A Poet on Adelaide West

Goodbye to Adelaide West

2011-02-11T00:13:00.004-05:00

        This was a good project, but try as I might to revive it, it's just gone. It's just time to let it go.

        It's not the end for me though. Please check out my new blog, the Coquelicot Projects. It's not specifically a poetry blog, but I have a sneaking suspicion some new poems will pop up there from time to time.

        Thanks for reading and commenting.

What's your current personal project (it doesn't have to be a big thing, just something you do for you)?

Rites of girlhood

2010-08-19T10:19:00.002-04:00

earrings and nail polish
2 for $6 and 5 for $10
it's all for us
and the shoplifting 16-year-olds
who belong here

Katie takes an aisle like a pew
familiar in these temples of girlish rite
while I thumb awkwardly through necklaces
like pages of scripture from a foreign faith

what was I doing while every other girl
was learning to apply eyeliner?
probably still watching cartoons, picking up frogs,
still trying to flirt with boys
by taking their things and hiding them
I can only hold my eye obediently open for liner
when I'm drunk
so instead I scribble witty dialogue
in the corners of my eyes

and buy cheap nail polish
that dries to a warty finish
at the tip of my fingers
a bright blue swamp
a canvas full of crayon

Photo by James Lee

How much do you fit into gender stereotypes? Are you a girly girl or a tomboy? Are you a macho man or Mr. Sensitive? Or are you pretty androgynous?

Blues for adult friendships

2010-08-13T10:55:00.004-04:00

Each year we know
more people than we've ever known
and yet our parties grow
smaller.

It used to be
just both being under ten and knowing
who the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were
was enough to unite us
in the big bad boring adult world
of line-ups and office parties.
Just swimming in that ocean
made you take note of others your size
and move with them
like a school.

As an adult, it's hard to keep friends
who don't share your little fishbowl.

Maybe it's just me
throwing up my cake so I can eat it again.
Do I really want more childhood best friends,
or do I want friends like my stuffed toys
who stopped talking with the game ended,
their mouths full of stuffing
waiting for me to speak their words?
Do I want a friend like my sweet old dog
who loved me but knew his place,
never followed me to school?

I'm a dirty mutt
who barks to come back into your heart
then whines to be let out again.

Photo by Jon Hanson

Why do you think it's harder to make and keep friends as an adult than it was as a child? Is it because we're so much busier? Because adult friendships are more complex? Because children have more in common than adults do?

Ghosts

2010-08-10T09:58:00.005-04:00

At the back of my pink filing cabinet.

Don't call the shaman yet:
everything I've ever given up on
still fits in a letter-sized hanging folder,
bloated as a floating corpse,
labeled OUTDATED PROJECTS.
Like a vampire coffin, secret
in the basement of an abandoned house.

They only rise at night, of course.

If I lie awake
past midnight on a weeknight
I can hear them over the snore
of all the choices I've made,
shuffling their papers like feet,
rattling their drawer like heavy chains.

I could silence them.

If I could stop telling their stories
to friends around campfires.
If I could stop trying to resurrect them,
stop digging up their skins
and wearing them out to dinner
like a ring from a failed engagement.

This poem was written in response to a Poetry Prompt on Big Tent Poetry.

Aren't they cute?? Photo by dizznbonn

What's haunting you? An unfinished project? A mistake you made? A soured friendship? A chance you didn't take?

Shoes

2010-08-06T10:36:00.005-04:00

Flung up to hang by their laces
from the power line,
marking spaces like tombstones.
Shoes with black bottoms
leaving streaks on the gymnasium floor.
They won't be allowed back.
Shoes flapping
their torn soles on the pavement
like lips.
Old shoes
with stories worn into them
in creases and cracks,
colour worn off their toes
like burnt grass.
New shoes, white
as a fresh sheet of paper.
Baby shoes.
Shoes
with the laces undone,
waiting and snickering.
Shoes with attitude,
high-tops like a popped collar.
Shoes walking tracks
through the mud
like fingerprints.
A trail from baseball field
to broken window.
Fancy shoes
that only come out at weddings
kicked off under the table
when the dancing starts.
Shoes cramped in boxes
at the back of a closet.
Shoes on sale.
Shoes clicking
a clock beat down the hall.
Women's shoes: beautiful
high-heeled iron maidens.
Men's shoes: black and anonymous.
Shoe with an empty stomach,
hungry for a foot.
Shoe searching for its match.
Shoes
with cleats
taking bites of grass
and spitting them out.
Shoes full of baking soda,
stink burnt into them.
Shoes reinvented
with neon pink laces,
song lyrics scrawled in thick sharpie.
Shoes in a pile
by the doorway
having their own party.

This poem was written in response to this week's Poetry Prompt on Big Tent Poetry. It was also inspired by the poem Crows by Doug Anderson.

Photo by Nick Wiebe

What do you think your shoes say about you?

Martha Stewart's one night stand

2010-07-30T10:32:00.003-04:00

Before she answers, she glances at my fingernails. They're clean and trimmed, so she says, "Yes, I would like to come home with you." And I'm glad, because I often take women back to my apartment, but never a lady.

Upstairs, the first thing I notice is her smell. Like clean, folded laundry. Like vanilla and cinnamon baking under her skin. Like a rose garden through muslin curtains. Like white weddings and country Christmases.

I unbutton her shirt, unzip her pants. Her matching underwear is lavender with one yellow rose embroidered on the base of a bra strap, one on the front of her panties. She said she did them herself. Beneath the panties, her hair is short and grows in a triangle like a sliver slice of pie.

She kneads me like dough. Her body bends in ribbon curls, but inside she's stiff as icing sugar. Cold like an undercooked roast.

"I'm sorry," she says, after a long while. "Sometimes when I try to make things perfect I just can't... let go."

I tell her imperfection is my specialty. What can we do to make this less perfect? Here, I know, where are our socks? Put them back on. No, no, you take mine and I'll take yours. Don't you think the little flower border at the top flatters my calves? Thank God you didn't wear pantyhose instead.

She laughs until tears shine on her cheek like tinsel, and then she can let go.

This poem was written in response to a Poetry Prompt on Big Tent Poetry.

Martha Stewart's Marble Cupcakes by CupCakeQueen

Do you consider yourself a perfectionist? How do you know when to say This needs more work or Whatever, this is good enough?

Seventeen

2010-07-29T10:06:00.003-04:00

You swear you're no happier than me
but Seventeen, at least you have dreams.
Real dreams, good ones,
not just sensible two-year plans
watered down with more prudence.

Seventeen, has no one ever told you
about the finite number of dreams, like eggs,
about dream menopause?
That's why the sleep of the old
is thin as eyelid skin,
all their dreams bled out,
their minds pregnant with memories.

The Elephant Celebes by Max Ernst

Would you rather have dreams or memories? Really think about it -- the concreteness of memories gives a certain kind of satisfaction, but the limitless possibility of dreams is pretty seductive.

pigeons

2010-07-28T09:38:00.003-04:00

a subway car of newspapers
like a sidewalk of pigeons
their tattered pages folded like wings
their feathers smudged black with cheap ink

each bird lands in a hand
and sings a tale
so touching or scandalous or practical
the reader falls frozen in a stare
mouths pursed in pouts or kisses
eyes scanning back and forth
like searchlights

Photo by Alan D. Wilson (Creative Commons license)

How do you feel about the desemination of news these days? Does the quickness and accessibility of information make up for the large amount of biased and lazy reporting that goes on?

a quiet weekend

2010-07-26T10:13:00.002-04:00

soothing as a hot bath
mundane as folded laundry
calm as sunbeams on a cool bedsheet

productive, in a strange way
doing things you don't write on to-do lists
relationships are like garments
we need to wash, care for, be always waiting
with a threaded needle in hand
mindful of tiny tears that become holes

sink scrubbed, cat cuddled
thoughts ordered and filed
body plugged into bed to charge
with my cell phone
and all my aching worries
filled in like cavities

on the Monday morning train
my mind is a pool so still
I can watch the fish below

Photo by Hardyplants

What kind of weekend did you have? Was it the kind of weekend your wanted/needed?

How to ruin a nice moment

2010-07-22T10:20:00.003-04:00

Doubt is like a lying child:
you know you just can't trust it
but you have to, sometimes.
Back in high school we used to fight all the time
(forgotten phone calls, he said she saids)
Only years later did I realize it was just
my boredom manifested as an entity
like Santa Claus, a god
that shapes the little lives of mortals.
I'm not sweet stupid sixteen anymore, so
I carry a thermometre pressed to my heart,
red marks on my ring finger where I pinch
over and over to see if it's real.
I'll smile when sunlight coaxes me
and sigh and ask Why
can't it always be happy times?
though a wiser part of me knows
I need the sad times
to appreciate times like these.

This poem was written in response to the Poetry Prompt on Big Tent Poetry.

Photo by David R. Tribble
I didn't know what image to put with this, so enjoy some clouds and sunlight.

Are you the kind of person who listens more to their heart or head? If you listen to both at different times, how do you decide when to listen to one or the other?

knitting club

2010-07-21T10:48:00.002-04:00

I chose my pattern quickly and wisely
my needle knitted two purled two while others
were still chewing lips choosing colours
that's often how it is for me
learning that feels like remembering
smugness my poisonous old friend

needles clicking in chants meditative fingers
counting purls like rosary beads
comparison a temptation

the fool who chose a pattern
complex and delicate as a spider web
dropped too many sticky stitches
her sweater like a beaten face
her fingers like wild dogs learning
to pull a sled in team

the fool who laughed in the face of instruction
set to work like a chef sniffing steam
adding a pinch of this dash of that
made a long scarf that begins in a muddled mess
and ends in a feast of inspiration

I have fewer dropped stitches
and fewer colours

Photo by Pål Berge

Can you think of a time you felt sure you knew the "right" or "best" way to do something, only to wonder at the end if maybe you had it all wrong? Alternatively, can you think of a time you did something the "wrong" way and were glad of it in the end because of the experience or unexpected outcome?

