Poems

PAD 2017 – Day 4

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There was some prompt harmony today between the Writer’s Digest suggestion to write a beginning or ending poem, and the POETRYisEVERYTHING prompt to write a poem in the voice of an extinct animal. The first that came to mind was passenger pigeons, because I find their story both interesting and terrible. There were an estimated 3-5 billion in North America before European contact, and by the early 1900s, none were left in the wild. The last known passenger pigeon, Martha, died at the Cincinnati Zoological Garden in 1914. Here’s a stab and a start to a poem that could be the beginning of something bigger.

 

Chorus

 

We remember the whir of  a thousand wings, the way

each of our bodies read the bodies at our sides.

Sky wave rolling from one cluster of oaks to the next,

we poured into valleys to rest and to feed.

 

How rapid the change from a few violent blasts,

to a thunder of rifles, the snag of nets,

the bite of flames and grey dust in the nests.

How hollow the wind without us.

 

Taking a historical perspective on Alberta writing today with Icelandic-Canadian poet Stephan G. Stephansson’s “Seasons in Alberta.” I love the imagery in here, and the line: For her own amusement alone / she teases the four winds

 

PAD 2017 – Day 3

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Today’s Writer’s Digest prompt is to write a “______ of Love” poem. I have “not a lot of love” for this prompt, because I found it so difficult! All I could come up with was a micro of sorts, but many of the other creations I’ve read on the site are wonderful.

Parachute of Love

If I had one now
I wouldn’t be
falling for you
so hard.

It was much easier for me to pick an Alberta poet today, and fittingly there’s some lusty humour and masterful wordplay in her poem. Leslie Greentree is a Griffin Poetry Prize nominated writer from Red Deer. Please check out this excellent video of her reading “if I was a gate” from her book go-go dancing for Elvis.

 

 

PAD 2017 – Day 2

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Doing a bit of prompt mixing today with the the NaPoWriMo.net suggestion to write a poem inspired by a recipe, and the Writer’s Digest “not today” prompt. Today would’ve been my Mom’s 74th birthday, so this one’s still at the fresh-from-the-sentimental-oven stage.

 

How to Celebrate

 

To do it right

I’d make you a cherry pie,

the perfect crust, flaky and just brown,

sticky sweet filling bubbling at the edges

and a fork-print “M” in the centre

for Mom.

 

To do it right

I’d celebrate your birthday

with tulips and a tune,

Song Sung Blue, a hot cup of coffee,

a mucky walk along

the river.

 

To do it right

I’d gather photos of you,

before I was born,

before any of us were,

and your hair fell past

your shoulders.

 

To do it right

I’d read that soft smile

for the woman you were,

more on your lips

that I wish you could

tell me.

 

My Alberta poem share today is by Calgary poet Tyler B. Perry, titled “I don’t teach subjects; I teach students.” It’s one of my favourites from his first book, Lessons in Falling.

PAD 2017 – Day 1

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Hooray, hooray it’s the first of…April! That means the start of National Poetry Month, and NaPoWriMo. Like previous years, I am attempting to write and post for the poem-a-day challenge, using prompts from various places (there are lots of great ones out there!) and combining them if it works.

I am big on ambition, but short on time, so I don’t expect these poems to be particularly polished. But what I’ve learned from previous years of participating in this is that it’s more about the discipline it takes to write something every day, and also about finding ways to experiment or try out new forms.

I am also going to use the month to shine some light on the many, many wonderful poets who live in my own province, Alberta. I plan to post a link to an online work by an Alberta poet each day, and encourage you to not only read their work, but take the time to seek out and support the poets in your own region. They will thank you for it.

Today’s poem comes from a Writer’s Digest prompt to write a “reminiscing” poem, mixed with the NaPoWriMo prompt to emulate the style of poet Kay Ryan.

 

A Shady Path

 

Imagine a tree

so thick at its base

that even Billy’s

long arms couldn’t

embrace the space,

but how sharp

the sound, the snap

of one fallen branch

blocking our path,

just a trio of leaves

left on its skinny

fingers, the way

a whisper of breeze

slipped under

my dress like

a warning.

 

My Alberta poem today comes from one of my all-time favourite poets, Alice Major. Not only am I constantly amazed by Alice’s books (of which there are many), but I am also in admiration of her lifetime commitment to spreading the love of poetry. She is the first poet laureate of Edmonton and the founder of the fabulous Edmonton Poetry Festival. Please click here to read the wonderful poem  “Suncatcher” and learn more about Ms. Major.

Poem: No Mishaps

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I spend too much time on Twitter. Even on days — like most days, lately — when it seems to be an endless timeline of terrible news, there are bright spots. Every day I learn, laugh, connect and discover, but it still sucks my time. So today, I thought I’d try to make (good?) use of that time by chopping snippets of tweets from some of the people or organizations I follow*, tossing them around in a word blender, and attempting to write a new poem. Here’s what came of it. Though not all the tweets that inspired this were political in nature, the thoughts in my head are in political prison right now, so I suppose writing things like this is a way to break out.

