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.
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/
Been scanning old photographs and I suppose melancholia is an archiving hazard. What would I remember if not for these photos? They are precious indeed. As a child I must have learned to disassociate as a way to cope with physical abuse. Numbness becomes second nature, so transparent that I could not see this tendency in myself, or ability, depending how you look at it, the ability to remain untouched by pain and fear. You become untouchable even in the midst of a beating. You ultimately lose touch with reality though, become passive. Loss is the key word here. You lose recall and thusly, your memories. It’s not as if I can’t remember anything as my sisters claim, but many things remain obscure. Safer that way. I wish there was a way to retrieve it, all the life experience I am seemingly not in possession of. It belongs to me and I want it back. My past. I have no idea how to achieve that or if it’s even possible.
Coincidence? A sign perhaps? While considering using “Sky Busting” as the title for my new collection of verse I often find myself leaning out a window to take photographs of clouds in motion and the ever-changing tableau. I refuse to put up a curtain in the bathroom because I want to stand in the centre of my room and see only trees and sky. We can traipse around in the nude if so inclined. We have a long driveway to clear when it snows but that’s the trade-off for the privacy we enjoy.
“Sky busters” are yahoos that take long shots at ducks or geese. It’s noisy, obnoxious plus a big waste of ammunition and game. I suppose I’m drawing parallels between ignoramuses and terrorists that bomb the sky with planes. Too big of a stretch. Another aspect I’m agonizing over. A lot of the poems in this collection are about travel and post 9/11 dread and guilt. (Nearly typed “post 9-1-1!”) I’ve been agonizing over everything: word choice, line length, structure, poem groupings/order, the title! I was becoming very ineffective, burning out but the manuscript needs narrative authority. I have sent it to my fellow poet and friend and editor, Heidi Greco who is going to provide her proofing skills and input.
I’ve experimented a fair bit with this outing, writing my first real concrete poem, “my mountain” but I have two versions! Neither is perfect because I don’t know Word well enough to manipulate the text properly. I think you need to be a graphic artist though I know poets have traditionally done it themselves. In any case, one is too small and the other looks more like a tree than a mountain but at least the type is readable. Will have to sort that out somehow.
What is this thing I have with birds? I dreamed the other night of a creature in my house that morphed from a hawk into a boy.
Mine. Woo hoo. Well, my life is as significant as anyone’s and “in extraordinary times, there are no ordinary lives. ” This has been a long time coming. I’ve shunned blogging for several years now the way I resisted sushi and the return of flared jeans, probably for the same reason I wouldn’t join the Girl Scouts though both my sisters were gungo-ho to do so. I’m suspicious of anything so popular. Blogging is beyond popular though, it’s phenomenonal.
This particular piece of the planet I occupy is extraordinary. I am gazing out my window past fir and alder treetops, past sailboats, tugboats and barges on Burrard Inlet at the city of Vancouver. I first came to Bowen Island in British Columbia’s Howe Sound in 1993 with my ex-husband. Part of the white exodus I suppose, I had returned to Canada after the Rodney King riots and twelve years in Los Angeles. I had survived an annus horribilus and was seeking sanctuary. My mother had died after a long ordeal, my marriage and our recording studio business were both disintegrating. I don’t think I was cognizant of my need for recovery. I was still in the middle of tumult. I was restless, not ready to retire as I protested, but in reality, trying to flee an abusive relationship and an awful situation. Or two.
I missed it though and came back to Bowen to live with my son and mein leiber, Josef, in 2003. Junior is thriving here and we just bought a house, so we’re not going anywhere for a while. Based on a recent national study of communities with a population of less than 50,000 people, Bowen Island was identified as having the fourth largest number of professional artists in Canada. In that sense, I fit right in. At times I find myself irritated though with a kind of chauvinism particular to the island, or perhaps to all islands. I was going to say xenophobia but that might be too strong a word. However there are some island folk who constantly whine about how everything is changing. They seem to think Howe Sound is a moat. Or wish it was. The word “paradise” gets bandied about a lot too. My reaction is to remind people that every place has an underbelly, even the “Happy Isle.” I’m a poop disturber, what can I say. Another thing that bugs me from time to time are the Pollyannas, self-righteous do-gooders and neo hippies that are always pressuring people to volunteer or donate. Hey, I’m barely keeping it together over here, doing the best I can and they forget that islanders are often independent, even isolationist, non-conformist and strong individuals, thinkers. Strong-willed and stubborn too so it’s not surprising islanders often don’t agree. There will be a wide range of views and opinions on any issue, which may explain why it seems to take so long for things to get done around here. I do love it though. I walk around trying to devour the air because it smells so good it has a distinct taste . Bracing. The place is fantastic really, populated with a lot of unique and brilliant individuals. I have a veritable suite of island poems in my forthcoming book, Window Seat.
The other reason I’ve resisted is a lack of confidence. I couldn’t imagine writing an entry each day, a good entry. 2007 has been a tough year too, though not as horrendous as 1992. Loved ones dying suddenly, career frustrations and set backs and I’ve been worn out, just now coming out of a serious bout of depression. So getting this far is a good sign. My gumption is returning, along with some faith in my abilities.
I want to share my poetry and some memories. My life. One life. I’ve started the arduous process of archiving all my old photos and other media, including cassette tapes and video. There is a conference coming up in the spring that has been spurring me on though I’ve got to get more scanning done! I always joke that I need an elf. Or two. Or three. I think Santa should share his labour pool or take a look at my list. I’ve been a good girl. Really!
PUNK
North America’s first international scholarly conference on punk to be held at Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada, on April 24-26, 2008.
http://www.sfu.ca/punkconference
Should be interesting. The first time I went to Experience Music Project in Seattle I was taken aback, seeing flyers, some of which I had collected, on display under glass. Hard not to feel like a dinosaur sometimes but I defiantly align myself with the “I-am-Old-School-and-proud-of -it” crowd.
The main challenges are a dearth of time and the myriad distractions around here. I have my office, my lair, fortunately. In front of my face, there is email, Facebook and now Second Life. I could get sucked into SL too–it’s fascinating–but I won’t. I can’t! In the real world, there are my canine companions, my kid, my spouse and all their needs that are so much simpler to address than my own.
So onward and upward. I will post a poem next, then an archival photograph accompanied by a blurb. It feels like a good start.
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.
