Tag Archives: Heather Haley

Flu-slayed. Hope. Disturbing bear dream. Art book poem.

We're in Volume 2

Nursing a cold, listening to Kings of Leon sipping Stag Hollow Pinot Noir, ostensibly writing. Dinner by the boys tonight—some kind of pork and pineapple stir-fry—which means a late dinner. Trying to teach Junior life skills. He is very adept at plastering poppy seed bagels with peanut butter or pouring out a bowl of Cheerios but preparing a meal is a bit of a challenge. It is entirely within his abilities, I am certain, which is not to say that he is very motivated. He does like to eat however, so I hope it dawns on him some day soon that we won’t be around forever to feed him and that learning to cook is in his own best interests.

Despite this nasty virus, I am working on poems for our most unusual art book, mine and Tina’s. I must admit to no real method. The work is getting done but I never believe, no matter how many poems I’ve written—that I can do it again. It feels like a hat trick, and of course highly anxiety inducing but if I persist in muddling through, I succeed. Tina digs them and that is the most important thing at this point.

Dreamed I was in a car with Josef at the wheel, a bear in pursuit, it’s giant furious furry head at Josef’s window. Continue reading

Aspiring snow birds fly the coop

Obamamania. Inauguration fever. Last day of the Bush regime! Exit interviews? As one of the fortunate survivors of race riots, the LA riots of 92, which seem like only yesterday, this day is very meaningful. Like so many other people, I never thought I’d live to see it.

Josef and I had coffee poolside with my dear friend and fellow poet, SA Griffin before we left LA. We discussed Bush’s absurd farewell speeches, the things he wants people to believe he accomplished as opposed to what really happened. Certainly he is trying to hack the media, the way his legacy is portrayed. I’m more inclined to listen to Keith Olbermann’s Eight Years In Eight Minutes. I don’t understand how Bush got away with all the despicable things he did!

January 20, 2009 THIS IS THE DAY WE BEGIN AGAIN

SA gave us several handsome posters of a poem he wrote commemorating Obama’s big day. We said we would be happy to distribute some in Canada and told him about the election night party we had on Bowen Island with its significant population of American expats. At one point, SA got up and gave a poster to a fellow who entered the lobby sporting an Obama-PROGRESS shirt. It seems the entire world is excited, hopeful at the shift in paradigm and it is my hope the world is able to stop hating America. Progress is being made, a characteristically American drive.

I was chatting with a friend this morning who has dual citizenship. Born in Montreal, adopted and raised in New York-Queens-I met Debby in Vancouver, then ran into her in Los Angeles after we had both relocated. We spent years painting the town red together and she is the inspiration for my poem, Three Blocks West Of Wonderland. I told her that I often miss my American friends and have so much fun when I’m down south. The people are generous, vigorous, expansive. After I hung up, I came across a funny article in the Vancouver Sun by Dan Gardner, called Get Over Yourself Canada, If this country were a teenage girl, she would be in for years of therapy which stated many of the things I had bitched to Debby about, including pettiness and parochialism. I am determined to buy a house in the California desert some day and winter there right about the time of year this place is at its darkest and coldest and it’s not just the climate that I am referring to. Perhaps geese aren’t such bird brains after all. Doesn’t it make sense to go where the food and good times are? Follow the sun? Screw borders. I’m a citizen of the world.

SA also has a son who is Aspergers so we share much empathy for one another. He has some interesting theories, Continue reading

True mercy & “First Comes Mary”

Cozumel, Mexico, 2006

Trying day; snow, snow, snow, and more snow! Up to our knees, still. sigh I haven’t seen so much snow since I was a kid living in Manitoba. I would walk to school in snowbanks two feet taller than myself. Last night I watched the wind hurling huge white flakes from the blackness onto my windows. My bitch Brinda is neck deep in it right now and eating it, shoving her snout in and chewing on it like a bone.

