Tag Archives: Heather Haley

When you can’t get enough-LOVE HORMONE-new poem

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Image by Rinrarity
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LOVE HORMONE

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Oxytocin starved astronomer

Mimics Orion, hunting lions,

Chasing skirt

Up the wrong leg.

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The inability to secrete,

Let down, feel empathy;

Hence the psycho prevails,

Clashes resound.

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Squelched desires jangle,

Jilted car commanding astronaut

Double parking

To pepper spray a rival,

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While back on earth

Nothing blows up well

For the demolitionist,

Neither concrete monstrosity

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Nor the ugliest obstacle.

Assaulted with meat,

Sun wooden, anger builds

Resolutely as prison tatts claiming flesh.

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OUR GRASSROOTS ARE SHOWING!-Visible Verse 2012 Festival post-mortem

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Earthquakes. Hurricanes. End times? Well, I’m high on a ridge, icing a sprained ankle, trying to focus on a post-mortem of this year’s Visible Verse Festival at Pacific Cinémathèque. Fortunately far-flung friends and relatives have all assured me they are safe, so I will proceed.

“The best year yet!” is what I was told repeatedly. Good turnout, a bit of press coverage, and wonderful new staff to work with, the festival is definitely entering a fresh and exciting phase. Era. Changing the date from November to October, immediately following the Vancouver International Film Festival helped raise our profile, and get more bums in the seats. I’ve never understood how filmmakers and cinephiles could not be curious about a fusion of verse and the moving image. Wouldn’t that work to inform one’s own work?

Though I had help from family members, the at-home transferring process was laborious. Brutal. I will have to figure out a way to expedite matters next year and I’m determined to find an intern. Or two. There has been much talk of producing a trailer for promotional purposes but so far, it’s all talk. *sigh*  Maybe next year. I’m glad the festival is growing but it’s becoming too much for one person, director. Our grass roots are showing.

I should refine my instructions after receiving all manner of file formats, many so huge they took far too long to download. Getting them onto disk was exacting and time consuming. I went to the theatre several times for run-throughs with a very capable and charming Aussie projectionist. With 38 selections, things can get a bit hairy, but everything looked and sounded fantastic. All the hard work was worth it.  I received many compliments on the programming as well, which was gratifying, as it’s the toughest task.

My dear friend and comrade-in-music Julie Vik put us up at the Holiday Inn across the street so I was able to go back and forth to attend to duties, despite several formidable distractions. At 3:30 I helped Alberta artist Phillip Jagger, AKA Satoreye Dreamtime, set up for his Reigning In Chaos: Words Into Video hands-on workshop, demonstrating the Kaos pad, iPod and video jamming software. And demonstrate he did! Wild man Phil performed his work, then shared much useful information about his process in an engaging manner, encouraging participants to come up and try out his gear.

I returned to the hotel to change, got back to the theatre lobby, nervous, happy to greet artists and poets as they arrived. It’s always very exciting to see and hear my selections on the big screen at last. We kicked off year 13 of the festival at 7 PM. With a full program, due to the record number of entries, I kept my introduction brief but took time to thank Jim Sinclair and the rest of the staff and volunteers at Pacific Cinémathèque, proclaiming our pride as North America’s sustaining venue for artistically significant videopoetry and poetry film.

We opened with the big, bombastic and sublimely funny stream of consciousness Continue reading →

BUENOS AIRES OR BUST!

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I hope. I’ve been so swamped with the Visible Verse Festival I haven’t had much time to devote to fundraising. I’ve set up a Let’s Send Visible Verse to VideoBardo IndieGoGo campaign and raised a little dough but still have a long way to go. I hate to beg but please make a donation if you can.

A great professional opportunity awaits in Argentina! I have been invited to present a keynote address at the 4th VideoBardo Festival/Conference in Buenos Aires on the theme of “Videopoetry; New Perspectives on an Interdisciplinary Practice.” I will be presenting a paper called “Seeing The Voice: Beyond Media.” Material from the symposium will become part of a theoretical publication with academic and cultural purposes.