Poetry is cheaper than therapy

2010-07-16T10:02:00.005-04:00

took a two-week vacation
from processing emotions to study
textbook terms of a new job
names procedures circadian rhythms
life changes like magnets mixing up
the signals to my heart's compass
times like these I know to keep
that needled stone in my pocket
and just walk straight awhile
head down

now everything's piled up
on my bed like unsorted mail
tangled like extension cords
tv shows caught in my sex
life snagged on my calendar
mixed with my family clogging
the pipe I pass through
into dreaming

my bloated brain has a stomach ache
my heart hunger pains

I'm back. And I think I need to be.

Photo by Bashereyre
Published under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 license.

How do you keep yourself "centered"? Or, to put it another way, what do you do to settle and feel more like yourself during a big change?

Farewell to Adelaide West

2010-07-04T23:12:00.004-04:00

Hanging up the phone with a sigh,
she says: “It's terrible how I've stopped caring
now that I know I'm leaving.”
I can tell by her voice, like a singer
wavering breathlessly at the end of a long note,
by the layers of scars
on her tongue.

I thought I felt the same way, ready
to shed this job like a winter coat
when the first bud opened

and yet I find myself
marking all the pathways I've learned
so newcomers can navigate the modes,
clearing little spaces here in this cluttered soil
so the new roots will grow deep.

The timing is right;
this job was a rose I cut
before the petal's edges had time
to brown.

After almost two years, I'm finally leaving Adelaide West. No more reception work for me – as of tomorrow I'm starting a new job using many of the skills I enjoy and actually went (and am still going) to school to learn.

This blog was born out of a deep personal need to do something creative and constructive for every workday that felt otherwise unfulfilling. With the artistic work involved in my new job (and, I assume, less time to burn during the workday), I wonder if I'll have the same desire and creative energy to write daily poems. On the other hand, writing poetry has become a kind of ritual and lifestyle for me, and perhaps a change of scenery will provide greater inspiration.

I will try to maintain my personal commitment to writing daily poems here. Although I'm no longer literally a poet on Adelaide West, I think I'll always keep the name as a reminder of how even the grey cement of a dreary office building can be tilled into fertile creative ground with a little effort.

Photo by A. Barra under a Creative Commons license

How important is self-expression to you? What is your primary method of self-expression (writing, blogging, participating in forums, talking to people, etc.)?

G20, Toronto

2010-06-29T10:23:00.007-04:00

Saturday
There is a black bruise
on the sweet fruit of protest,
and the city chokes on its bitterness.
Storefronts are smashed and cop cars burn
-- not universal symbols, but words
that mean different things
in different languages.
The medium swallows the message.
Sunday
Beating their batons, the police
chase protestors through flower beds
in Queen’s Park, where politicians make
laws that are first broken, then spoken.
One hundred citizens charged like beasts,
so seven hundred will sleep in cages.
Civil rights are more fragile than people.
Monday
Police still walk in crowds along Queen Street
where smashed windows have been covered up
with wooden boards like political excuses.
When I pass them on my way to lunch,
my mouth can’t decide which way to turn
(a smile feels like a permission slip,
a frown a kick to the groin)
so I just look away.
A broken window is easier to fix than a promise.

Photo by Commodore Gandalf Cunningham

(At the risk of starting up another G20 debate in another comment section) What are your thoughts on the interaction between police and protestors throughout the G20 summit and aftermath?

Toronto, days before the G20 Summit

2010-06-24T09:47:00.009-04:00

Police clump on the streets like a flighty flock of birds,
numerous and easily startled by gusts of wind
and forgotten briefcases on subway platforms.

Trains wait at their stations like planes on a runway
while the passengers spill out into the streets
to snap up cabs like falling coins.

Office buildings tremor in fear – of what? We speculate:
Car bombs? God’s wrath? Bad economic policies?
Or just awe as the living earth turns in its sleep?

The next morning, only zealous protesters and Bay Street types
walk the streets. Unlikely pairs, they ride in subway cars
like the ribs of a picked-clean roast.

For the non-Canadians: Bay Street is Canada's Wall Street.

Sorry for the lack of posting; this has been a crazy week, with or without the G20.

This poem was written in response to Monday's prompt on Big Tent Poetry.

Photo by Tomasz Bugajski, taken from BlogTO

What are your thoughts on the G20 Summit? If you live/work in Toronto, how has the Summit affected you so far?

Sight

2010-06-18T09:57:00.003-04:00

My sight grows near
in its idleness, looking at the same
common objects, familiar faces
but no longer seeing them.
This wallpaper -- a dull and muted coating
on the inside of an office's yawning mouth.
There are no glasses that can show it to me
fresh and promising, as when its creator coaxed it
into existence with a curling finger.

Some days I squint at cement,
shaggy front lawns, strain and see
that every blade of grass has washed its face,
put on strands of diamonds, crowns of rubies
to attend some fancy lawn brunch.
They tremble like lips, glittering stars in a silent sky
beside the grey yard where the buses
cough black complaints into the air.

Photo by Taro Taylor

Can you think of something generally thought to be common or plain (ie. steam from a cup of tea, rain on a window, the sound of crickets) that you find beautiful or interesting?

Gold digger

2010-06-16T11:37:00.003-04:00

Ardent pursuer,
you flattered and wooed
so I opened my heart,
though my pulse was subdued.
I sowed seeds of passion
and waited to reap:
My eyes were closed,
but I was not asleep.

At first I believed
all your beautiful lies
-- then you gazed deeper
into my purse than my eyes.
I’m slow on the surface
but quick in the deep:
My eyes were closed,
but I was not asleep.

You make it your business
to court and betray,
so I’ll see that you get
the appropriate pay.
I too can play wolf
dressed up like a sheep:
My eyes are closed,
but I am not asleep.

In Aesop's fable, the wolf was hanged

Do you consider yourself a good judge of character? Why or why not?

Parody of "The Life I Lead"

2010-06-15T12:05:00.003-04:00

I feel the pride and drive of endeavor,
like a contestant competing to proceed,
when I kick off my business heels to clean and cook meals.
How active is the life I lead!

Two nights a week, I care for my parents.
The other three, I spend with my kids.
With fees and bills I must attend, I work weekends.
How busy is the life I lead!

No time to be Canadian in twenty-ten.
My home office replaced my reading room and den.
I’m a skilled multitasker! I’m driven! I’m fit!
My social life: my interests, culture, friends
do get left a bit behind
I must admit.

When jobs and chores and family are tended,
I’ll share a moment with the man I’ve wed
and then I’ll fall into my bed and sleep like the dead.
How crazy is the life I lead!

This poem was written in response to an article in the Toronto Star called Canadians, particularly women, caught in time crunch, and is a parody of the song The Life I Lead from Mary Poppins.

My life is not nearly as hectic as this right now, but there have been times when it was and there may be times when it is again. What has been the busiest period of your life? How busy was it?

Old love

2010-06-14T12:25:00.002-04:00

His bones were crumbling columns of sand
that blew apart when she breathed, and scattered
grains across the canyon like memories.

Once, while he was sleeping, she sewed shut
the tiny tear on his temple where the nightmares broke in
with a single strand of her tawny hair.

Once, while she was sleeping, he planted seeds
in the corner of her eyes, so her sorrows
would always bring her flowers.

Photo by Dave Kellam

This poem was partially inspired by today's Think About It Mondays post on ThoseGirlsAreWild.com. So, to continue that discussion: what part, if any, do you think logic plays in love?

Squinting through a kaleidoscope

2010-06-11T10:27:00.002-04:00

We all long to be known, especially by ourselves,
so we send out sound waves from our mouths
and measure the intervals of their echoes
off the ears of our friends; we call in
loved ones like criminals for questioning
and jot notes in our diaries, hoping
they will sketch a portrait.

What we end up with is a Picasso painting,
a subject depicted from all angles and contexts.
What we end up with is a murky black, the colour of
too many shades of paint mixed together.

Photo by H. Pellikka

I've always been fascinated by how I act the same when I'm with different groups of friends, and yet my "role" changes within the context of each group. Depending on who I'm with, I'm smart or dull, outgoing or quiet, ambitious or lazy -- without ever acting any differently than I normally act. To what degree to you find your are perceived differently within different groups (including family)?

The weight

2010-06-10T11:05:00.003-04:00

To-do lists are piling up, weighing down.
Strange, how paper so light
in strips and scraps can join hands
like a chanting crowd made of solitary voices,
how altogether it has weight.

The forth little piggy built his house of paper:
bills, receipts, UPS slips, doctors’ referrals, grocery lists.
The weight of it kept the big bad wolf out
but it crushed the pig too.

Illustration by L. Leslie Brooke

What's on your to-do list right now?

Deepwater Horizon

2010-06-09T16:16:00.009-04:00

We stab the ocean and it bleeds oil.
Pelicans lick poison from their wings
along the shore, where dolphins wash up
slick and black as million dollar lies.

Pelicans lick poison from their wings
with their eyes clouded and hungry.
Slick and black as million dollar lies,
they watch, waiting to be washed clean.

With their eyes clouded and hungry
the black suits shrug their shoulders.
They watch, waiting to be washed clean.
A freckle on the ocean’s face, they say.

The black suits shrug their shoulders
as the black blood pours in barrels.
A freckle on the ocean’s face, they say,
smiling with a row of drills for teeth.

The black blood pours in barrels,
stealing sunlight from the seafloor.
Smiling with a row of drills for teeth,
we stab the ocean and it bleeds oil.

This pantoun (never written one of these before) was written in response to the weekly prompt on Big Tent Poetry

Photo from the International Bird Rescue Research Center

What current event(s) are you actively following or concerned about lately?

Spring cleaning

2010-06-08T10:54:00.003-04:00

Donate
        Full lyrics to several Spice Girls' songs
        Box of old knock-knock jokes
        Encyclopedia of Stephen King plots (good condition)
        Call and response format for Catholic mass
        Recording of Gone with the Wind
        Beatles trivial pursuit (give back to Andrew?)

