voices, breathing fire
alive.
This is for the indigenous poets, nigh on 20 of them, who graced the stage at Studio 96 tongiht. I remember 1991, four of us, Marilyn Dumont, Peter Cole, Molly Chisaakay and I, like some kind of novelty.
April 22: Georgic for Tea
Reconciliation
that teabag of a word
so often squeezed now yields
dull, flavourless dishwater
Truth is a bushier thing
labrador tea persistent, or
wild mint, creeping along
under the lawn, always mindful
pungent, healing, harsh, unruly
asking nothing of you but
space to grow, and show
however unmeasurable
the longer root’s deep flavour.
April 21: Accidentals
is there a statute of limitations?
past when it is just noise in the attic
your words
the edifice of friendship untended
loses its hold
shingles blow away, in creeps the sky
something like a song sighs outward
those riddles i did not press you for
your words
roman ruins, serpent mounds
cities underwater, path from heart to heart
perhaps some archeology can
uncover and classify
faultlines, roads, accidentals
April 20: Lift
i was tired, in the 90s
when a professor who
had a job in mind for me
brought me first to the symphony
since we are both Polish
we are both Polish, but
he spoke easily of family outings
to concert halls of his youth
we sang in the farm kitchen
i sang to gentle cows
then the lights went down
the song sprang up, and with it
my heart. oh, the blaze
and around me, blase or blue
sophisticates side-eyed or forebore
to notice
i could not laugh out loud, nor tell
my date how i’d diagnosed
symphony face
and seemed, sadly, immune
or incapable of such sangfroid
such internality of attention
such stillness, i could not
each cymbal crash shattered me
the strings pulled my own heart
i was knocked giddy by the sound
knocked back
to late 80s cruising, in the four door buick
with my little sis and our roommate
Haydn blaring, laughing at our own
nerdly braggadoccio
we lit ourselves on the music’s flame
it hasn’t changed. i haven’t mastered
internality, stillness, i cannot mute
this thundering idiot drum.
April 19: Creation
they say, star woman fell
down here because
she was curious
they say, the star sisters
still watch us
they say, when star woman fell
it was a humble one
who gave all he had to reach
enough earth for her landing
they say, the humble ones
still watch us
they say, the turtle carries
on her shell the sacred
geometries, the formula
for moon and time
they say, this is still
turtle island
they say, if you listen
the song goes on, with space
and time for your voice
sing, they say.
—
April 18: Ert
my sister was intense
people who knew her
don’t know how to talk to me
when it gets lonely, them assuming
i’m okay, when they’ve seen
she wasn’t, after all, i fall back
on ert.
things that matter are small
the jewels of our times
were wild laughter
you only get
if you’ve been in the trenches
whatever the war; the particular
action. we all know this beast
that has been rolling us
down for generations, but each
of us, of course, also has
the only things
only those who were there
in-joke
touchstone
ridiculous glory
of language reduced
by logic, pushed up against the wall
if this, then that.
so, ert.
this is the love we carry
how we move on.
This poem used the prompt in our 30/30 group, to employ a neologism (made up word). The one below also responds to the prompt of creating a nocturne.
April 17: Nocturne: Tiny Now
She is tiny now, my mother
and jokes in the morning, when
her teeth aren’t in, how she whistles
like a little bird. And i want to reach
back to the nights when
she brought the piglets in
laid them in the woodstove oven
so tiny, but she believed in them
and in that warm cradle, the spark
of life rekindled in them. How
do i cradle her? now
she is so tiny, softly
drawing nearer to
the Western Door.
This poem won’t do it.
This poem is for me
a piglet grown, with
my astonished snout
of discovery, how the power
that built a world for me still
reveals itself, blue
slight, soft, tiny.
April 16: Turtle Island Easter Prayer
O Lord, renew me
this body, this heart, this
mind this soul
O you Good Spirits
you Saints who intercede
budge aside, if you don’t mind
just enough to let me speak
to Manitowak i do not know
whose names and specialities
were not passed down
Holy Mother, some of your children
are standing in the way, be kind
and thank them for the good they do
then bid them take a seat
so Manitowak i did not meet
may step lightly forward lightly
shine and tell me, shall we
forgive each other? You, for stepping
back when these pushier gods
came caterwauling
me, for not knowing Your names
that i might intercede on your behalf
co-creation being the law, and show
that you are as loved and wanted
as needed as ever.
Are we children? Are we squabbling
over toys? Or clamouring for our
Mother’s love? Great Mother say
you love us all; Heavenly Father
that is the word, by which, if you
only say it, i am healed.
i stand at a crossroads, and Yous
and i know, this is ever so
today, let me choose a good road.
Let me walk in the shine of all
Your loves, reconciled. Down here
i have work to do.
April 15: Path
the Triple Goddess reveals
Her path, maid to mother
to crone, again to maid, and on
the spiral, fractal motion
turn the egg in your hand, draw
the line from one thing to another
you find you have to pause
reverse direction, reflect
like a trip to the fridge,
fridge to stove, stove to table
table to fridge, each
movement complete, can
imply the next, turn
and turn again, wholy holy.
Kyrie Eleison: Good Friday, Anno Domini 2017
Kyrie Eleison
there are too many of them, Lord
created out of slipshod schools
and cruel indifferences
Christe Eleison
they are too hungry, Lord
who has washed their feet?
or held them when they cried
and told them, you are not alone?
