Chain of association

When I have this thought –

‘why do I always say these things’

In my mind I’m in the Ottawa Public Library Main Branch

Near the northwest door way of the second floor, standing near the tables by the stacks

Looking out into the atrium

It’s the early 2000s

Maybe the earthy 1970s tilework is still there

That I ran my fingers along the ridges of in the 1980s on the way to the children’s section

It smells like carpet and books and maybe body odour, faintly

And fluorescent lights, but they are gentle, it’s like a cave

why there?

for these thoughts

‘why do I say these things that embarrass me later’

‘why am I so strange’

Now I’m in the foyer, the ceiling so high above me, pushing through a metal turnstile in 1987;

small, with my mother, who is young also

Now I’m in the auditorium, in 2002, watching a political documentary

Now I’m down the street, at a drugstore with big glass windows at the base of a skyscraper, buying highly reflective lip gloss, in 1999

Now I’m on the bus, bundled up in winter clothes, heading home from high school, down Bank Street, in 1997,

thinking

‘why am I like this’

I could roam my home town in my mind, street for street, for ever and ever

Endlessly asking myself why I am myself

But instead I'll open my eyes.

Training Day

 the sun that shone on trembling furred creatures 

scrabbling for seeds, running from claws

shines warm and golden through perfectly clear window, 

sealed against storms

shines on our trembling souls, our furrowed brows 

quivering anxiously between virtue and habit

the void and the star

feathered shadow

under glittering star

you still and soothe my soul

gazing into the night

through glass

motionless

you will leap away

momentarily

and I will wish I gazed into you

more deeply

Peace, the White Whale

after ahab put his hand in the sperm bucket (a jest at first, and then a remembering)

and ishmael's fingers brushed and

ahab's heart slowed for a time

lost in that white pearl sea

whispering liquid, stopping time

after, ahab still tied himself to the mast, and stared at the horizon

but it was the pearl of the sky that called him, more and more

not distracted him - he would see the whale in his soul before he'd miss him in the water - but rested that soul

the soul preparing for the whale

one day the white whale swam right in

into the pearl on the horizon

it was morning. ahab shouted to slow, to stop.

the pequod sat for a long time in the white hazy sun and timid blue. men became curious and worked more slowly. the whale came closer.

the whale didn't look angry. he just looked like a whale. ahab saw the scars, and the lances. the whale's eye was placid. he had never seen so still a ship. it was not a ship anymore, since it was not moving him, rushing him, hurting him. it was something else.

ahab asked to be let down from the mast and had the boat lowered. he was helped in. men rowed, spooked men who felt close to death. the boat bumped against the whale's tremendous flank. the whale was still, feeling no more than the brush of a wing on his back.

ahab ordered the boat to stay. the men worked the oars to keep them by the flank. stubb lit his pipe. the smoke smelled like nantucket, like home.

the boat didn't move away from the whale for a long time. finally ahab stood awkwardly and leaned back from the boat, trying to lean against the whale. the whale didn't react, because he felt it only as another brush of the wing.

ahab felt the cool and the warm, the soft and the hard, the weight and the lightness of the whale. he tasted salt, he smelled the sea. he felt the sun on his face, and the damp on his back.

suddenly the whale began to move. it was sounding time. the whale needed to go down again, to eat, to sleep, to swim, to live, to be.

ahab put his one foot on the edge of the unsteady boat while his men looked alarmed. now he was teetering between the boat and the slowly moving whale, on one foot. the space between boat and whale became a slit, a crevice and then a chasm. all was pearl and milky foam beneath.

nay, said ahab, as the men reached for oars, to keep the boat alongside

nay

he slipped into the milk of the sea

down the warm breast of the leviathan

his last sight was the sun

she released him from any promise

the whale sounded

to eat, to sleep, to swim, to live, to be.

158 Vauxhall Bridge Road

my little hideout

my glass and light bubble

if I open a window, i'll feel fresh morning air and hear a few early voices

the neighbours don't know me

they speak in a different accent

I retreat here when I'm not drifting these city streets

i'm bringing more ferns inside

every day

a few books and pillows

a low white bed

a thick navy duvet

i can smell the thames when it's windy

i brought someone here the other night

but he is long gone

the evenings are warm and long and bittersweet

i am alone in the honey sunshine 

of dusk

Bluejay Aesthetics

 floofed jays preening in 

the hedge; ball of dun tum turns

bright blue in flight

Squirrel Highway

Fat and wet. Prolonged

eye contact. He pauses his

Rainy run. Squirrel highway.

november haiku

 rainy November; 

collie, yellow-brown and white

mirrors leaves and snow

first day of winter haiku

 window cat watches

cardinal in the dawn moon

snow; hunger season

memory

 A still and yellow 

autumn woods, I dreamed of you

and found my way in

my magic

just because none of you ever saw me

even though I did all i could to reveal my magic

doesn't mean I don't have it …

because oh, i have it

of course you were never obligated to love me

but i wish my magic wasn't so distributed

it goes where you go

Spring colours

The moon occupies the exact centre of my horizon

Gauzy bands of purples, pinks, blues (robin's egg, cerulean, deep dark gray purple blue), delicate pink and shots of gold layer the sky 