Sell
        Education in Journalism (gently used)
        Education in Political Science (still in package)
        Education in Web Design (incomplete)

Garbage
Paranoia of food poisoning after eating fish
Grudges against people who were mean to me 10+ years ago

Mend
        Finger memory for various piano songs
        Ability to list all countries
        Basic math skills

Storage
        Compiled family history and stories
        Images and recordings of deceased loved ones
        Lyrics to various Raffi songs (save for children)
        Names of husband's extended family (store with travel bags)
        Memory log of big mistakes (label well)

Keep
        Memory log of happy moments (reframe, hang in foyer)
        Pocket reference of friends' life-happenings
        Sense of humour (buy travel-sized tube for purse)
        Self-confidence pills (take only one per day)
        Prank opportunity radar

Photo by Natasha C. Dunn

If you were "spring cleaning" your mind or life, what would you throw out? What would you keep?

Serenade in an empty house

2010-06-08T08:30:00.003-04:00

I either need a stage in my closet
or an arena of waving shirtsleeves,
silent and humanoid.

This will do too, chords resonating in the vacuum
of my sparse living room, muddling
clumsy fingers on smudgy keys.

In the bleachers, a fluid shadow audience, flickering
in and out of fantasies like projector light
on a whitewashed drive-in screen.

Wind too strong, channeling through
my lungs, stampeding through my throat,
trampling me flat, sometimes.

When keys turn in the door like credits rolling,
the wind slows to a calm, controlled breeze
and soon stills to silence.

I totally had this written yesterday, but Blogger was doing some kind of maintenance and wouldn't let me post it. Today's poem is still coming!

Photo by Zoran Miljkovic Joe

What do you like to do when you have the house to yourself?

gods

2010-06-04T15:20:00.008-04:00

Jennifer Aniston
O Jennifer, guardian of the hearts
of those who love adulterers, hear our prayer.
Keep watch over our boyfriends, and lead
them not into the arms of Angelinas,
but let them hold us faithfully in their minds
forever and ever.
Amen.
Lindsay Lohan
Our Lindsay, who art in rehab,
hollowed be thy name.
Because thou hath committed a multitude of sins,
both legal and social, and because thine sins
hath been written in the sacred US Weekly
thou hath been raised up as the patron celebrity
of Big Mistakes.
Preserve us from public humiliation
and shield us from bad judgment
so that our private and public lives
might forever remain separate.
Amen.
Kirstie Alley
Hail Kirstie, full of face,
Jenny Craig is with you.
Blessed are you among dieters, and blessed
are the pounds you shed and regain.
O Kirsty, goddess of weight
pray for us calorie counters now
and at the hour of lunch.
Amen.

What role or service do you think celebrities provide within society? Do you think they are modern day "gods"?

Dear skin, red and itchy

2010-06-03T10:45:00.006-04:00

Are you playing a terrorist’s game, strapping
bombs to your back, blowing yourself away
in a cloud of smoke like a speech bubble?

Are you dragging yourself home from work, screaming
at your wife over piggy bank pennies, eyes dark-circled
and temples pounding with coworker idiocy?

Are you acting up in class, throwing tantrums
like a dirty-clothed kid with a stomach full of sugar,
taking slaps on the wrist like makeshift hugs?

Are you plagued by some inexpressible strain,
a baby lying frustrated in her crib, endlessly crying,
while her parents scramble to puzzle it out?

Photo by Sarah Klockars-Clauser

People talk about "communicating" or "being in touch" with their bodies; how has your body been "speaking" to you lately, and what do you think it's been "saying"?

In the absence of cruelty

2010-06-02T14:06:00.008-04:00

Between the slated wooden shutters, a bee hums.
Andrew reaches for a tattered magazine, but
instead of rolling it into a nightstick
he curves it into a shy smile.

Gently, he ushers
the bee from the window, toward the door
like guiding the proverbial old lady across the street.
It flees, panicked, from room to room,
to the comfort of familiar light through glass,
and Andrew follows it.

Eventually, they will tire: the bee
panting on the solid ground of a window sill,
and Andrew mourning in a sigh, reaching
for a shroud of paper towel.

Inspired by Stephen King's Under the Dome.

Photo by Dominic

You don't have to answer here if you don't want to, but at least ask yourself: what's the cruelest thing you've ever done?

Woman: to Man

2010-06-01T14:46:00.003-04:00

It must be difficult to relate to someone always swept up
in an ocean of feelings – vast and deep and fluid –
when yours tend only to rotate between happy, annoyed
and drunk (another form of happiness).

The text of Woman is crowded with schizophrenic roles:
Woman as wide-hipped mother, lulling her child to sleep.
Woman as wide-eyed child, reaching for fire.
Woman swaying like a wildflower or growling like a beast.
Woman twisting the doorknob to Sin to see if it’s locked.

These roles are makeup I put on and wash off,
dresses I purchase and outgrow;
some are heavy and some are glamorous
and some have scratchy crinoline underlays
but it’s easier to contemplate my sexuality with layers
like armor against the audience of a full-length mirror
than bent over journal pages of skin with a hand mirror.

Every word and tear and motion is a costume change
and you never know which character you’re taking to bed,
but it doesn’t matter, if you like the actress.

This is not my philosophy of female sexuality; it's just something I've been thinking about.

Painting by Till Niermann

What "roles" do you feel you take on sometimes? This isn't necessarily a gender-related question.

Ten thousand hours

2010-05-31T10:33:00.006-04:00

"… ten thousand hours of practice is required to achieve the level of mastery associated with being a world-class expert — in anything. In study after study, of composers, basketball players, fiction writers, ice skaters, concert pianists, chess players, master criminals, and what have you, this number comes up again and again. Ten thousand hours is the equivalent to roughly three hours per day, or twenty hours per week, of practice over ten years. Of course, this doesn’t address why some people don’t seem to get anywhere when they practice, and why some people get more out of their practice sessions than others. But no one has yet found a case in which true world-class expertise was accomplished in less time. It sees that it takes the brain this long to assimilate all that it needs to know to achieve true mastery."

- Daniel Levitin, This is Your Brain on Music

It’s hard to defend yourself
against critical relatives, high-achieving friends
when your mouth is always full to bursting
with many-flavoured side projects, film clippings
and music notes dribbling down your chin.
Life’s too short not to order the works, even if
the resulting burger dislocates your jaw.

It’s hard to live with the heat
of peers so strong and focused like magnifying glasses.
I long to be consumed, devoured, to wake suddenly
like Robert Louis Stevenson and write feverishly
for three days, burn it up, and write it all again.

There is fever here too; I am a ravenous bee
suckling a world of flowers. These fragmented
pieces scattered haphazardly, taking over my
living room are not failures -- they are seeds
waiting ten thousand hours to bloom.

Sorry if this poem sounds kind of "boo-hoo, poor me." I'm just a little frustrated because I spent all yesterday working on one particular side project that I'm pretty focused on right now, and it's going really slowly because there are a bunch of technical setbacks. You know the feeling, I'm sure.

Photo by Alvesgaspar

Can you think of a time when you went crazy with a project and just worked obsessively on it for a period of time (even if it wasn't a particularly long period)? Alternatively, can you think of a time when you worked steadily on a project, taking small, regular bites at it over a long period of time (if you're the kind of person who works like this, I bow down to you)?

Feast or famine

2010-05-28T11:14:00.003-04:00

Spring is a rush-hour subway train
and I’m standing in it like a perched hawk hunting
for an empty seat for a square foot of personal space
or half an hour of perfect solitude.

Reminds me of nature documentaries: of eight-foot tall grass
of monkeys splashing playfully in a spring flood
of elephants drinking and feasting filling
the emptiness of the winter drought
in their wrinkled grey bellies.

I’m filling up too, on shared pitchers of beer
on conversation on scribbles in calendar squares
and I too am revisiting redefining winter.
Bloated, I’m idealizing hibernation
and forgetting the echo
of its emptiness.

Photo by Hanay

Would you rather spend the next six months in complete solitude or surrounded by other people (it can be people you like) to the point where the only time you spent alone was bathroom breaks?

Anti-poem

2010-05-27T15:01:00.002-04:00

Every lazy-ass fibre of my being rebels
against writing a poem today, so
here is an anti-poem.

Here are clichés, roses red and violets blue.
Here is my love, a blue river rushing
into a sea of overused metaphors.
Here is blatant prose chopped up
into stanzas: an undercover essay.
Here are all the ingredients in the recipe
for bad-poem soup.

Here’s a trite little ditty about Jesus
we can stamp onto tacky, plastic wall-hangings
and sell with all the other mass-produced
trinkets some people call art.

Lucy in the Field with Flowers
from the Museum of Bad Art

Do you believe there's such a thing as bad art? What distinguishes it from good art?

At St. Clair's

2010-05-26T09:55:00.006-04:00

the cookies n’ cream
tastes like real cookies and
the strawberry cheesecake
tastes like real cheesecake and
sweaty children push through
the heavy glass doors with the force
of over thirty magnetic flavours
pulling at iron tongues.

Fifteen minutes before closing,
there are two fire trucks parked
at the corner, and inside the parlour
the fire men line the counter
like a row of shiny medals.
The server says It’s on the house
so the men feed their change to the tip jar
and call hearty thank-yous on their way out.
The fire men stand on the corner, holding their
sugar cones with muscled forearms,
and we smile sweetly at them

wishing life were always
as pleasant and simple as
firemen and ice cream.

I believe the official name of the parlour is Maple Leaf Dairy, but it's "St. Clair's" to most people. It's on the Danforth, two streets east of Dawes on the south side, and I highly recommend it.

I was discussing yesterday how girls almost unanimously love firemen, but don’t always agree on their attraction to other members of the public protection service like police officers. Why do you think that might be? I hint at my own theory in the last lines of the poem.

Johnny G’s, 4 p.m. on Victoria Day

2010-05-25T10:31:00.004-04:00

Over the doors, an elaborate stained-glass window
and behind the glass: pots of plastic flowers
shawled in delicate cobwebs. This is
the essence of Cabbagetown.

The place is cramped with too many small wooden tables,
but quiet now, only old men nursing coffees and folded
newspapers, a few bedheaded twenty-somethings.
I squint at the daily specials: a neon rainbow
printed so tightly on the black marker board
even my glasses can’t loosen them.

