Death Tango for Three: the Podcast

Last winter, Argentinian born poet and art historian Luciana Erregue-Sacchi invited two writers – myself and the fabulous Nermeen Youssef – to join her on a quest, to encounter, perform and respond to Paul Célan’s masterpiece, the Todesfuge/Death Tango. Over the course of an incredible night, we shared our hearts and minds, resonating like bells…

Peach Blossom (after Li Po)

Originally posted on O at the Edges:
Peach Blossom (after Li Po) Ask why I stay on the green mountain and I smile but do not answer; my heart rests. A peach blossom floats downstream – Heaven and earth, apart from this world. ? The transliteration on Chinese-poems.com is as follows: ? Ask me what…

Ode to Allan R

Another perfect day. A great day for madcap rehearsals for the massive community theatre show. But was it the power or the water utility responsible? I don’t remember, and the people i’d ask are either dead or otherwise out of touch. Anyway, the town had no water. No water is no big deal as far…

St. Eugene: Not a Poetry Video (yet)

Here are the gates. Beside them, an image from an older time, another purpose. Here is the gorgeous architecture. And beside it, tribute to the children brought here. Building and children face East, where the sun rises steadfast over blue mountains. Here is the message, the new mission. And here, the window of the room…

Busy Bees Salute

To be ten, is to be at the crest of a wave the best of your days have led up to this height where the view of the future is open and brave and you’ve grown past your fear of the night. These young girls, in their tender years already wise, for their fathers survived…

Coming to Canada: A Gardener’s Meditation, Part 1

A garden is a long work. Yes, you can turn soil, plant seeds, harvest in that same fall. In that sense, to grow a garden is a simple task, unskilled labour; weed a little, watch the water, wait on the season, and done. Gardening, though, is more than this. It is the communion of human…

Practice

This is not the garden yet, but a beginning, seventeen years worth work submitted to wills and whims of climate. Mid-April and the ground only now in view, shawls of snow lying about like dirty underwear after a particularly long night. The mud, the mud, it’s all mud. Who knows what survives? One thing for…

Yevshan, a song goes on singing

now take the sage — yevshan — now breathe it in yevshan yevshan you call from it a story of your own people far away an eastern light, far grasslands yevshan yevshan yevshan your silver leaves bend shining slight arms embrace the wind your sharp breath breaks the bonds of winter roots endure and flourish…

Song of Praise (resung)

In Nass Valley, one shaft of sun lights two red and white toadstools in damp moss, luminous deeper in cathedral, wingéd ugly fungi, colours i wouldn’t admit there, i and all that i am, no less than the stinkhorn and oozing mud sing the brown and wrinkled, slick and loathsome, what i would not dare…

Shimmer

Who remembers, jingles with the buzz; if you hear 1981, do you see those small tables? jostled round by young sophisticates, and here, one northern bush kid, easy tan of metis (years before capital M and definitions that don’t matter in the shimmer of the music). This girl is 16, down in The City to visit her sister…

Spirit Mothering

  I was 23 when I met my spirit mother. I’d buried my father and my older brother, gone to university, gotten put on probation, answered an ad that seemed the answer to my prayer for something meaningful to do with that year, some path that mattered. The path led to Mexico, to a teaching…

Gone to Starlight

She is gone from this place, another great woman. We loved her, as one loves a whirlwind. Lifted now into the sky realms, her path remains in our hearts, leads on into wilderness. There is so much more to say, but for now, farewell and love to the incomparable Elke Blodgett