Over the first greens and yellows that ever coloured a tree (or so it seems, every spring) budding on the trees of the cemetery below

Longfellow articulates flowers, night, sleep, angels

Leads me to rest and then shocks me with death

Ghostly figures of the soul

And the bright clarion call of last days

Or the bright springs of his today and mine

I read a poem, and then look at the sky

East, south, west

It's a cold spring this year

Winter moment

Jacketed dachshund
Wienering through the snow

The Forest

I fell in love with you

On the day half the forest disappeared

In this little patch of woods behind the bikepath

Back when the forest was complete

Right on what is now the border between tall slim trees

And stubby muddy expanses

Was the place I first felt the Mother

God

Reach out her hand to soothe

Another broken heart of mine

Many years ago

As I lay with my face pressed to the forest floor

Now when I call on Her to guide me

Again through the terrible love for

A disappearing man

I remember letting you, a stranger, see my tears

For the violated forest

Naively assuming that men honour forests and hearts

forever

The things that disappear through men’s fears and women’s tears

The sacred slaughtered groves

I call on Her still

She is far greater than the stranger by the road

Or the clear cut strewn with garbage

She is the new green leaves

And the sky in the spring

And -

and, again

Oh...

here it comes

poetry!

flinally

after months of self-deception

here it comes

the poetic wave where

my heart bursts with love for myself

and a thousand memories of love

flash in

far 

from the past

snowy night on King st outside the Starlight Night Club

the sky glittering

with his head on my shoulder

or just

us all

roving in high heeled crews

feeling old

when we were so, so young

or,

perhaps, in the middle age of young

too old to be young

but with no idea what was in store for us

how long life can sometimes be

(if we're lucky)

and how lonely it can get

that moment in 2008 

at 2 am at the jane bond

when I thought, my life is just going to be a 

bad canadian indie movie

and whatever happens,

i will end up here again

alone with a friend under the neon lights

or wandering home in the snow

with her,

my lost sister

and all that orbitted around us

from the first plaforms I bought at the Rideau Centre

with her

and the walks we took along the canal

or late nights coming home from the Revolution nightclub

past Macdonalds

or tears in the hallway

all that, 

so much

from 1998 to 2009

at least

and a bit before, 

and a bit after

before: alone, in the domestic wild corners of Ottawa, the edges of the river

the tree by the highway

after: somewhere in Waterloo, alone, beloved trees and rolling hills 

the highway that sounds like a river

and the chronicles of narnia

long winter walks

birds in the snow, bright red or yellow

and of course,

him

for a while

all this poetry buried within me

standing next to you at church in our best

hoping to be that nice mennonite girl

well,

i am old,

yes

older than you

wouldn't you like to see the world through my eyes?

there is so much to see 

but i have a past too

when I was your age

i was listening to this song

at the grocery store, maybe,

or at the jane bond

at 2 am, 

waiting, waiting for that person to love

and then

going home alone

you've probably gone home now too

from the place I would have been standing next to you

and i chose to stay inside

listening to this song

and remembering what it means

to be me

black eyed Susan's

when I saw those

Black-eyed Susans

by the highway

blowing in the wind

and i didn’t care if you ever saw them

and if they ever brought you the same joy 

they bring me

i knew i was fucking free

the grand river in elora

The cedar trees hang over the grand river
clinging to limestone cliffs
water flows below the land i sit on
carved out over years

spiders build webs over the ever-flowing river
while giant carp nose the fallen tree, nibbling it's cedar fronds
in the dark

across the river,
two white swans come along from the bridge to downtown
they stop in front of a house backing the water
as if conferring
finally one climbs up the bank and walks over to a wide dish
and eats for a long time
while her partner paddles the water, looks around
finally he concedes and climbs that bank
eat from the bowl with his mate

when she fills, she comes down to the bank and jumps into the water
he follows soon after
and they paddle back towards the bridge

i lay back and look up at the cedars
while birds have a shouting contest in the trees
and the light fades

childhood

I want to shrink to exist

Solely in the broad, brown west entrance stairwell of Connaught School

Where the primary kids climbed to their classrooms

And we took piano lessons in the rooms to the side

 

Between the playground where I got stuck on a skipping rope I was using to climb a slide

And no one helped me and I lay there for ages as the yard cleared

Until I finally realized I could just climb myself up

 

And the classroom where I want to paste all the things

And was afraid of everyone except my teacher

And then of her, when he told me to dial down the pasting

 

Ashamed explorer, scared achiever, trembling endless will to master

I want to live in the stairwell alone

Before, after and within my humiliations

And the feeling of being alone in a crowd

Here, I am just alone

And I can remember all the books read to me

And the books I’m going to read

Saturday

Could learn about medicinal plants via the TransitionTown group

at Bechtel Park on Saturday morning

Or could lie in the sun there and listen to the water bubble

Smell the damp earth and cedar

And empty my thoughts

Strange Street

A square sloping lawn with ancient trees

Down on Strange Street

With a mysterious art deco power station in the distance

And then the stream, hidden

All this, just before Victoria Street

Where the road opens out to bright sun again

 

This was once the further reaches of my journey south

My secret park

When Kitchener was only mine