The walls are rolled back, paint-chipped windowed doors
folded up like sweaty five-dollar bills in a change purse.
The waitress brings me a scoop of vanilla ice cream,
a glass of water with three crackling ice cubes,
$2.23 for immunity against the hot breath
that pants in from Parliament Street.

Taped to the window, a laminated menu glows
like a yellow leaf.

Johnny G's @ 478 Parliament Street

What kind of atmosphere do you like in a restaurant or bar (trendy, casual, homey, quirky, etc.)? What are your haunts around your city?

Dream analysis

2010-05-20T11:13:00.003-04:00

Katie dreams of zombie attacks, while I
dream of not being able to fall asleep, of waking
up in the morning and not getting ready fast enough.

Katie dreams of hamster-crabs, unnatural
spawn born of her caged pets, while I dream of
scooping crabs out of crevices in my upper thigh.

The tiny psychoanalyst on my shoulder
strokes the whiskers of his roundish beard.
Mmm, yes, das veery eenteresting.

Photo from Toronto Zombie Walk 2007 by Sam Javanrouh

Do you believe in dream analysis?

Therefore I am

2010-05-19T13:42:00.004-04:00

Back in January of ‘06, stumbling blindly
through my worst blizzard of anxiety on record,
I took shelter in self-help books, library checkouts
lying open, face down on my nightstand:
a paperback tent city.

The books called to me from sidewalk corners,
some peddlers, some preachers, some teachers.
One said, Your are not your mind. You
are not all these frantic, rambling voices.
You are not neutral networks, not a database
of stored memories & information.
You are not your mind.

That one didn’t jive, so I tossed it
back in the river like a bad catch.
Because I am my mind.

I am party streamers of DNA sequences
strung by generations of humping relatives.
I am hormones & fragmented song lyrics.
I am my chronically overactive imagination,
my obsessive analyzing, my swollen ego,
my good memory & bad sense of direction,
my annoying habitual response to criticism
(“You know, flip-flops aren’t really in season yet.”
“YOU’RE not in season yet.”)
I am a huge, disjointed novel compiled
of one page from every book I ever read.

Photo by Gaetan Lee

Do you believe we are our minds? If not, then what?

shayla.css (my 400th post!)

2010-05-18T14:54:00.003-04:00

.ego {
        padding: 100px;
        zoom: 200%;
        text-decoration: blink;
}

.family {
        font-family: inherit;
        position: absolute;
        overflow: visible;
}

#andrew {
        position: absolute;
        background-color: red;
        speech-rate: faster;
        font-size: large;
        text-overflow: ellipsis;
}

.career { cursor: wait; }

#job {
        background-color: grey;
        position: relative;
        width: 830am;
        height: 5pm;
        overflow: hidden;
        border: thick solid black;
}

.friends {
        cue: url(laugh.wav);
        volume: 100%;
        overflow: auto;
}

This is my 400th post!! Sorry to the [majority of my] readers who don't know how to read CSS, but to my two most loyal readers who do know how:

#inside_joke { font family: comic sans }

Remember when websites used to look like this?

I've been using CSS since high school, but until my night school teacher explained it yesterday, I never fully understood what I was doing with it (I'd just change something and think, "Oh, I guess that's what that does!"). Is there something you like to dabble in (ie. music, cooking) even though much of the time you're not really sure what you're doing?

Hmm... This is a strange thing to admit on my 400th post, but I think poetry might be one of mine.

Philosophy of a Monday morning

2010-05-17T13:47:00.008-04:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

There, is that depressing enough for a Monday? I’m actually in a pretty good mood today; this poem is just kind of a manifestation of the more cynical thoughts that have been kicking around my brain lately. At least it was longer than two stanzas!

Russian [leaders] nesting dolls

Our society tends to define people by their job title, which leads me to ask: if you could choose one aspect of your efforts or being to define you to others or within society, what would it be?

Rusty tools

2010-05-14T11:25:00.002-04:00

Hammer
So much potential inevitably gets stowed
like rusty tools, heaped in a cardboard box
on the top shelf of my to-do list. Sometimes
I take them out and look at them all.
Then, overwhelmed by
their many cryptic functions,
their multitude, I put them
all back, one by one.
Screw driver
In other dimensions
there are version of me:
They have cello string lines
for fingerprints, names stamped
on business cards and dust jackets.
Paint obeys them.
They call me up on rainy Saturdays
to chat, but I don’t answer
so they call up my mother
who does.
Tape measure
at dinner        he eats
one bite of rice
one bite of chicken
one bite of carrot
one bite of rice
one bite of chicken
one bite of carrot
one bite of rice
one bite of chicken
one bite of carrot
and if fullness comes too soon
he will leave unfinished        on his plate
one bite of rice
one bite of chicken
one bite of carrot
and it won’t matter because
at dinner        he eats
for experience        not accomplishment

I've fallen into the habit of writing short, two-stanza poems lately, and I'm really trying to break out of it. So I wrote a short, two-stanza poem, and this was the only thing I could think to do. Next week, I have a goal: new format!!

Photo by Per Erik Strandberg

What are some of your "rusty tools"? Can you think of any skills or interests you were really involved with at one point, but sort of let fall away in favour of pursuing other things?

Mother

2010-05-13T10:34:00.003-04:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

NO, I am not pregnant, nor do I intend to be for many years. It's just that Mother's Day just passed and I've been thinking about mothers lately.

Charity by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

Okay, I said motherhood doesn't worry me, but what I really mean is it doesn't worry me any more than it should. What aspect of parenthood worries you? Do you think you will/would/do make a good parent?

Lunch hour hangouts

2010-05-12T11:55:00.009-04:00

The Royal York
I’m forever seduced by the romance
of empty wooden desks in this lobby
old and glamorous as a diamond.
Someday I will sit here and write
lines of trash in laborious penmanship.
Alas, my muse is a rawboned rover
who cannot bear the weight
of ambiance; I'm doomed
to scrap paper scribbles on
crowded subway seats.

St. Andrew’s Church
Reverent silence, broken
by the stray coughs of mortals
and the surreptitious turning
of comic book pages.
In Toronto, religion
is handed out on street corners;
you need to know where to look
for good Romanesque Revivals
and quiet reading rooms.

Urban Affairs Library
Reference only. I keep coming back
like a foolish girl waiting for love
from a one hundred night stand.
You're everything I ever wanted, but
you'll never come home with me
to meet my parents.

Where do you go or what do you do on your lunch hour?

Eaton Centre food court, 6 p.m.

2010-05-11T11:36:00.005-04:00

Half empty. Only territorial teenagers,
student nomads carrying laptops on their backs
like turtle shells, and lonely people
shopping for company.

An old man sleeps: head down,
the white of his hair snowing
on a table grey and greasy as
restaurant back stairs.
He might be homeless,
or just tired and waiting
like the rest of us.

Photo by Liliana Amundaraín

How do locations affect your mood? Are there places you visit just because they make you feel happy? Are there places you avoid just because they depress you?

Old movies

2010-05-10T11:58:00.005-04:00

You love like a black-and-white classic, and I
like a thorny sixties flick: the last scene, one subtle
gesture or a flicker of a deeper emotion across
the protagonist’s face after the victory sunset
leaves the audience wondering, yearning
for some spelled out resolution, bullet point
meaning scratched on a chalkboard.

I will never be able to explain
and you will never have to.

The Graduate, 1967

How much explaining do you think a film should do? Some films dumb things down so much it's insulting to the audience, while some make things so cryptic they go over everyone's head. What's the right balance?

General anxiety vs. The flying trapezes

2010-05-07T11:06:00.004-04:00

Spotlight, hot as panic.
Ground, unyielding as death.
Crowd, captious as God.

My fear is disguised with smiles and sequins,
limbs moving in muscle memory, powdered hands
dry as my lips.

On the platform, I grasp the bar
firmly as a choice; it is always a choice
between brief terror and relentless worry,
truth or dare, goldfish bowl
or shark-infested freedom.
Safety is a net that catches you
and never lets go.

I step off the platform,
acknowledge the distinction
between life and non-death,
make my choice.

This poem was written in response to MONDAY PROMPT/ May 3 on Big Tent Poetry.

Circus poster, 1890.

Do you think it's important to face your fears, or is it okay to live with certain fears as long as they don't disrupt your life? Have you done anything recently that scared you?

Kensington Market, after hours

2010-05-06T09:29:00.002-04:00

On a rainy Wednesday evening, the only patrons
are drunks and locals; we are
the former.

The shops are bicycles chained to iron railings,
burnt-out carousal lights, closed eyes
on a tattooed face.

Rain bathes the streets, but it can’t wash away
history, fish shop stink, curious
graffiti murals.

Kensington Market, 1922 - Photo by John Boyd

How would you describe the character of your own neighbourhood? What qualities do you like in a neighbourhood (to live in)?

White wine makes painting fine

2010-05-05T12:21:00.003-04:00

White wine makes painting fine!
Painting rooms is such a snooze,
unless you have a little booze.
White wine will pass the time!

White wine on the decline!
Oh no! The bottle's getting low
and we still have two walls to go.
Red wine will soon be mine!

Red wine is just divine!
We may have drank too many cups
– we’ll have to do a few touch-ups.
Red wine makes sloppy lines!

Photo by Jon Sullivan

What do you do to make boring or unpleasant chores more fun (ie. play music, have company, etc.)?

introverts

2010-05-04T12:02:00.003-04:00

in kindergarten, you
would hide beneath your desk
nuclear fallout style
to let your brain cool down
prevent overload
your teacher said, “don’t worry,
he’ll grow out of it”
now you hide in familiar
spaces, insulate yourself
within a cast of friends
like curled fingers

you keep a bicycle pump
folded up in your wallet
to re-inflate my ego,
pull over at the side of the road
emergency repair job
I speak for you in public,
give your lunch order
to over-friendly waitresses,
your personal liaison

though even I
go all deer-in-the-headlights
when the telephone
becomes an endlessly crying baby,
when my e-mail inbox fills
like a sinking ship

Do you consider yourself an introvert or an extrovert? Here's a good way to tell: do you "recharge" yourself by seeking the company of friends or by seeking time alone? Despite popular belief, shyness and introversion are two completely different things.

