Found my old business card in the archive. This was a great gig — and opportunity! Publisher Jay Levin encouraged me to write reviews and the occasional article for the paper.

A New York City transplant, Jay was a cool cat. I used to tease him about the pile of supplements on his desk — but hey, they must be working, because he’s still around.

He employed a stable of artist-and-musician freaks and, as a fellow literature aficionado, assigned me to curate the Poetry Corner. Learn by doing. Better than art school or university — which I had dropped out of in order to run away and join the punk rock circus.

The most valuable lesson? Having a deadline meant I could rise to the occasion — past my doubts, fears, and insecurities — and produce copy. I didn’t have to wait for the muse.

I suppose it’s called discipline. Not that I’m all that disciplined — I’ve never planned anything in my life, let alone a “career path” — but I have managed to accomplish some writing, including songs, poetry, fiction and non.

I still need to heed the call of the Emerald Isle, but I feel like I’ve been to Belfast through Irish rap band Kneecap. They indulge both my Irish and punk rock roots with their fierce political righteousness and DIY ingenuity. I’ve been blasting their anthems, and yesterday I took in their film — which I enjoyed so much I even reviewed it.

WHY KNEECAP HIT ME HARD
As much craic as this was, Kneecap is no mere frolic, no Beatles-style romp, no throwaway music vehicle. It’s a serious, moving film with a sharp screenplay, endearing characters, and strong performances. I can see why it won the Audience Choice Award at Sundance. At times it felt almost documentary-like — I learned as much about Belfast, Northern Ireland’s culture, and the fight for the Irish language as I did about the band. An incredible story, brilliantly adapted for the screen. Highly recommended.

Sorry for the radio silence, my pretties—
Big news! Guess who’s getting published again? I’ve spent most of this year deep in the writing cave, and it looks like the work is paying off. I’m absolutely thrilled to announce that my latest poetry collection, Cariboo Ashes, has found a publishing home with Anvil Press!

This is especially meaningful to me, as Anvil published my very first book about a hundred years ago and they remain one of the finest small presses in Canada. I couldn’t ask for a better place for this collection to land.

More updates soon—promise.

Happy Mother’s Day. I don’t have many photos of my mother—she was shy about cameras, always insecure and self-conscious. Corona. That’s her in the middle. I wonder what I’m holding… a candle? A wand? It was taken in either Charleswood or Transcona, Manitoba—we moved a lot. Back when coffee tables were laden with ashtrays and doilies. We were dressed for church, my sister’s christening.

I always feel conflicted about this day. I loved my mother, of course—she’s the only mother I’ll ever have—but she was not easy to love. Her childhood was traumatic, and that pain twisted her. My sisters and I survived the generational abuse, just as she had. But her deepest betrayal was the lifelong lie about my paternity. That deception cost me a relationship with a good father I would have loved—one who would have loved me back. Protected me. I’ve written about it here before.

Maybe that’s why I waited so long to become a mother myself. Life is complicated. But I’m here now, blessed to be a mom, and the experience has provided something rare: perspective and grace.

…and saviour. It preserves my sanity, I swear. This is one of the poems  from my forthcoming collection, working title, Cariboo Ashes. I’ve been working hard on revisions and soon will send the manuscript to editor extraordinaire Catherine Owen to help prepare it for publication.

CEDAR SHADOWS

Whispers of us
linger in the ether—
silence is an answer,
and I am listening.

With all that is no more,
and all that waits to be,
leaning into your absence
elicits song but no reply.

How present you are in the hollow
of my palm, in the turquoise it cradles,
a futile talisman to bridge the chasm,
to resurrect the calm before our quarrels.

Starved of forests, lacking in trees,
in branches where secrets unfold,
bereft of mountains,
we ceased climbing, ceased soaring.

We remained grounded
within the confines of four walls—
our love gasped for light,
reached for expanses it never found.

Through a breach
I glimpse the cedar’s grandeur,
its tremendous shadow cast long,
a tender embrace that allows
my love for you, your love for me.

Feels like the right way to kick off the week, return to editing and revising the new poems and my novel.  I’ve been preoccupied with music and the recording process. Life is a balancing act, isn’t it.

This one is inspired by the ocean of course. I tend to take it for granted and living in East Van fools me into forgetting that it’s just beyond those buildings across the street. Conceived on the Atlantic and raised by the Pacific, I am steeped in its depths.

STEERING FROM THE HARPOON

Scattered as if a thundercloud
of savage Eden roses,
exquisitely sultry, she draws
admiration from reptilian denizens.

She stares into shark eyes,
tapetum lucidum gleaming,
until their fins turn yellow
and their jaws relax,

while a guttural engine drives her
to swim in circles, seeking
a channel free of nets and barbs,
a channel red enough to lead her home.

Aquatic chatterati discuss
the metamorphosis from scrub to siren,
her voice, the colour of salt,
as beguiling as a ship on the horizon,

its windows reeking of hell,
a colossal compass within,
vast enough to claim
the hemisphere’s islands of flesh.

Instinctively she steers away,
a creature of the depths,
swept along towards the time to come,
its heady essence, flames of tide,
urban lighthouses guiding her return.

Another sad love song. Poem. My only solace is churning heartache into art.

STUNTED

Whispers of us
linger in the ether—
silence is an answer,
and I am listening.

With all that is no more,
and all that waits to be,
leaning into your absence
elicits song but no reply.

How present you are in the hollow
of my palm, in the turquoise it cradles,
a futile talisman to bridge the chasm,
to resurrect the calm before our quarrels.

Starved of forests, lacking in trees,
in branches where secrets unfold,
bereft of mountains,
we ceased climbing, ceased soaring.

We remained grounded
within the confines of four walls—
our love gasped for light,
reached for expanses it never found.

Through a breach I glimpse the cedar’s
grandeur, its tremendous shadow cast long,
a tender embrace that allows
my love for you, your love for me.