I’ve been too busy to blog but I managed to write the first poem for the new book project with Tina Schliessler.
BARE
Pushing bare
singing be
scars rest
pelt loosens.
Wobbles
define apart.
Hourly swells
rustle spores.
Light
bathed columns
stand
prop
bear heat
spasms
pangs
stings
ruptures
to make sounds
bring form
to mounds,
limbs
pears
leaves
the girl
growing chaste
giddy
alone.
The Blogoshphere. I’ve heard some bloggers refer to it as such. One intimated that it was a clan of sorts and my writing had better be good enough. Obviously, she doesn’t know me very well. I think web logs are like the rest of the internet, as varied, unruly and undomesticated as its users and prowlers. Everyone gets in, regardless of race, religion, caste or education; precisely what is exciting about the internet. Its inherent democracy and populism is its nature. After all these years, it is still a wilderness, even amidst the rampant advertising. What you find is often astounding. Yeah, I know there’s a lot of garbage too but you’re on your own there, wading through and discerning what is pertinent. What is pertinent to me is what my blog is about, which is why I dubbed it One Life. My life, which is as significant as any other. “All life is holy.” Charles Darwin or Ed Ricketts? Neither? I will have to track down the source of that quote. Speaking of wilderness, here are some excerpts from the travel journal I kept during my recent trip to the Queen Charlotte Islands. I fear I am still under their spell, which might explain why I’m having some difficulty getting back into the swing of things. Continue reading
I’m tracking six eagles soaring high above, wondering why they have made an appearance. I learned recently that eagles are scavengers as well as predators and so that circling, like vultures, can indicate the presence of death and decay, as in my poem My Mountain below. (Roderick does a stellar job of narrating this piece on Princes Nut.) My bird feeder is such a popular spot I am topping it up every day now. Sometimes and with a guilty conscience, I will chase off the band-tailed pigeons. They are huge and come in droves.
Just as were recovering from an attack on our mail server by a Russian spammer my hubby’s back went out, spazzming as he puts it, for the first time in a over a year. I had succumbed to a rotten cold after several long weeks of allergy afflictions. Great timing. It was our first weekend alone together in months and we were both screwed up. Continue reading
Here on Bowen Island my feeder attracts red-eyed towhees, house finches, stellar jays, dark-eyed junkos and fox sparrows. Robins are here now and don’t seem to partake. A few hummingbirds have been buzzing by lately which surprises me because I didn’t think we had enough bright blossoms on our property. The jays are right on it of course, seem to wait for me to put the food out in the morning. I’ve been taking the feeder in when it gets dark to foil the local rat population. I hate rats. Why don’t my terriers get rid of them?
Birds and birdlife manifest in my poetry all the time. Here are two poems from my forthcoming book, “Window Seat.”
Habitat
We plan like architects to bring the outdoors
in, parrot like realtors the charms of a tree
house, for up on this hill, birdsong
is tangible. We always get
what we want, camouflaged in our mossy
cabin, high above the threshold
of discovery. Open sky. 360-degree view.
Proximity to water. Reliable food sources. Plenty
of nesting material. Gravel flies
from under the foot of a rabbit
fleeing a resident eagle. Ravens and stellar jays
battle over kibble, shit bomb the deck.
They want in. Past the windowpanes
that trick them. Frenzied. Talons flashing,
they enter through a door in the firmament.
I guide them outside, stunned at the feel
of wing bones. Banging hearts. A hummingbird
goes stillborn in the cup of my hands,
then, buzzers off, leaving a tang
in my throat, a ring of ruby dust
on my finger, incriminating as pollen.
Year of the Monkey
Full house. Madhouse. Ill-fated deejay,
jester fixed to his back, grinding out tunes
in celebration of our new digs, life,
in the forest, despite the clear-cutting
a hundred years ago. There is talk
of the I-Ching. This will be
an extremely progressive time predicts
a guest with faith enough to practice.
Monkeys are shrewd. Agile.
You will find great success in 2004.
Happy New Year! A toast. To the pileated
woodpeckers, heard more than seen. Cheers!
To the deer phantoms, droppings molding
in the front meadow. Where do they go
in the winter? Why don’t I know these things?
