Tag Archives: poetry

“Motoarson” or “Motoarsonist”?

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I’m not sure exactly where I’m at with this poem, what it needs, if it’s complete or not. Oh you know the process. I’m leaning toward “Motoarson” as the title but maybe “Motorarsonist” is better. What do you think? Let me know if you have any other suggestions, it’s a work-in-progress.

Motoarson

Distorted in stature
duke of a wilderness family
winced at the price of fuel,
the carcasses in his wake.
Malicious by accident
depending on which room
the grilling took place
by which cop,
the good or the bad.
Benevolently slamming
he braised ugly hams in the sun
daily ate a shit sandwich at the wheel
of the taxi he drove all over the city
and its sidewalks.
Nothing can stop a provocateur,
nothing can stop ignition,
the fires
set at night
to divert shame,
flee scandal.
Detonated plushly
the flames trebled, jumped rank
puddles, lakes, roads, cliffs,
roaring into the ocean
to singe mighty creatures,
giant squid and the blue whale.

My Three Blocks West of Wonderland interview with S.R. Duncan

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What are the three themes you explore most in the book?

Well, I depict the domestic front, though as Karen Solie-with whom I had the privilege of working with at Banff Arts Centre said-“the work is not domesticated. It reflects the nature of language as both a domestic product and as wild—impossible to fully manage or control.” I take a lot of risks in my poems, have an instinct for the weirdness of language, the sound and rhythm. I’ve written a suite of island poems, others about relationships and family; my life partner, my mother, my father, nieces, nephews and several inspired by my son. I also describe the battle front you could say, a suite of poems inspired by my travels with many alluding to our post 9-11 guilt and angst here in the *safe zone.* I think we’re collectively waiting for the other shoe to drop, a dread summed up with a flying motif and section titles named Sky Watchers, Wax Wings and Hard Landings. In addition, I’ve addressed the classic man against nature theme in Hot Dogger, My Mountain and Habitat. I’m intrigued by extreme sports enthusiasts, adrenalin junkies. My father was an intrepid hunter and fisherman, I grew up in the great outdoors but we never felt compelled to climb for the sake of climbing, just lived in the woods.

In a brief paragraph describe what you think the book is about (assuming there is a theme)?

I think The Theme is simply prevailing. One of the poems called How To Remain moves beyond mere survival, endurance, but portrays thriving, prevailing. Boldly. With panache. Style, grace and good humour. I hope.

Why did you write this book?

Because Continue reading →

Evolution, from urbanite to islander!

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Island view south

This poem from my new book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland, inspired by our move to Bowen Island in the . . .


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 though. January. Naked ape it

on the Continue reading →

WINNIPEG DOWNS from Three Blocks West of Wonderland

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Ekstasis Editions, 2009

I’m finally coming up for air after 10 manic days of mania, albeit with a skewered neck and pain radiating up the entire left side of my skull. Occasionally it will roost in my temple or behind my ear. Well it’s true that the only out is through so here I sit, too messed up to focus or write so will blog another day and in the meantime share a poem from the new book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland.

WINNIPEG DOWNS

Games of chance. Sleight of hand. Games invented
to wash us out of her lush, chestnut hair,
setting little sister and me off to stoop and scoop
discarded tickets. Plucky as yard hens. Two bags
full. Staggered, not by one-too-many beers
but a winning wager, she whooped I can buy
you girls supper! Dragged around like carrion
in a diesel-rank yellow Beetle, we fought

to hide in the nausea-inducing verboten slot
where balled-up fists could not reach.
Dutifully she ordered a Mama burger
though professing to prefer the Teen. Two bites. I bet
she had no appetite after six months of whiplash prescription.
Her lumpy thumbs hefted fivers, entering the weekly lottery,
blowing crumbs of crud off a scratch & win ticket between pulls
on a machine-rolled fag, corduroy car coat pockmarked
with cigarette burns. Bingo-lottery-horse-and card-playing loser.

My hand. A mother rather like that species
of turtle that leaves the clutch in a lurch to hatch,
scuttling down to the tavern, I mean, ocean. To be fair,
she always returned to pour salt on our sugar
sandwiches or fry up some baloney. Midnight shuffle
back to our shack behind the white fence of birch
to catch me in the hook of her hand, give me something
to cry about. On special occasions
her bad nerves, moods, might recede.
Christmas especially mollified her.

A waitress—blinded by Chinese restaurant-light
brutal as the belly of an illuminated submarine—
she did not see us, our saucer eyes, our brightness,
so busy she was rubbing lucky charms
and rusty magic lamps. Telling stories. Lying
in bed reading True Confessions, liking her coffee crisp.