I’ve been stood up for an appointment with my medical herbalist. I received an excruciatingly sentimental Christmas card from my estranged sister. I can sense her reaching out, and my resistance, which I am working to overcome. She is lonely, I suspect. Our younger sister died in August, one of her few close friends. My anger has ebbed. She is all that remains of my immediate family and indeed, can drive me nuts but I do love her and miss her. So, I sent her a card and invited her to visit. If it happens or not, we shall see, but I know that I have tried, extended the olive branch. I decided as well, that our relationship doesn’t have to be perfect, or even healthy. I am going to have to be realistic, not expect so much, of her, of us. Considering all that we went through, I need to cut her a wide berth. She might need to realize that about me as well. I think we’re talking mercy here, which harkens the Mose Allison song/lyric, “Everybody’s cryin’ mercy but they don’t know the meaning of the word.” Used to cover it with my band the Zellots, I suppose because it rang true. Still does, so, we shall see. Continue reading

Poems for forthcoming arbutus art book with photographer Tina Schliessler

VELOCITY

Tremulous leaves quiver

but barmy birds eye

pistachios, fooled

by the flying V disciple’s

green skin peeping out

curling red pants of shell.

Crutch free at last

he climbs sunward,

higher than any other

for a glorious hour

of ecstasy, whooping hubris

before seeping sap loss,

Icarus molting,

plummeting boughs.

Helios thrill killing.

Winking navel

above the fork

must heft life up

out of the maelstrom.

CLAMOUR

Bark wattling,

coat warping, woofing.

Waning cockle stirrings,

withering crack,

lowering maven

trembles in a torrent of milk

mist, shudders at clonks,

crane calls,

dire sawing, rattling sheep

to slaughter

swarthy timbers falling.

Thunder in the chapel

beckons ample pressure,

staunchly wicked bush

germs, seething hands,

grizzled calculations shouted,

fleeting bounty,

illusory beneficence.

A death in the family; what’s left of it

Aug. 3, 2008

Loss a motif . . . I found out yesterday that my sister Diana died. Equally heartbreaking—we were estranged and had not spoken for over ten years. My nephew’s wife called because my other sister doesn’t talk to me either. Sheesh. What a family. I have felt so bad about it for so long but dysfunctionality is not uncommon. Most days I feel relieved I’m not subjected to the distress and bull crap we so capably subjected each other to. Small consolation. The normal, happy family is the rarity. Estrangement is relatively easy to ignore day to day but painfully evident at a time like this or the holidays when people come together to celebrate. Oh, that’s what the gorging and drinking was all about. No one told me. It’s a sad situation and I know it hurts my nephews. Still, it’s better than the afore mentioned bullshit. There are no easy answers, solutions often, in life. I have suggested a few, over the years, and extended the olive branch, more than once. It was still blowing in the wind last time I checked. Continue reading

The eternal struggle to look good, recent bird spottings, Charles’s MFA in film

I know why some women “let themselves go.” Looking good is a lot of work! My weight for example. Take my weight. Please. I’ve been struggling with it all my adult life, especially after hitting forty and peri-menopause, which wreaked havoc on my metabolism, mainly by slowing. The pounds creeped on imperceptibly. One day I got on the scale and the needle flew, way, way, way over 150 pounds. At 5’8”, I think my ideal weight is 140 pounds.

I had been thin/pure but was too young and dumb to realize it, always feeling like I was never thin enough, always feeling inadequate in other words. At least I had time to shop and though I couldn’t afford designer labels, was very resourceful and adept at finding highly stylish things to wear. Life was simple. Not so anymore, not with a kid and home schooling and running a household, like this woman in the van in front of me, full of wee ones, including a newborn. She has a look in her eye, like prey. Guess I’ve always suffered from a lack of self-esteem, boo hoo, and now I get to factor in aging as well. Buck up. As they say, aging is not for sissies. At least I have perspective along with the sore feet. My innate fashion sense and high quality garments are more important than ever, thus I spent hours and hours downtown looking for a dress to wear onstage. I’m wiped out!

Thunderstorm last night. Does it explain the vivid dreams I’ve been having? In this one Junior and his pals were seated on a Murphy bed. I was alarmed when I didn’t recognize two of them and asked Junior who they were. He, they, wouldn’t tell me. I got frustrated and closed the bed up, with them inside. I asked Junior to open it again, to give me the key. He laughed, said he didn’t know where it was. He found this very amusing but I was getting scared, on the verge of panic. I couldn’t open it!