A rare and wakeful morning

2010-05-03T09:45:00.002-04:00

I slept in a blink
and woke in a blink
like an hourglass flip,
like returning to the moment
from a daydream
when you call my name.

The dawn sky
made up its face
like a shady afternoon;
when it leaned to kiss
my eyelids, I could smell
its perfume: fresh
as a breeze
along the lake shore,
sweet as sun
on the boardwalk.

Photo by James Thornett

Are you a night person or a morning person? I have a theory that people become night or day people partially in response to the routines of people around them. For example, if you really like being around people, you might stay up later because your friends tend to stay up later. Or maybe you crave some alone time and stay up late to get it while everyone else is asleep. What do you think?

Jellyfish

2010-04-30T12:05:00.004-04:00

I wake with darkness all around
without the wind, without a sound
alone in this vast, black somewhere
there is no sky, there is no ground

Now faintly in the distance there:
a light as fragile as a prayer
Through squinting eyes I’m shocked to spy
a jellyfish glows in the air

First one, then two, then by and by
their numbers start to multiply
They cloud me like a swarm of bees
as full as stars fill up the sky

Their tentacles sway in some breeze
like meadow grass or willow trees
but I know of no plant or spear
whose blades are deadlier than these

How long have I been trembling here?
Could be a minute or a year
In darkness, time cannot be read
and soon despair replaces fear

as deep in my exhausted dread
I grow a longing to be dead
and when it blooms I take a stand
and reach to grasp a glowing thread

I clasp around the see-through strand
but it just passes through my hand
like wine through lips after a toast
My fate is deaf to my command

Forever standing at my post
one question troubles me the most:
which one of us is just a ghost?
Which one of us is just a ghost?

This poem was written "in response" to NaPoWriMo #30: Free day (and farewell) on Read Write Poem. The meter and structure of the poem was based on that of a famous Robert Frost poem.

Photo by Thesupermat

Do you believe in an afterlife? What do you imagine it will be like?

A message from the Federal Government of Canada

2010-04-29T12:03:00.003-04:00

Dear citizens of Canada,

In preparation for the upcoming G8 and G20 summits in Ontario, the following regulations are hereby passed and will take effect as of May 1, 2010:

Demonstrators may not be within two (2) kilometres of the location of the event they are protesting at any time.

Only members of recognized advocacy organizations have free access to the Designated Protest Zone. Unaffiliated citizens must register for Zone access at least two months in advance.

Megaphones are banned within the boundaries of all major Canadian cities.

All protest signs are to contain only muted colours and fonts no larger than seventy-two (72) points.

Media coverage of all governmental activities is limited to venues with Can-Gov Membership press passes. Independent news venues may purchase passes from the Can-Gov Membership Office in Ottawa at the price of one thousand dollars ($1,000) per pass.

Letters to government officials and members of parliament must be typed, printed and no longer than five hundred (500) words in length.

Thank you for your submissive cooperation,

The Federal Government of Canada

I don't even know if this counts as a poem. I've been uninspired and completely preoccupied lately. Anyway, this whatever was written in response to the Toronto Star article All G20 protests will be directed to Trinity Bellwoods Park and NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #29: Front page news on Read Write Poem.

Photo by John Maclennan

The right to protest is an important part of democratic society, but we all know that sometimes things get out of hand and go to far. To what degree or in what ways should protesting be limited? Do you think it's acceptable to ask demonstrators to protest the G20 from a public park two kilometres away from the event?

People watching on the Bloor line

2010-04-28T14:39:00.003-04:00

A sweet-faced Asian girl closes her mascaraed eyes and sleeps to headphone lullabies.

A couple with pale skin and dark hair whisper to each other in what sounds like a Slavic language. In Toronto, you need to whisper to have a private conversation; someone is always bound to eavesdrop in your language.

A wisp of an old man has a tan coat and a pointy white beard. Does his beret make him look distinguished, or is he distinguished enough to pull off a beret? Likely the latter.

A young black man wears a Blue Jays baseball cap – the old style, before the Jay looked sulky about how bad his team was doing. He offers his seat to a teetering lady with a cane, but she says no thank you.

A blond-haired construction worker type in a black leather jacket swigs two percent milk from a small carton.

A paunched, plain-Jane flirts with a well-dressed man. Do not be deceived – she is a master of body language. Watch how she giggles, leans in, absently brushes the man’s bicep with her fingers as she talks – and he is bewitched. We both are.

Photo by Bobolink

Are you a people-watcher too? What kind of people catch your eye?

At confession

2010-04-26T09:55:00.005-04:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #24: Find a phrase on Read Write Poem. It was inspired by the origin of the phrase "All things must pass" from the biblical verses Matthew 24:6-8 (King James Version).

I love, LOVE The Wizard of Oz

I was raised Catholic and grew up going to confession from time to time. It’s probably the only part of Catholicism I sometimes miss, although I don’t think I ever truly gave it up (I’m a pretty confessional person in general).

Think of today’s comment box as a secular confession box: tell me something you’d like to “confess.” It doesn’t have to be a sin or something you feel guilty about; maybe it’s just an observation about yourself that you want to share.

Thank you for riding the Celebrity Line

2010-04-23T10:07:00.004-04:00

Arriving at Fame. Fame Station.

Priority seating is intended for the beautiful and marketable. Your cooperation is requested.

Arriving at Paparazzi. Paparazzi Station.

Please mind the doors, the doors are now closing. Please do not charge the doors, doors are closing. Passengers, please step back from the doors and wait for the next train. We cannot move on until the doors are cleared. Thank you.

Arriving at Reality TV. Reality TV Station.

Doors are opening. Please mind the gap between your personal and public life.

Your attention please. We are currently experiencing a delay at our Tabloid Station, due to sexual infidelity. Publicists are on site, and we hope to be moving on shortly.

We are being delayed, waiting for the scandal to clear. We expect to be moving shortly.

Please be advised that imperfection is not permitted anywhere on the Celebrity Line. Violators will be slandered.

The delay we were experiencing at our Tabloid Station has now cleared and normal service has resumed.

Arriving at Has-Been. Has-Been Station.

Please remember to collect your self-worth and exit through the common doors.

Arriving at Infomercial. Infomercial Station. This is our final stop. All passengers, please exit the train.

Thank you for riding the Celebrity Line.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #23: unlikely couples on Read Write Poem.

Do you go out of your way to follow celebrity gossip (by that I mean, do you read/purchase celebrity magazines or watch entertainment report programs)? Why or why not?

Craigslist special

2010-04-22T11:22:00.004-04:00

Andrew’s bicycle has run away from our garage.

No, it can’t have been stolen; what thief
would steal his shiny red bike, but leave mine
leaning against the stowed pile of wood scraps,
broken furniture, junk run inevitables?

Don’t look at me like that.

Oh sure, she’s an ugly old clunker,
sad like a matted cat with it’s ear torn off
or a broken umbrella sopped in a puddle.
Her kickstand is a balancing act,
her chain a braying barnyard,
her brakes a test of faith.

I see your point.

Yeah, I could buy a new bike
(maybe a retro-style cruiser),
but it would be all will and no
fate, it would never satisfy
my want of serendipity, my love
for what is overlooked or
discarded.

Before you start lecturing me on bicycle safety, let me say that I recently took my bike in to be fixed up (and it cost me over twice what I originally paid for the damn thing). She's still not going to win any beauty contests, but at least she's road-worthy.

Photo by Sam Javanrouh
(Check out more of this guy's photos; they're AWESOME!)

Do you have something old or worn in your life that you choose not to replace out of fondness or sentimentality?

Perfect smile

2010-04-21T10:06:00.024-04:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo #21: perfectly flawed on Read Write Poem.

Theme from Weeds - I've always loved this song

Can you think of a flaw or imperfection in your life that you like, or even treasure?

Born of a tiger

2010-04-20T10:38:00.003-04:00

Little friend, you were born of a tiger
like the hills were born of mountains.

The tiger sleeps
in the curve of your claw,
in the twitch of your tail,
the slink of your spine;
she wakes
behind your eyes, huge
and green as the jungle,
when you stalk shadows
that remind you of things
you’ve never seen.

Little friend, you make me wonder
what I was born of.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo #18: meow! on Read Write Poem.

Photo by Steven Bennett

What characteristics of humanity do you think are leftovers from when we were "wild beasts"?

Katie teaches me to play with fire

2010-04-19T09:50:00.009-04:00

After the dinner plates are cleared,
Katie dips an impish finger into the hot wax
pooled in the silver tin of the tea light
and watches it dry, wincing and fascinated.
Then she flicks it off with her neon thumbnail:
a thin sheaf of wax, round and smooth
as a bald head.

The first rule of my house, Katie knows,
is NO PLAYING WITH FIRE!
announced during her phase of
sparking tissues in the house, holding them
with a careful hand and blowing them out
seconds before they blistered her
– a strange game to someone
who fell against a wood stove as a child,
though the memory is forgotten
and the burns long healed.

RULE #1 AT SHAYLA’S HOUSE IS
NO PLAYING WITH FIRE!
but this is not my house. I dip a caution finger in
the melted wax and tease at the flame with Katie
until she pinches it, fearlessly,
with licked fingers.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #17: something elemental on Read Write Poem.

Photo by Roi Boshi

How do you feel about fire? Does it frighten you or are you prone to playing with it?

Walking to school in the rain

2010-04-16T09:31:00.002-04:00

Morning dew is reborn as a heavy fog,
coating my lungs, forcing its scent upon me: marshy
musk of waterlogged soil like an old kitchen sponge
and bloated, doggy stink of a thousand earthworms
drowning; acrid puddles, sopped up with stained sneakers.

After the clouds dissolve like bickering, the worms
will rot on the playground pavement
in dry black coils.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #16: what's that smell? on Read Write Poem.

Photo by Bah Humbug

What does the smell of rain remind you of?