Since 1999, and as founder of the Vancouver Videopoem and Visible Verse Festivals, I have worked hard to provide a venue for the genre, contributed vigorously to the theoretical knowledge of the form and on Aug. 24th, will be honored for my work with a Pandora Literary Award. This is from their press release: “Stimulating and directing cultural fulmination is as natural to Haley as manipulating media. She is an innovative programmer with a history of staunch commitment to the arts community and cultural awareness. With a strongly held conviction that artists, especially poets, needed to be represented on the World Wide Web, she founded The Edgewise Café in 1994, one of Canada’s first electronic literary magazines, along with the non-profit arts organization, the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre. The EEC facilitated the Vancouver Videopoem Festival and Telepoetics, a videoconferenced reading series. The Edgewise ElectroLit Centre’s populist mandate and innovative programs effectively made poetry accessible to all and assisted Canadian artists in expanding both their audience and potential.”

VideoBardo is one of the few international events acknowledged for its comprehensive exploration and dissemination of information related to videopoetry. My participation in the festival/conference will contribute greatly to my development as both a curator and practicing artist.

It’s a wonderful opportunity in so many ways; I will meet like-minded artists with whom to exchange ideas and information, helping to raise the profile of a rather obscure but emerging art form, though it seems there are new videopoetry festivals and sites popping up all over the world every day. While at the festival/conference, I will be attending screenings, lectures, workshops, performances and will also participate in a poetry reading.

As much as I love what I do, I am a struggling artist and cultural work sadly doesn’t pay much. I need to raise the airfare—an expensive, long trip to Buenos Aires from Vancouver—a per diem, inner city travel and accommodations. Having never been to South America, I’m excited at the prospect of making new contacts and becoming immersed in the city’s culture, fortunate to have festival organizers as guides.

My work in the genre may be viewed here at Vimeo.

I just established my own company with my teenaged son as editor called Visible Verse Productions.

These links were provided by VideoBardo director Javier Robledo and contain pertinent information about the conference’s venues and scheduled events:

•27th Nov -> Palais de Glace
•28th Nov -> CCEBA (Centro Cultural de España en Buenos Aires plus Malba plus Biblioteca Nacional
•29th Nov -> CCEBA + Fundación Hampatu
•30 th Nov-> CCEBA + Biblioteca Nacional
1st Dec -> Microcine IMPA Oracio Campos
•2nd Dec -> Club Pejerrey de Quilmes
•Creo Producciones

NAVIGATING SWOLLEN MOATS

Journal, poems,

This is likely my last summer on the island. I must move, and not by choice. I’ve been swept up by a tsunami of circumstance. Naturally, I am feeling nostalgic. I know that the only constant in life is change but I resist. I love the place, first wound up here in 1993 after fleeing post-riot Los Angeles, part of the white exodus. I had survived that annus horribilus, my mother dying after a long ordeal, my marriage and our recording studio business both disintegrating. I wasn’t cognizant of my dire need for recovery, in the midst of tumult, trying to flee an abusive relationship and an awful situation. Or two. But I found sanctuary here. Friends, one of whom died suddenly last month. I strolled past his cottage yesterday, now vacant but filled with memories. R provided so many of us refuge, countless parties, meals. Love. I didn’t realize how much until after he was gone. How sad is that? Ah, the proverbial lessons of adversity, the ongoing saga of loss and transcendence; what would we do without them? How would we gain perspective?

TORRENT

August’s bloom barren foxglove

Sway, last island summer

Set ablaze. Bolted from.

Sloppy spy mission complete.

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Deadheads snag my crossing.

Buffers hinder streaming

But ruin is fluid,

Handily lifting my kayak,

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Absconding with the ice.

Linen skin burned, I swim

the swollen moat, finding no salve

Nor catharsis on its far bank.

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LET’S STOP LYING… free love and love freely…

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Possible? This poem was inspired by Susan Sontag’s Illustrated Diary Excerpts, and this quote in particular: “Mad people who stand alone and burn. I’m attracted to them because they give me permission to do the same.” And this quote resonated as well: “Can I love non-possessively, permissively, without withdrawing myself, setting up my own defenses and strategic retreats, on one hand, or reducing the amount and intensity of my love, on the other?” I too aspire to love non-possessively but admit that the impulse, or instinct to both withhold and possess-protect myself-is nearly impossible to resist. I wind up feeling alienated, frustrated, confused. I must persist though, for it is likely the only humanistic love, love beyond community, perhaps even tribal.