We make clumsy attempts at lighting a fire,
heating the house. Woodstove couched
and cold-shouldered as a guerilla soldier
brooding over such hatchet-challenged wimpiness.
We brave the Jacuzzi. January. Naked ape it
on the deck, body sculpting with our bare hands,
pale-faced moon playing peek-a-boo
with the ridgeline, a breeze stroking our backsides.
An owl hoots, hunting through lushness.
Red-eyed towhees flit through a labyrinth of sword
fern, mist the only smoke around here,
desires in the mirror, smudges of dread
surfacing on its beveled edges
whenever we’re not looking.
Twin cedar sentinels stand guard
against the cougar I saw mounting our pup.
When it began stalking the neighbour’s pony
I knew I would need a rifle.
I’m evolving. From a dinky urbanite on all fours,
to a big, eagle-eyed, straight-shooting, cause-
committed, river-of-life channeling, chainsaw-
hung, 4 by 4 pickup piloting Homo Erectus islander.
For more birds and bird-themed works in the blogosphere check out I and the Bird which Mike Bergin owns and publishes every two weeks. http://10000birds.com/iandthebird/
“Obstacles cannot crush me. Every obstacle yields to stern
resolve. He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind.”
— Leonardo da Vinci
Posted this quote for I have been writing of the stars. They are close here on Bowen, on any clear night create an enchanting tableau. At breakfast this morning I spoke of my father lost in a blizzard. He had been posted in the Yukon during a stint in the RCAF. He was wandering for four days and finally able to navigate back to the base by the North star which figures largely in my poem, “Whore In The Eddy” wherein I fantasize about lying in a puddle with a prostitue. A dead prostitute.
Whore In The Eddy
Gazes up at ballooning clouds as if imagining
frogs. Giraffes. Corvettes and barns.
As if Neptune’s head has heard
her pleas. Sent me. She looks like a mannequin.
As if by law of nature, a stripped woman’s body
looks like a mannequin after it floats
to the surface in a rainforest denuded
by steam donkeys and timber sales. All matter
from the depths is netted by log jams.
She stares at me. Cannot see
the pebbles embedded in my knees.
Or my face, not so sweet.
No bubbles, just the stillness
of standing water. No trace DNA.
No hard earned cash. Only cool airstreams
of aspen leaves. My grasping hand
takes hers, skin gliding onto my fingers
like a glove. A device. We share features
any porno-masticating, regular working stiff
joe wants in his garage
between the red pickup and the Crestliner.
We watch the rim of night, a coiled
arm of stars, their slow light two million
years too late. Naked eyes decipher
Orion the hunter. Cassiopeia. Bright knots
of the Double Cluster. Mars appears.
I look the other way, to the North Star.
“It is unknown as to when the first spoem was started as several writers and bloggers have claimed to have created the form. However, it’s estimated that the idea began in 1999 as Satire Wire [1] held their first spam poetry writing contest in 2000 [2]. Animator Don Hertzfeldt began writing spam poems in his production journal in 2004 [[3]]. Translator Jorge Candeias wrote a “spoem” a day during a whole year, between the 5th of May 2003 and the 5th of May 2004, using spam subject lines as title and inspiration; these are in Portuguese, based on spam bylines mostly in English. The creation of spoetry is similar to William Burroughs’ cut-up technique in that individual subject lines of messages are pieced together in poetic form; making the creation of spoetry an exercise not in creativity as much as in having an eye for the unexpected. The end result can be crafted into any literary form the author desires: haiku, concrete, limerick, dada, and so on. Thus, spoetry is not a literary form but rather a means of creating poetry.”