Green was born of the grass

2010-04-15T10:52:00.002-04:00

I water you, you bear me fruit
(lover, mender, season changer)
but green was born of the grass in Dublin
My heart recalls, you were never a stranger

You cheer for me upon my stage
(planner, dreamer, rearranger)
Green was born of the grass in Dublin
My heart recalls, you were never a stranger

Let’s not fret about the next part
We are always off to a good start

Sprout, but stay just as you are
(speaker, listener, thought exchanger)
Green was born of the grass in Dublin
My heart recalls, you were never a stranger

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #15: carrying a tune on Read Write Poem. It uses lines from my earlier poem, April green grass.

St. Stephen's Green, Dublin
Photo by Höstblomma

Part of the poetry prompt today involved reworking good lines from a poem that otherwise didn't quite work. In whatever form you choose to work or create in, how often do you go back and revise old work? What do you think is the attraction or benefit of revision?

Double standards 2

2010-04-14T14:13:00.017-04:00

If I ever find you in
                       desire for
another woman,
                       the forbidden,
I’ll kick
                       this habit;
that bitch’s
                       making me crazy.
teeth
                       bound, aching
in
                       restraint

This is my attempt at a cleave poem, which is really three complete and related poems in one. Tricky stuff to write! This was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #14: you want me to write a what? on Read Write Poem.

Painting by Haynes King

Jealousy is generally considered a negative emotion, but the fact that it survived throughout human evolution means it must serve some beneficial purpose. What, if any, do you think is the upside of jealousy?

Twenty-four

2010-04-13T10:46:00.003-04:00

Someday I will look back
and wonder, “When did these dark circles
under my eyes become permanent?”
and the answer will be
“At twenty-four.”

Dr. Google informs me
the circles are a result of aging,
not enough sleep, too much alcohol,
stress, sun exposure, painkillers, allergies,
heredity, bad circulation, leaky capillaries,
various bodily deficiencies, clogged chakras.
He writes me a prescription for topical
hotdog condiments.

Girl, your looks are going downhill;
better get to work on that
winning personality.

No, I'm not having body image issues, I'm just tired and prone to cynical humour today; we all know I'm far too conceited to ever really feel ugly.

I too am one of those people who consults Dr. Google for everything, and thus perpetually thinks she has some form of serious illness. Anyone else suffer from Chronic Internet Diagnosis Obsessive Syndrome?

Name

2010-04-12T10:52:00.004-04:00

Your were a gift
from two of the rare people
who love me more than I love myself,
who taught me by example.
I thought you made me odd,
and later, special.

Like me, you are
soft-footed, unusual,
sometimes mispronounced.
Like my family, like my body,
I did not choose you
but I belong to you.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #11: The thing you didn't choose on Read Write Poem

Photo by Carlo Cabanilla

How did you get your name? Do you think it suits you?

The why-are-we-heres, like a spring cold

2010-04-09T11:25:00.004-04:00

This is the first winter that didn't end with the trill
of my mother whistling to her cardinal from the garden
as she massages life back into the knotted soil;
like a fish sprung from a plastic pail, this one only flapped
on the pavement awhile and then died, bruised and broken.

In quiet moments, the talon of mortality taps me
on the shoulder and I startle, recognizing the seasons
as the pins on a music box cylinder: truth, bitter as
licking the envelope of a suicide note. We reject
spring and fall as a shifting lever; they are threads
wattled into the fabric of memory.

My new conceptualization of God:
an omnipotent octopus at a loom,
weaving marionette strings.

I'll stow these thoughts away now
and surrender myself to the comfort of watching
the vastness of the immense night sky, bound
within the tiny frame of an airplane window:
clouds one way, stars another.

This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #9: your mission on Read Write Poem

What do you think is the best balance between looking at the "big picture" and living in the present?

Double standards

2010-04-08T11:35:00.009-04:00

I have, and therefore demand, the caliber of dog
that can be trusted to sit alone in the dining room
with the Thanksgiving turkey cooling on the table,
even though I’m the weaker breed: my master
would give thanks over takeout Chinese, blaming
only himself for forgetting there are limits
to even a good dog's loyalty.

There is harmony in inequality: if you serve people
identical plates, they’re only going to swap
trade you my yolks for your egg whites?
anyone want my home fries?
because cravings vary. Some people
can complain to a houseplant and some
need to confess all to a crowded stadium.
Like children, maybe we should live
by different rules.

The poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #8: unusual love connections on Read Write Poem.

Photo by Vaguely Artistic

Can you think of an imbalance or double standard in one of your friendships or relationships (ie. in a friendship the responsibility of keeping in touch falls to one person or in a relationship one partner's sex drive dictates the couple's sex life)? Does it bother you or do you accept it as part of the unique dynamic?

Andrew buys new shoes

2010-04-07T11:13:00.001-04:00

a whole store full of new shoe smell, fresh grey
mesh and plastic hideousness to replace torn old
athletic running shoes under your desk, Grade 2 fashion
nonsense, you dress like Forest Grump but never run
and I’m still proud to hold your hand on the escalator

This was my stab at writing a tanka, written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #7: love, funny side up on Read Write Poem. Gotta love daily poetry prompts for the month of April.

Never thought I'd have an opportunity to post this video.

To what degree should you try to change someone in a relationship and to what degree should you accept them as they are?

Give us this day our daily poem

2010-04-06T10:53:00.003-04:00

Your well-intentioned friends keep trying
to frame me as your great ambition, career choice,
and sometimes you let them; otherwise,
you might find yourself trapped in the elevator
making small talk with your receptionist label.
We both know it’s a lie though.

I’m the cup of green tea you’ve made a habit
of drinking three times a day, or
the way you need to at least skim the news
before you feel you can do anything productive.
I’m the hour of reading you squeeze in
on the commute, a thoughtless duty
that makes the day whole.

I’m your 10 minute, 10 a.m. diary entry
scribbled on scrap paper, just a quick shake
of your words so they don’t gather dust,
just a quick scan of your inner dialogue
for signs of unrest, treason.

Composition by Pierre Dmitrienko

What is one of your daily rituals?

Bring a book, save a friendship

2010-04-05T11:46:00.004-04:00

On the driveway, legs wobbly
from standing too long, waiting
for my brother-in-law to take a breath
so I can steer this conversation
in the general direction of a goodbye,
I wonder what quirky quality in myself
must drive the people in my life
absolutely bat shit crazy.

Because it’s always something.
I’ve come to recognize and anticipate
that stage in a new friendship
when you first realize that this person
is, in fact, a fallible human being;
you find yourself sitting alone (yet again)
in a crowded restaurant, the waiter
drumming his fingers as the clock
ticks steadily past your seven-thirty
reservation, and it suddenly hits you
– this new friend is one of those people,
those always late people. We all have
those friends, and most of us learn
to bring a book.

It’s my own fault; I forgot my book
at home today, and now I am resigned
to wait for my brother-in-law to stop
talking, but – what lung capacity! –
the man never takes a breath.

Check out my new LAID post, Technological Developments in Sex.

What "quirky quality" of yours do you think is the one that drives your friends crazy sometimes?

Two old friends meet for dinner

2010-03-31T12:14:00.000-04:00

downtown, far from their childhood.
Each lives a sitcom the other stopped watching
after the second season but can still follow
in sporadic episodes: the same familiar characters
all up to the same crazy antics.

They don’t attempt reentry; they can’t blend
colours long dried. This friendship is already
a finished painting, so they gather up
their dusty sketches and move
to a new medium.

Photo by Grigor Apinian

Who is your oldest friend you still keep in touch with (who isn't related to you)?

Not sleeping well

2010-03-30T12:13:00.002-04:00

You can’t be productive in a dream;
The only thing real is pale blood cycling
through your temples like six pressing tasks
you’re struggling to remember, you’re chanting
under your breath. When I wake in the 2 a.m.
dark, the only finished project I get to keep is
a twitch under my left eye or a new symptom
to the cold I thought was mending.

You don’t get much sleep on a roller coaster.
Some people willingly stand in line for hours
just to feel all the exhilarating sensations
of a panic attack, but
I just want off.

The Schwarzkopf Olympia Looping, Düren
Photo by Boris23

How does stress tend to manifest itself if your dreams (ie. final exams, work projects, full-blown nightmares, etc.)?

Shared space

2010-03-29T14:24:00.010-04:00

Dancing with you was easier
when I stood on your feet
and we moved together, every step
synchronized in the effortless harmony
of shared space.

Now we just sway in the hollow light
of my neon smile – awkwardly, aimlessly,
both too polite to lead. Self-conscious
of my hand on your shoulder, no longer
clasped tight in balance, I’m mourning
the strange emptiness between our bodies.
Stiffness in my step; the sudden force of my
clumsy heel on your toe will hurt worse
than the old dull aching that spread beneath
the constant, resting weight of my shoes
scuffing the shine off yours.

La valse by Charles Léandre

Can you think of a time when one of your comfortable relationships was challenged by a change in your schedule or location? How did the relationship adapt, if at all?

Goldfish

2010-03-25T10:09:00.001-04:00

All of my goldfish have died
or evolved into legged creatures
that can’t be contained in glass bowls
except you, and even you
have little need of me, never more
than indifferently picking
at the sprinkle of nourishment
I offer.

You are content to remain
a solitary goldfish, never to grow
within the permanence of
your impervious sphere.

Photo by Duchess

Let's play the metaphor game: what animal are you and why?

Sources of strange childhood pride

2010-03-24T11:26:00.004-04:00

My grandparents were beautiful.
They were the ones everyone wanted to have,
but they chose to have only each other.

My father was tough. I slept assured
with a great, woolly dog by the front door
and dad snoring down the hall.

My imagination was robust (and often remarked upon
by the strangers I barked at in grocery stores);
at six, no other skill seemed so vital.

I had a slingshot carved from a tree branch
(which practically made me Dennis the Menace)
until I gave it away to my cousin in a show of loyalty.

I could climb to the very top
of the big pine tree: the ultimate test
of courage, skill and maturity.

Remember this stupid movie?

What were the sources of your strange childhood pride?