WARES

I need a good barrel. Or barrelful.
Beer, rain, oil, doesn’t matter,
Just give it to me.
Then go

Or come, oh nuisance caller,
Nothing to sell, less to share.
Will we ever buy into each other?
Switch crowns? Silence crickets,

Respective niggles?
‘Tis folly, seeking sanctuary
Beneath a bat roosting tree.
Their jaunty black sky scribbles

Invade our periphery,
Jolt our creaky alliance.
Cold in front of the fire,
Burning side by side,

Stones skip beyond us,
Cinema of sunset so banal
It provides no sidetrack. Score.
Tally. Or anything we want.

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HARD TIMES

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New poem. Nuff said.

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HARD TIMES

Fathers frown upon the floppy,

The flagging, the soft,

Sentiment and dodging church.

Dummies.

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Dad disapproves of alone moments

No matter how hard it gets.

Extend yourself numb nuts

And you will be rewarded with stature.

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Ample Mama frets the fluids,

Chief Alpha Pop declaring

No stains. No beach. Align yourself

With your brothers. Mask nothing.

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Abide. Or I will give you something

to cry about. I’ll inflict the day. Labour.

Bumps. Loads. Crowing cocks.

Substance. A crossroad or two.

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INOPERATIVE

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Some things never change.

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INOPERATIVE

For Captain

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Let us lurk.

Spoof.

Touch wood.

Long overdue lark

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Though rain must intervene,

Doctor numbness,

Float islands,

Drown ticks, butts.

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Let us linger. Ponder.

Graph. So much garbage,

Deaf dog hearing malice,

Mercy always garbled,

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Medicine arriving post dumpster.

Let us sit and watch. Chart

Possessed joker. Poison aim.

Undiagnosed. Diabolical.

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Sick puppy. Whatever.

We are immune.

We must imagine

Fear, a wolf at the door

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One prick at a time.

Let us stop. Think.

Beatings, shootings,

Storm of rattling sabers,

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Healthy status quo,

My clubfeet halted.

Hacked.

Cured.

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THE TOWN SLUT’S DAUGHTER novel excerpt

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Woo hoo! There’s activity on the novel front, interest from an agent and a publisher. These are Night of the Clash Concert scenes from Chapter Three. Sorry I can’t format it better in WordPress, which sucks.