I too have been recycling the spam cramming my In Box as a kind of found poetry:
spoem haiku
o u whiz just try
i donofrio speak pi
e thus dominates
knife laces grew two
power steps, hard disk results
prizes seal vectors
minimum fastest
blue curves behave, light figures
binary surprise
dignity healing
edgar’s stripped lounge magnetism
wash infringed body
cappuccino chairs
discuss classical transport
dad’s quickest love match
meet miss frown metals
dashed depictions, wrecked panes
sorry soup spoons stuck
generating flash
magazine window cited
must include spring whirs
double tetractys spoem
clam
neck dates
giant ear
fast way plane big
own green kind deep real better by before
produce object wind shouts wear mother out
learn soil yard show
cover all
patch oil
tames
spoem cinquains
Imbibe
trusty vichy
demurring messiahs
employ hoochie blue lanterns
brainstorms
Acquaint
tiger skunk haze
gosling teeth refreshing
chuck paleontology brine
downtown
Glibly
fleece franchises
jettison floor models
sacrilege by deafening runes
business
Barn heart
kimono bee
raises bride in one day
Virgin forensic coffee klatch
renders
double tetractys spoem 2
think
rank jump
vows hit large
found side decides
last red area children thing low
cross jewelry silk copies rock game gone
raise energy
speed doses
forest
drills
Roderick plays a relentlessly raw and raucous guitar on this, frappy then thumping bass, his brother Malcom equally pressing with bullet snare playing and a steady onslaught of cymbal crashes. Wicked!
Appleton
Hooka squats on carpet, Buddha-
esque. Undulating spirals of sapphire
smoke hula up her nose. That buzz.
That buzz that slows
your blood, calls you back
to bed like a lover. Soothes your inner
asshole. B.C. bud. Best bud
in the world. Worth risking jail for.
High-resolution satellite images.
Narcs’ warrant executed Tuesday.
Grow-op raided Wednesday.
Dozens of firearms. Five thousand plants.
Big bust for a small town, says Constable Cook.
For export, for sure. Cultivation facilities dismantled.
Straight people relieved. Green party over,
but Zoe cried. It was the best job ever.
Dope dealers pay well. Her boyfriend
sold product at school. Their responsibilities
included digging a tunnel under the border,
blaming black fingernails and muddy jeans
on dirt biking at the gravel pit.
Parents were shocked. We thought she was on
MSN, chatting. We thought he was on
the Internet, with her, boy’s father chiding,
it’s APPLEton, son, not Marijuanaton.
Launch tentatively set for April 19th at the Firehall Theatre. Roderick wrote music for this inspired by Nina Simone’s version of “House of the Rising Sun” which, like “Hound Dog” is actually written from a woman’s point of view. You can hear it on my home page if you like.
Whore In The Eddy
Gazes up at ballooning clouds as if imagining
frogs. Giraffes. Corvettes and barns,
as if Neptune’s head has heard
her pleas. Sent me. She looks like a mannequin.
As if by law of nature, a stripped woman’s body
looks like a mannequin after it floats
to the surface in a rainforest denuded
by steam donkeys and timber sales. All matter
from the depths is netted by log jams.
She stares at me. Cannot see
the pebbles embedded in my knees.
Or my face, not so sweet.
No bubbles, just the stillness
of standing water. No trace DNA.
No hard earned cash. Only cool airstreams
of aspen leaves. My grasping hand
takes hers, skin gliding onto my fingers
like a glove. A device. We share features
any porno masticating, regular working stiff
joe wants in his garage
between the red pickup and the Crestliner.
We watch the rim of night. A spiral
arm of stars, their slow light two million
years too late. Naked eyes decipher
Orion the hunter. Cassiopeia. Bright knots
of the Double Cluster. Mars appears.
I look the other way, to the North Star.
I might call the book “Snow Bird.” Cannot make up my mind!
REMAIN
How to remain
thin. Abstain. Abstain from eating
food. Calories kill
the fat rats first. If she could say No
and balance Belgian truffles
on her tongue briefly before spitting
them out, she might remain. Live
long. Enjoy fruition. By shunning
urges, she could linger—dainty as a colt’s
foot—deploying her charms raw,
dogtrotting a straddled chocolate Arabian
through mazes of lane. She could retire
to her body.
Alas, ankles thicken, braids recede,
the old mare conjured whenever she dare
look. Fight back. She may be forced to
cover the grey, yellow, but refuses to swallow
diet pills. Amphetamines in the olden days.
Dinner in the garbage rouses niggles of guilt.
She snuffles it out before Buddy can,
barfing rather than blowing
calories on fusty pizza
or molding, olive oil-sopped arugula.