Being grown up is

2010-03-23T10:45:00.006-04:00

drinking chardonnay while you do your taxes.
hanging laundry while you cry.
asking strangers for directions, then finding your own way.
building a house of cards in the wind.
tearing some plants out of the garden so the rest have room to grow.
holding up your corner of the big safety net.
working to keep your name in the sand.
growing wings, then giving away all your feathers as gifts to loved ones.
signing all your paintings, not just the masterpieces.
deciding what parts of yourself to sell.
watering houseplants with a thimble.
blowing up your own balloons.
trying to colour within lines of text.
choosing the best answer to an impossible question.

What is "being grown up" to you?

To be an old woman

2010-03-22T12:10:00.003-04:00

May I live long enough to be
an old woman. After the long battle
against anti-aging cream and the plastic
sex nymphs on glossy magazine covers is lost
and the world’s disinterest will allow me to be a whole
person again – as whole as I was at seven years old,
smiling and sun burnt, hair knotted in tree sap –
it should suit me just fine.

I think I will be braver
at seventy. When life carves its name
in the bark of my face like hearted lovers’ initials
and my vanity – no longer swollen with flattery
and delusion – shrivels in the absence of cat-calling,
I fully intend to become a shameless flirt.

There is a whole depth of self
only years can realize. I want
to become wise and well-read,
blessed with pervasive reflection.
I want to know all the things
it takes a lifetime to learn.

Photo by Edward S. Curtis

How do you imagine you'll be different at, say, age seventy than you are now?

Stress case

2010-03-19T12:10:00.005-04:00

She ran out of track a mile back,
but she’s still running; she still thinks it’s a race.
She doesn’t realize there’s no prize.
She’s still running; she still thinks there’s a first place.

If she’s going to try, she aims high.
She keeps pushing; she keeps setting new goals.
The only direction is perfection,
so she keeps pushing, keeps in complete control.

When a chance asks her to dance,
she’s not sleeping; she’s harvesting crops.
Even when she’s dead tired in bed,
she’s not sleeping; it never stops.

If her world starts coming unfurled
she’ll be burning, welding the shreds into one.
She’ll end her days in a fiery blaze,
she’ll be burning. She’ll burn out like the sun.

This poem wasn't written about anyone in particular, I just wanted to play with rhymes.

Photo by the Yohkoh solar observatory, 1991

How much do you stress over making things perfect?

On the Danforth, a sudden change of heart

2010-03-18T11:17:00.002-04:00

The muddy grass in Withrow Park gives me
wet, smacking kisses on the soles of my boots,
and even the dour, winter-bare trees seem
good natured in their annual preparation.
Children unfold like morning glories.

West of Pape, a church steeple holds up the sun
like a pedestal, and a half-blinded east ender
follows the light downtown.

Withrow Park, Toronto. Photo by Skeezix1000

I don't know about you, but spring makes me want to make plans and go OUT. Anywhere. What spring plans are you excited for?

The upside of being mildly obsessive

2010-03-17T10:53:00.004-04:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

Photo by Katharina Surhoff

How does being inspired or preoccupied with a new idea/project affect your daily life and interactions?

Lights out in car three

2010-03-16T11:15:00.002-04:00

The elevator is grey and dim
like the first steps inside a cave, taken
before fear swallows up curiosity.
As the doors press shut behind me,
I realize I’ve gone too many steps in.
Quickly! I wrap my hands around
the throat of my imagination and squeeze
before it starts to hear the dripping
of murky water from stalactites, or
sense some movement in the faint
red light of declining numbers, or
smell the dank, musky reek of some
ancient beast, watching me.

When the doors release me, years later,
I step thoughtlessly back into the light,
like eyes reopening from a blink.

Photo by Rama

When was the last time you did something for the first time, even something as small as riding in an elevator with no lights?

Jewellery box house

2010-03-15T11:17:00.005-04:00

In time, there will be costume trinkets
nested in teacups on shelves between spry ferns
and rows of books with cracked spines.
I’ll cloak the chipped plaster walls in glossy
turquoise and magenta, transition tones of
nonpareil vibrancy. Familiar hands will fumble
crystal knobs, finger their reflection in mirror trays,
and passersby will steal furtive glimpses through
mist-coloured curtains to where a grand tabby cat
sprawls in a sunbeam, strumpet-like.

This poem was written in response to Poetry Prompt #118: Digging on Read Write Poem.

Storing jewellery in teacups.
Thank you, Martha Stewart.

Describe your ideal living space. You don't have to use artsy design words -- maybe you want something spacious or well-organized.

The way we were

2010-03-12T11:03:00.003-05:00

This worn wooden library chair is the closest
I will ever come to sitting at the Grand Opera House,
long since crushed beneath the necessity of sky scrapers,
and I wouldn’t brave the polluted waters at Sunnyside Beach,
except maybe on a well-funded dare. Maybe.
That was a different Toronto, a city we now only glimpse
through the keyhole of commemorative plaques
and microfilm.

We are each just one stitch in the city’s tapestry,
but there are worse corners of history to be sewn into.
This Toronto holds the Tower as her staff, but still keeps
a prized collection of old buildings like antique jewellery;
the Royal York is a diamond ring that makes her forget
the ruby she used to wear there.

Grand Opera House (Yonge/Adelaide), 1874-1927
Photo by F. W. Micklethwaite

What is your favourite historical building in your city? Why?

Simply moving forward

2010-03-11T10:52:00.002-05:00

I refuse to believe this time spent waiting
for opportunity to rise up over the horizon
and shine its light upon us is without a purpose.

This time is like a meandering walk
on a Sunday afternoon: with nowhere to be,
I surrender myself to the seduction of fields,
arcane alleyways, virgin boulevards,
whatever stirs imagination or curiosity.
If I happen upon a crimson leaf or cordial stray
or cement scripture, I stop to pay it
due consideration. I make friends of strangers,
both biological and geographical.

Though adventure comes assured in traveling
to the beach, to the store, to the park,
I find sometimes simply moving forward,
letting my feet journey wherever
my deepest self desires to go,
often leads to more authentic ends.

Have you ever taken up an activity or gotten involved in a project, just because it interested you, and found it led to something that had a greater impact on your life?

An alternative way to think about it: does your career path (whether fully realized or currently just an aspiration) relate to any of the activities or interests you had as a child?

Katie teaches me to paint with acrylics

2010-03-10T10:46:00.005-05:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

Photo by North&SouthPaw

Do you work or have you worked in any visually artistic medium (painting, sketching, sculpting, photography, etc.)? If so, which one? If not (or even if so), which would you like to be immediately good at if you could choose?

sacred process

2010-03-09T10:17:00.003-05:00

I miss the tedious fulfillment of writing
research essays: digging for answer fragments
fossilized in dense text

filtering miles of pebbly beach with my fingers,
hunting for seashells to construct my own ocean
piece by piece

or the aimless joy of putting one foot before the other,
wandering idle streets; discovery is only
a welcome byproduct

pencil underlines, feverish note taking:
process is sacred ritual and ceremony, like church,
like packing a suitcase; it is faith.

Photo by Mila

Can you think of an activity that is generally considered tedious, boring or "not fun" that you actually enjoy doing? What do you like about it?

Dear Grandma Katie

2010-03-08T12:03:00.002-05:00

Would it make you sad to know
I don’t remember much about you
except your sweet, old-lady smell;
your collection of tiny, ornate perfume bottles
that so impressed me; hand-in-hand
walks to Mosquito Park; the inhuman patience
that let you hold a peppermint in your mouth,
without crunching, until it disappeared?
Would it make you sad to know I remember
more vividly, in the summer of your death,
slipping my hand in the open crack of a screen door,
wrapping my small fingers around a gold bell
and, in the clumsiness of my panicked getaway,
losing it amid the clovered trench?

This poem was written in response to Poetry Prompt #116: the time of your life on Read Write Poem.

Do you have a friend or relative who you can barely remember because s/he died when you were very young? What do you remember about him or her?

March on

2010-03-05T16:29:00.005-05:00

Nothing vast has changed:
I’m still unfulfilled,
you’re still unemployed.
The only difference is the sunlight
on St. Andrew’s Church
that dawns a new day at 5 p.m.,
the warm winds that blow kisses hello
and help me out of my moping
like a gentlemen taking a lady’s coat.

Winter is the restless night
you cowered before as a child,
pooled in blankets thick as excuses,
still in the silence of leafless trees;
when your silk scarf curtains glowed
like rekindled embers, you exhaled
and took peaceful sleep.

St. Andrew's Church, Toronto
Photo by Simon Pulsifer

Why is it that even after an unusually mild winter (for Toronto, anyway), we're all still so damn excited that spring is almost here? What is it about spring that puts everyone in such an improved mood?

Potluck

2010-03-04T11:27:00.005-05:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

Photo by Shira Golding

When you meet new people, how do you go about "testing for potential friends"?

Sympathy card

2010-03-03T15:15:00.005-05:00

I don’t want to sign my name in ownership
beneath processed Hallmark sentiments
or string you sentences of fridge magnet phrases,
but these are the only tool I know
to convey my love in the foreign language of grief.

Please understand, this layer of etiquette
is not a latex glove to insulate me
from the blood that pours from your wound;
it is for you, just padding on my clumsy edges.

The Funeral by Édouard Manet

There is a lot of etiquette and ritual surrounding death: sympathy cards, funerals, wakes, shiva, etc. To what degree to you think these things aid the grieving process?

1:30 a.m.

2010-03-02T10:26:00.002-05:00

Let’s play the part of a sleeping person:
What does a sleeping person look like?
How does a sleeping person breathe?

Is it hot in here? It’s hot.

How are a sleeping person’s eyes?
What does a sleeping person see?

Should I pull back the blankets?
No, just lie still.

How are a sleeping person’s shoulders?

It’s the cat: she’s like a little oven.
Kick her off the bed.

Fine, we’ll try something else.
Let’s clear our mind:
Take a deep breath in
and exhale out all thoughts.
Take a deep breath in

I can hear the furnace coming on.

and exhale out all thoughts.
Take a deep breath in

Maybe I should try something else?
Shut up.

and exhale out all thoughts.
Take a deep breath in

Is it the medication that’s keeping me up?

and exhale out all thoughts.
Take a deep breath in

What if it isn’t?
What if I’m developing actual insomnia?

and exhale out all thoughts.
Take a deep breath in

I wish Andrew was awake.

and exhale out all thoughts.
Take a deep breath in

Should I wake him up?
What on earth for? Let him sleep.

and exhale out all thoughts.
Take a deep breath in

Would you listen to that lucky bastard sleep?