Does he do this she wondered? Conjure up last night, the things we did, feel an after-shudder? Waiting to see Emmett Hayes, was . . . agony! She couldn’t eat. Think straight. Gawd I hate this! Half an hour late. Again. Fiona diddled her guitar, scanned a book, traipsed back and forth to the fridge, swinging wildly between anger and anxiety. Why doesn’t he call? That dink! She could have gone with Rita and Shannon. She could have spent her hard earned cash on something besides a new silk bra and panties. That bastard. Then, still cursing, she heard his obnoxious Porsche engine out front and relief coursed through her limbs. She barely resisted the urge to run to the car.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mouthed, the Clash’s I Fought the Law blasting from his Blaupaunkts. “Did you hear? They came out and played soccer with us!”
“Who won?”
“They did, of course. My shins are covered in bruises.”
Emmett yarded on the gears pinball wizard style. Soon they were pelted with fat raindrops. He pulled over immediately to put the top up. They cruised the block repeatedly in search of the safest parking spot for his precious steed of steel. At last they entered the fading art-deco grandeur of the Commodore Ballroom, Emmett waving tickets at the doorman, breezing by security like a diplomat. Christ. He must have been left under a cabbage by mistake. Emmett surveyed the room, refusing Fiona’s hand.
“Fuck! Look at all the poseurs.”
Fiona spied Dennis across the room, stomach tilting at the reproach in his face. A young woman in a booth flanking the stage sat sneering.
“Emmett, who’s that girl glaring at us?”
He ignored the question, wandered off, Fiona following.
The Clash had an excellent DJ spinning a killer mix of ska, punk, reggae and dub. Fiona waved to Shannon and friends. The place was jammed with every die-hard in the city, slam dancing on its famous ballroom floor, originally designed to make any clodhopper hoof it like Fred Astaire. The Commodore had character all right and it was the perfect size. She hated arena shows. The Dishrags opene, inspiring to watch fellow females wailing on guitar. They finished with a blazing rendition of London’s Burning. Next up, Bo Diddley. Emmett said the Clash brought the old guy along as a way to pay homage to one of rock and roll’s originators. She shrugged.
“I’m too young for nostalgia.”
Unfortunately, the Powder Blues were his pickup band, old fart-guitar god wannabes and though playing with a legend, forced everyone to sit through a long, boring wank session.
“Fuck this. I wanna see the Clash!” Fiona was not alone in her sentiments.
Shannon walked over and pulled her aside. “See that girl? That’s Electra. One of Emmett’s girlfriends. He told her he was bringing her tonight.”
“Electra! Sounds like an Italian scooter.”
“She’s weird. Really mad, says she’s gonna beat the crap out of you.”
Laughing, they walked over to Emmett. He lowered his drink, deigned to look at them, insisting he hadn’t invited anyone but Fiona. Clouds of tension were gathering on the dance floor as well, burly security guards manning the barriers. Finally, the Clash emerged, a tidal wave of bodies surging forward, the band opening with I’m So Bored With the U.S.A, Emmett off the hook. For now.
Beer. You only rent it. Fiona ran to the bathroom between songs, in and out of a stall quickly. Electra appeared, strutted over and squinted up into Fiona’s face like a Pekinese.
“Hey bitch! Keep your paws off Emmett or I will kill you.”
Looking around, Fiona laughed. “Where’s the hidden camera? Hey, Eeeelectraaaa. I think you’d better stay away from Emmett.”
“Wanna fight about it?”
“Hah! I could squish you like a bug. Fuck off! This ain’t junior high, you know.”
What Electra lacked in size, she made up for in attitude, fueled by four-inch stilettos, garters, fishnets, black leather mini skirt, all of which had nothing to do with style and everything to do with Emmett.
Electra spit at her. Missing her target—Fiona’s face—the gob splatted onto her clavicle. Fiona looked down. Nearly blind with fury, she handily hoisted Electra up by the lapels of her leather jacket. Shannon barged in. Fiona slammed Electra into the wall, back of her head banging the paper towel dispenser. Electra yelped.
“You bitch. You fucking whore!”
Shannon grabbed Fiona by the arm. They walked out dogged by the undaunted Lilliputian. Fiona barreled over to Emmett.
“What were you thinking?”
“I told you! I didn’t ask her. She just assumed.”
Wee Electra was at the bar again, glowering.
“Get lost, you skanky broad!” yelled Emmett.
Snotty pose pierced like a balloon, Electra flumped away, people laughing in her wake.
“God Emmett you’re an asshole!”
“Hey, I brought you. What do you care?”
“I care because it’s the same way you treat me. Like shit!”
“Fuck this!” He walked away in a huff.
Fuck this all right! Fighting tears, determined to revel in this night to remember, Fiona formed two fists and shoved her way through the crowd, jabbing, elbowing, bashing. S Continue reading →

WHEN BABIES FLY; THE TRUTH PERCHANCE?

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I had a disturbing dream, surely inspired by the Houla massacre, which some people are claiming was a hoax. Keerist. It’s not as if children don’t die in civil wars. In any case, I don’t have much to say-or spin-or would rather put it in verse.

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DISPATCH

An infant is not a toy.
An infant cannot breathe underwater
Or fly though the air. Do not drape it
Over the prone man’s head

Or dress it up like a doll.
An alias views the grisly scene.
Posts. Shares. Tweets.
Foreign observers abort,

Prominent commentators punt
But the drunken skipper acts,
Ordering clean sheets and neat rows
Down below in the hold,

Rogue Unidentified Man
Hoisting the limp boy aloft,
Manipulating our feelings.
Let’s not quibble.

It matters not if the child
Is southern or northern,
Grew spurs or knew pride.
It is as good as dead.

Crooked passages.
Limping messengers.
Frantic, tail-chasing-dog orbits.
A million ships couldn’t transport us.

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TREEHOUSE MYOPIA

Journal, poems, , ,
ANY CHARACTER HERE

All the pain and suffering in the world and all I want to do is nothing. With all that’s happening in my life, I am only sick of my problems—myself—so here I sit at the window trying in vain to see the forest for the trees. I know one thing. I yearn. Therefore I am?

“Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.”-Shakespeare

ANY CHARACTER HERE

RETREAT

Red cedar raven roost,

Feat invisible as its roots

Heavy metal imbued

Purifying groundwater.

ANY CHARACTER HERE

These trees that breathe

When I am panting, sighing, wishing

I could tell you.

Swaying branches camouflage

ANY CHARACTER HERE

My fatal bent, freckles, green canopy

Concealing skewed moments, missed cues,

Taint, our silence lulling as a zephyr,

Blindness sweet as sheep.

ANY CHARACTER HERE
ANY CHARACTER HERE