Kyrie Eleison
They are too formed of evil things and lies
their heart is so beyond my reach
as they burn the innocent, damn the lot
Good Friday
has never acceded to consumerism
you cannot sell this kind of sacrifice
Mother of God
why is it women and children first?
who cannot run away, who would be fools
enough to cradle the generals, crying
my son, my son, you too are my son
All My Relations
All My Relations
All My Relations
All
Kyrie Great Mother
Love Come Love Come Love Come.
April 13: Whisper
where are they now? those tales
of thieves uneasy on their hoards
thinking themselves dragon lords
but lacking inner fire
they are not Ghenghis Khan
his standard and his bow
they are not Charlemagne
nor Alexander horseback, glorious
they are not Napoleon
nor Joan of Arc
they promise no unifying light
this is not that moment
but bring out those tales now
they may be all we have
tales of tiny heroism, whisper
if you tell them, whisper
April 12: middle age
this brown guitar
pickguard discarded
trim shattered
fingerboard shaded
with fingertip habits
this is what usage writes
upon every body
and they say the wood
grows ever more resonant
songs and tones chosen
songs and tones
April 11: performance, review
we go to the theatre
i cannot stay awake
though onstage
they shout out tales of woe
decry crimes, and plead
humanity under cover
of all those invented differences
culture religion language land
my friend wonders
what do westerners make of this?
i can only tell her, i do not know
i’m a fourth world woman
and i fell asleep, no disrespect
just decades
of weary witness
and the aftermath, i cannot
take more onboard sometimes
have to little disbelief to suspend
so i hang heavy in my seat in the dark
what carried me? music
the singer in the corner
fed me beauty
stranger than the very same
beauty that carries us
everywhere.
April 10: News of the World
the dogs wait, apparently
dozing, but reading
the current of my mind
and ready
we walk out into the scented day
i see shades of brown, grey, water
they read, tree by tree
so much news
illegible to me
April 9: Spring Fields of Alberta
we look down on
grey dun brown tan
taupe beige
plain
unrolling majesty
look down
April 8: uncloak
what, uncloaked
do you look like?
unencumbered
by the need to play nice
laying down the stated intent
of making family
what face would you wear?
what
lies
beneath
—
ams
April 7: Toddler TourGuide
wahoo!
that kid at the front of the bus
has us all summed up
all the otherwise cynical
drawn in to
unflagging joy
through woods
up mountains
coming from thousands of miles
to uncurl in his damp chubby hand
outflung – wahoo!
ams
April 6: Rule
“you just have to find a rule for the moon”
- Barrett, concerning crescent shapes in fractal tiling patterns
but that’s the thing
about the moon
she is the rule, sets the precedent
comes around, goes around
tidal, prime
terrifying, unconstrained
to be lunatic
and yet the moon’s rule
is inexorable faithful
repetition of the pattern
nothing random
absolutely disciplined
perhaps madness is
as rectified
and we simply fail
to see the pattern.
April 5: Landing
for Catherine Sewell, who walked on at 39,
or else would have been 55 this day
would she have laughed?
i met our old colleague in Superstore
talk turned to landing kids
so as to break that trope of Indian
comes to City and skids out of control into
alcohol, crime and life as a social issue.
this woman had no idea, her mouth fell open
at the news that we grew up in the bush
outdoor toilet, wild meat, woodstove
in her view my sister was city born
a jetplane
lifting and landing, smooth, assured
you craft your life.
April 4: Air on a Backyard
it reeks a hirsute, ursine pong
this tell-tale scatter
winter’s long dark sloth
let hang the discipline
of twice daily walks
and now, the harvest
still, over my rake and bucket
memory ties me to other springs
childhood’s filthy innocence
mucking through barnyard streams
setting channels, racing
chips of wood, as invested
as any punter in our champion
cheering, jeering, singing, free
this earth’s small, pungent pleasures
—
April 3: Some Snow
some snow
some sun
some cloud
wind
perishable
new bud
new shoot
elsewhere, bullets
perishable
harbour
on the boat to scorpion island
he tries to make a connection
his weather
incomprehensible
army service, odd knuckles
the way he swung her
with her hair loosed down
the night they met
impossible as the hour’s new foal
her dance is knees and possible sliding
weather
some snow
some sun
she will tie that hair up
in the morning
take the boat with him
to scorpion island
keep her eyes off his knuckles
not think of them, nor him, for years
not until the night she tries
to understand how
she decided
one foot skimming, mid-slide
—
April 2
—
tapping
today, woodpecker
in bright morning
employs power
pole as medium
sacred morning
sacred morning
sacred morning
song, do i serve?
soles on frozen grass
ragged breath, dogs
making mandala with
my lurching pace
even uneven frosted grass
carries the word, declaiming
sacred morning
sacred morning
sacred morning
—
April, Fools
we are fools for springtime
however much we try
to make out like we’re cool
with winter’s icy glares
it’s in the throat
burned open by cold fire
is not the same as
this lush thrumming
in our own bodies
as in the willows
is it time, then?
do we take up the song
and give voice
as generously as birds
sing to bring dawn
if we are here for any purpose
at all, let us sing now
lift up our hearts
and commit the ceremony
each season demands
a song for spring
a fool’s errand.
—
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