I’ve never been good at meditation.
Remember that thing Dad used to do?
Let’s try that:
Your toes are getting very heavy,
like little weights are attached to them.
They are sinking down into the mattress.

How much rest does your body get without REM?
Will just lying here help at all?

The weight is traveling
all the way up to your ankles.
They are getting very heavy,
sinking deep into the mattress.

I don’t feel them sinking.

Are they sunk all the way already?
…all the way up to your knees.
Feel your calf muscles relax completely
and sink into the mattress.

Should I feel more asleep yet?
Go slower.

All the tension is draining from your
ankles and they are dead weight.

I don’t think this is working.

…all the way up to your hips.
Your whole lower body is totally relaxed.

What if I stay awake all night?
I can’t call in sick tomorrow.

Your lower body has sunk
into the mattress.

Give up and roll over.
Let’s try it again from a new position.

Photo by Justin Silles

What do you do when you can't sleep? Does it happen to you often?

The rose

2010-02-24T10:55:00.003-05:00

When the first faint lines
of wilting appeared on a petal’s edge,
like the crinkle of an old woman’s eye,
the rose cast off its blossoms
and waited naked
for the frost.

It was no longer a rose.

Photo by Vaikunda Raja

Is there an action or activity that defines you? What would happen if you were no longer able to do it?

smile list

2010-02-23T13:37:00.003-05:00

when you and I were sixteen
and our parents felt like our children
or our boyfriends wanted to be our boy friends
we wrote silly lists that made us smile:

        crackling ice cubes
        unfortunate last names
        hand-me-downs
        hearing a song you love but forgot about
        anything colour-coded
        running for the bus and just making it
        snowflakes caught in eyelashes
        holding hands
        small dogs on staircases
        Simon & Garfunkel
        the word “chesterfield”
        flared nostrils
        waking up with perfect hair
        waking up with ridiculously bad hair
        finger-painting
        messages fingered in mirror steam
        profound graffiti
        talkative strangers
        old friends

Photo by Nevit

What's on your smile list?

Bedrock

2010-02-22T12:00:00.002-05:00

Talk of miracles
turns my mind to the days
of gods who threw down lightning bolts
and mortals who danced to summon the rain.
The gaps in human knowledge are always penciled in
with splendid imagination, like the blanks in a Mad Libs story.

Yet there is no comfort in living
so far from bedtime story beliefs
– miracles, true love, anthropocentric Gods,
the supremacy (or even competence) of humankind –
without stubborn faith in a twofold bedrock:
the strength to claw my way out of any hole
and the hands that reach down to help me.

This poem was written in response to Poetry Prompt # 115: What do you believe? on Read Write Poem.

Photo by Oliver Spalt

What do you believe in?

Life in the decade without a name

2010-02-19T10:04:00.006-05:00

My generation plays a game that goes: If you could live your prime through any era, which would you choose?

Katie belongs in the late Eighties, nursing on brat pack movies through her high school years – fresh from the theatre, not crystallized in HD. She’d flirt wildly with the notion of moving to NYC, spending five hours on her makeup before dashing out to outlaw parties at the local Burger King dressed in skin and sequins. The rest of her life could be spent telling outrageous stories she couldn’t quite remember because of all the chemical drugs.

Andrew would wake up just a few years earlier and fritter his quarters away in the arcades. All his favourite tunes would still be on the radio.

And me, you know I couldn’t be happier anytime but the Sixties, when the wind blew hard enough to move people, to tear things down. When fashion was political, not corporate, and there were causes to dies for in good company. Chain me to a tree or lock me in a school and I’ll play you the five chords I know.

Fun game, but it always leads to the inevitable, terrifying question: given the chance, would I? Would I run away to clubland? Would I join the revolution?

And then: when I look back on this era, what will I have missed being a part of?

It could be worse. Sometimes I thank God for the Internet, and for 9/11 – the only things that kept this decade from being as lame as the Nineties.

Photo by S.Sgt. Albert R. Simpson, October 21, 1967

Your turn: If you could live your prime through any era, which would you choose and why?

My subconscious is on steroids

2010-02-18T14:43:00.002-05:00

I pinch the skin of my arm, hard,
on the subway platform. Too many times
have I asked myself, Is this a dream?
and said Nooo and moments later awoke.
My brain has a top-notch video card
and way too much memory; when I try
to spot a dream through little tricks
– light level adjustment, stationary text,
tactile precision and complexity,
the clarity of every texture and detail –
every sensation swells right up to greet me.

Even now, as I carefully inspect every
pore and follicle on this red, throbbing welt,
I’ll never be quite certain.

Salvador Dali A by photographer Philippe Halsman, 1948

Have you ever had an experience where you couldn't remember if it had happened in real life or just in a dream?

Necropolis

2010-02-17T11:40:00.010-05:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

This poem was inspired by something I realized today: Necropolis literally means "city of the dead" in Greek. How cool is that?

EDIT: I just learned that Lucille Clifton, one of my favourite poets, died today. I'd like to dedicate today's poem to her. You can read more about her life and work in her obituary in the New York Times.

Photo by T.J. Blackwell

What is your relationship with cemeteries? Do you see them as being solemn places to visit lost loved ones, haunted places favourable for telling scary stories, tragically romantic places to wander, curious human constructions to be examined, or something else?

Back to basics

2010-02-16T09:51:00.004-05:00

An author in esteem only, I return to writing fiction,
though my literary tendons have atrophied, decayed,
after all these comatose years. They will not trust me,
preferring to sleep folded in the footlocker at the edge of my bed,
(muttering pretty snips of sentences while they dream)
but still they are glad to be out, tumbling words
across my page in a red patter; my house is littered
with fledglings and ancient eggshells.

Under the clarity of instinct, they have taken
a hacksaw to industrious panic, to the lubricious want of status,
and in doing so claimed a second childhood; they are clowns,
grinning from within the jaws of a toothless lion.

This poem was written in response to Poetry Prompty #114 on Read Write Poem.

Gibson & Co, 1873

When it comes to creating any form of art, what do you think is the best balance between the motor of ambition and the inspiration that comes from aimless play? In other words, how much should an artist be goal-oriented and how much should s/he practice open-ended experimentation?

Baby, get your can

2010-02-12T14:45:00.002-05:00

Baby, get your can:
this plant needs watering.
Its leaves are folded in a heap
like shirts waiting for the iron
and they smell like rainy Mondays
and empty houses and missed goodbyes.

Baby, take it away; I can’t bear
to look at it any longer.

Photo by Sharyn Morrow

What do you think is the value of an artist issuing a statement to “explain” his or her work, compared to saying nothing and leaving it completely open to interpretation?

My hands

2010-02-11T15:49:00.005-05:00

are building a crustaceous shell
like a lobster, boiled and breaded.
One is the torn liner in an old woolen coat,
the other is wood polished with ammonia.
They are mountains crumbling to sand,
faded maps made of November tree bark,
sentient lumps of chalk and driftwood.
The winter wind blows them down
on the ground like leaves, bitter and dead.

Note: the cold weather has made my hands dry, but not nearly as dry as I exaggerate them to be in this poem. Don’t worry, I have heard of moisturizer.

ALSO, check out my latest LAID post: Sure he's a slut, but what does that have to do with politics?

Photo by Rob Hingle

I was uninspired today, so I did this poem as kind of an exercise in writing metaphors. Can you think of a metaphor for your hands that reflects the way they look or feel, the way you use them or some other quality?

Dear Yesterday Girl

2010-02-10T15:17:00.005-05:00

How can you expect so much of me when you know we’re the same person with the same fickleness? With the same weakness for passive amusement and mindless games and just sitting very still. We’re the fool child who wastes his allowance on candy and never has anything to show for it but fat and cavities. Don’t you realize I have no more motivation than you, just nearer deadlines?

You ask a lot, and I’m really trying. I want it all as much as you do – the finished projects, constructive lifestyle, cultivated relationships – and I know I’m the one who has to make it happen, but it just doesn’t get any easier. We both keep thinking it will, but it just doesn’t.

Thanks for cleaning the cat box and taking the chicken out of the freezer. Thanks for doing the dishes and making the bed and flossing our teeth. Thanks for the sleep deprivation too, asshole.

Love,
Tomorrow Girl

Idleness by John William Godward

What would you say in a letter to Yesterday You? To Tomorrow You?

Speculation on a coffee mug

2010-02-09T11:01:00.005-05:00

My father subscribed to the old coffee mug adage, You don’t know anything until you’re thirty.

At ten years old, this infuriated me; according to coffee-stained bubble letters on the side of a little ceramic bucket, I was to remain in my lowly childhood ignorance for three times my current lifetime. I knew how to read and write, after all, and didn't that count for something?

That coffee mug’s been haunting me lately, as I count the final hours of my early twenties and try to remember back
        when being good was like colouring crayon
                inside thick black outlines
        when I had more opinions (my father’s) about politics,
                and less understanding
        when sex was bad and alcohol worse and drugs
                turned you crazy or criminal
        when religion wasn’t shrapnel

Life since high school has been an exercise in unlearning. A part of me looks forward to thirty, when allegedly I will know something.

Photo by Joe Mabel

What belief or issue have you had a major change of heart about over the course of your life?

Spell to summon change

2010-02-08T09:39:00.001-05:00

Snap the hitch
A slip of a stitch
The flip of a switch
The scratch of an itch

Set the gauge
A light on the stage
The turn of a page
The end of an age

Pedestrian tunnel that runs beneath the Don Valley Parkway
Photo by Steven Burke

I like to wander through new areas of the city when my mind feels stale and I want to encourage a creative change. Is there something small you do to freshen things up when your mind gets stagnant?

Needs a project

2010-02-05T10:49:00.006-05:00

This poem has been taken down for submission to a publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.

Remember this game? I suck at it.

How do you know when you're getting bored and need to start a new project (ie. you watch too much TV, eat too much, pick stupid fights with your housemates, etc.)?