She can rest in her La-Z Boy, now that the little buggers
are grown. Against all odds.
Now that she’s toothless, painless and respectable
except for the plethora of aces up her sleeve.
In no position to coerce, she cajoles
us into playing gin rummy. Crib. I have to laugh,
the way she groans when dealt the joker,
as if she knows him intimately.

On the eve of my *new* book, Three Blocks West of Wonderland

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Crazy week! Or two. Fighting a cold and losing, succumbing to aches, pains, fatigue, trying to ignore H1N1 fear mongering, largely by the press and government. I was just discussing it with my niece and she said a friend was in panic mode and saying, “Did you hear about the healthy young man slayed by it?” Niece saw his picture and said he must have weighed 400 pounds. Apparently obesity is a complicating factor.

I don’t know, my GP says everyone should get vaccinated, to reduce the number of carriers, my naturopath says you have to eat a lot of dirt before you die, it’s natural and I swing back and forth. Naturally. I ignored previous plagues, even in Romania, the rumored origin of bird flu and never worried. People die of seasonal flu every year. This year’s variety, the swine flu is getting a lot of press and a bit harder to dismiss.

I’ve been spending quite a lot of time proofing the galleys for my new collection of verse, Three Blocks West of Wonderland that I told new FB friend Timothy Taylor was completed over a year ago. My still unpublished novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter is nearly as old as my dog and her chin is covered with white hair these days. In the meantime, Continue reading →

The Proper Tool from “Three Blocks West of Wonderland”

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Heading to the printers soon. Woo hoo!

The Proper Tool

I’m raring. I’m keen. Keen on the job, keen on green

suede, pea soup green suede. Round mountains

of breast meat. The taste of breadfruit. I’m fond

of blue fin, the Nepali coast. On off days I mourn

road kill, vanishing tooth fairies, yell above the wind

in ironwood trees or run over wild boars. I try to decipher

your posture, sagging down pipe. Was it something I said?

Did I wing a wrench into the works of your Stoly-propelled,

part-time life of letters? Did my leaky duck plump

body mangle your shift,

the entire working class hero period?

You don’t know your Gatsbys

from your Kowalskis, pub-crawling from slumming.

I buy jade, Siberian tiger’s eye. Thyme

infused bath bombs. Glass beads. Silk and suede,

green suede, so much easier to stroke than you.

Go saw yourself in half. Go nail

it in, back against the wall. Paint yourself, or it,

black. Into a corner. Weld your metal. Meld

the two halves of your dark side. Screw yourself.

Gather the loose ones. Punch yourself out.

And the livin’s easy…

poems,

DIVERSIONS

Learn how to eat a kumquat.
Watch giant sink holes
chow down on suburban family homes,
or floods that force
a Fargo wedding party to improvise.
Giggity Giggity Giggity!
Bird dog with Glenn Quagmire,
noxious as hound’s-thistle
or do it yourself.
Right single-handedly
Dial-A-Lover.
Get a second life.
Come out.
All aboard
the tattoo parlour car.
Fly your freak flag
out the window.
Evolve by gradation,
colour or tone, your choice.
Master effervescent technology.
Ride a ride.
Tilt-A-Whirl,
tumult on the horizon
causing you to retch.

When apps go sideways, haiku, hillbilly noble woman

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Why, why, why? Why do applications go sideways, stop behaving normally? I need to make changes, update my web site, which is why I bought Adobe Contribute, and can’t because, the Edit Page field is gone and I can’t move the windows around. Arrgghh! And why do I have to spend so much time dicking around with this stuff? I just want to get in and drive. I bought it as a download and have no clue as to how to find the serial number or how to re-install, get to spend the weekend trouble shooting.I told my web designer John Dowler I’m amazed he has any hair left. I want to tear mine out!

I’m trying to write, despite a million distractions. So what else is new? I’m planning a retreat next month. My friend Pete has offered me the use of his place in Gibsons before he moves out so I think I will go over there and work on the novel, get it ready for the Mother Tongue BC novel deadline end of May. Just wrote a haiku for BARE, the art book with Tina though I’m not certain about that title. Most of the trees are bare though so perhaps it is apt .

lofty midrib splayed
dual cedar blades soaring
clear of high riggers

I’m beginning to wonder if there is something going on hormonally that is making me more sensitive to smell. I swear there must be a dead mouse rotting in the utility room. I keep smelling gas and all kinds of pleasant and unpleasant aromas around the house. I have always been acutely sensitive to smell though, my mother said I used to Continue reading →

Poems for forthcoming arbutus art book with photographer Tina Schliessler

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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.