Bird enchantment report: I spotted a new species by the feeder yesterday though this guy was on the ground. I thought it was a sea bird but looked it up in my guidebook and found out it was a woodpecker, a female. I get such a thrill every time I successfully identify a species. I can see why people get hooked on birding. Apparently, though most woodpeckers spend most of their time in trees, some will forage on the ground for insects. I was surprised to identify an exotic bird that resembled a parrot as an Evening Grosbeak. The poet in me is equally enchanted with bird names and categories: Loons, Grebes, Shearwaters, Petrels, Boobies, Gannets, Bitterns, Egrets, Spoonbills, Limpkins, Rails, Coots, Lapwings, Plovers, Skuas, Jacanas, Oystercatchers, Stilts, Terns, Skimmers, Auks, Cukoos, Nightjars, Trogons, Tryrant Flycatchers, Shrikes, Vireos, Larks, Wrentits, Verdins, Creepers, Nuthatches, Warblers, Gnatcatchers, Thrashers, Bulbuls, Accentors, Wagtails, Pipits, Tanagers, Towhees, Longspurs, Weavers.

Enjoyed an evening with new friends Tina Schliessler and Charles Wilkinson at their house in Deep Cove where they were celebrating his MFA in film from UBC. Tina is the artist whose phainting graces the cover of our new Aural Heather new cd, Princess Nut. I had the privilege of meeting their many intriguing and fabulous friends and family, including one of Tina’s favourite subjects, her son Pablo. I chatted with Charles about Tina’s enormous talent, humility and ability to put her subjects at ease. He said my face looked different in the flesh. I hope he meant it in a good way and there you have it, the afore mentioned insecurities roiling to the fore once more. Later Charles screened a documentary he directed called Down Here, a portrayal of several women that reside in the downtown eastside. The subject has been covered before yes, notably by my dear friend Lincoln Clarkes’ Heroines project, but Charles’s approach was equally uncompromising, authentic and quite striking with excellent cinematography and editing.

The latest

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

Birdlife enlivens my poetry

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/

Back in the saddle

I know. This is bad. No entries for weeks! My only excuse and the bane of my existence this time of year, is Christmas. Ugh. It takes over my life every holiday season no matter how hard I try to avoid its demands on my time and psyche. I know I’m not alone in dreading the annual holiday tide. Christ, it’s long. I swear it begins earlier every year. Retailers start in with the Christmas music right after Halloween. People start shopping and talking about Christmas in November, by early December they’re having their obligatory office parties and by Christmas eve I’m so sick of the whole thing, I just want to fly away like a red-nosed reindeer. This quote pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter. “If I had been the Virgin Mary, I would have said No.”–Stevie Smith. Or, “Happy Fucking Holidays” and I think a lot of people must say that. By the way, don’t virgins always say “No?”

We were all quite ambivalent this year. It was *magical* for me as a child but that is tempered by memories of drunken uncles fighting or falling on the tree and my parents being more broke than usual for months afterward. So the three of us debated but couldn’t agree on whether to have a tree or not. Finally Josef decided he did–Oh Tannenbaum–and so went out and procured one. A lot of work to put up but I have to admit, it looks and smells divine and we can let it rot on our woodpile in the back acre. I think next year we should buy a live one and plant it post-Christmas. At any rate, we just moved in August and this was to be our first Christmas in the new house. We had been planning a bohemian-themed gathering, with absinthe and exquisite corpses and finally had the opportunity to host it around the weekend of the winter solstice. Think we had this party and focused on it as a way to bypass some of the holiday madness but it caught up with us a few days later as we scrambled to get gifts for the children in our lives at the very least, and then wrapping, cooking, and on and on. We did have the pleasure of celebrating New Year’s eve in Whislter with my best friend Cathy at her fantastic new house that took nearly four years to build.

Busy week of meetings. Drove to Continue reading

Melancholia and drawing parallels

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.