 

No Mishaps

 

Can’t tell if the song is brilliant or crap,

the machine gun percussion, big rig motor grind,

and Phil Collins as lead singer. But leaders,

I know leaders. Leaders win and smile when they say,

hey, it’s a-ok, c’mon and drink the water

with just an essence of lead. A danger? No danger,

it’s all in your head, listen to your heart, listen to us,

there is a war, but not that war  — a war on coal,

a war on country, a war on YOU, and how dare they say

it’s not a communist plot. They’re feeding you

this cosmic dread, but the answer is easy,

the answer is here, no, NO, there’s nothing under there,

Look ! OVER HERE! We make the sun shine, the sunshine is huge,

a huge dose of Vitamin D, very important for good health,

you take care of you, and we’ll take care of

us, but  really, you’ll thank us. It’ll be amazing, you’ll see.

Did you taste the water?  We have the best water,

come swim in the water, no one drowns in the water,

no one’s forced into water. YOU, you are the one

touched by migration, you are the one in need of

safe crossing to the future of your past,

to what came before, and what came after. Remember?

Do you remember, it was pure white gold,

that sweet family photo in the tall shiny tower,

you can be in that photo. You can be met with grace,

the resurrection of everything great.

Listen, do you hear it? That round of applause,

the loudest hand claps from the biggest, best hands,

That song we keep playing, are you singing it now?

Are you affected yet? Infected yet? They’ll try

to tell you that a vaccine exists, but the price

is too high. The price isn’t the sky, or the trees

or the birds. The price is your freedom and

we’ll stop you from paying.  No mishaps,

we’re golden. We’re good. And yes, you can

thank us. Your welcome is welcome.

 

*NOTE: The title “No Mishaps” came from a Tweet by Edmonton artist @JayIsPainting. Other parts of lines were borrowed from or inspired by  @thomaspluck: (cosmic dread), @MSF_canada: (vaccine exists, but the price is too high)  @anniegirl1138: (not a communist plot) @wickerkat: (Can’t tell if it’s brilliant or crap) @Don_Share: (touched by migration) @AusmaZehanat: (safe crossing ) @ChuckWendig: (and the resurrection) @HighwayTomson: (Your welcome is welcome. ) @TheAmericansFX: (be met with grace) @ThatEricAlper: (Phil Collins as lead singer & what came before, and what came after) @KimPigSquash: (Vit D very important for good health) @CBCAlerts: (war on coal).

 

 

Haiku Horizons Prompt – Search

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This week’s Haiku Horizons word prompt is “search.” It’s been awhile since I played along, but the first day of spring (on the calendar anyway…still wintry out my window) seems like a good reason to plant some words.

 

first day of spring

magpie searches the snow

for a sign

*******

her searchlight smile

beaming

from the red carpet

*******

insomnia

searching for answers

in moon shadows

Poem: Demeter in the Kitchen

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Sometimes my dreams are almost like found poems. I’m not sure why I stumbled upon this one in my sleep last night, but perhaps words — like good bread — are best when shared.

 

Demeter in the Kitchen

 

The still house at dawn

and she’s kneading dough, a rye bread

she gently places in a red ceramic loaf pan.

Demeter, of flesh except for her marble eyes,

blank and smooth. She wears a blue floral house dress

pinched neat at the waist, and a thick braid falls

to the middle of her back. I ask if she’ll have me

in the kitchen, to watch her work some more.

A warning wrapped in her silent nod,

there’s a cost to learning

how to conjure life from dust.

 

 

Poem: Poem For Rent

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Wiping the dust off the old blog with a quick response to today’s Poetic Asides prompt to write a “bulletin board poem.”

Poem For Rent

 

Small, but clean,

affordable and close to all

metaphorical amenities.

Pets welcome, if they

come in like the fog.

Layers of meaning

removed

by previous tenants,

so it’s yours

to interpret

as you

see fit.

 

Big thanks to the creative Marie Craven who used this for a cool videopoem. You can watch it here.

Poem: Out of the Quagmire

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All week I wanted to stop listening to, reading about and watching coverage of the horrific Orlando shooting, but like many people, I am transfixed by these now too-familiar stories, always looking for the why. Then I heard this woman talking on As It Happens about the discovery of a massive hunk of butter preserved for millennia in the Irish bog. It was a fascinating story, and I couldn’t help but imagine how our world might be different if we gave up all our assault rifles to the earth.

 

Out of the Quagmire

 

The Irish woman on the radio relives the moment

she touched a 2000-year-old,

22-pound hunk of odorous bog butter.

An offering to the Gods to protect

a man’s family, his fields, his livestock,

now here again in mortal hands.

A wish kept whole in the earth.

 

I’ve seen photos of bodies, pulled from the same peat,

their bronzed skin stretched across sharp cheekbones,

leather men and women with red, acid-stained hair.

Ropes around the neck, holes in the skull,

even ancient corpses tell how

but rarely the why.

 

Weapons too, preserved by the bog —

hammers, swords, spears, shields.

Iron-age artillery. Basic.

Not high capacity, quick-reload,

reliable, user-friendly, efficient.

Not marketable, profitable, stock shares soaring

before the dead have been named.

 

The Irish woman talks about what the bog can sustain,

but what will it grant? Prayers or amnesty?

Is there room enough for so many mistakes?

If we offered, would it keep our rifles

for another thousand years?

Until some future human’s hands

might pull them from the quagmire,

and note how primitive. How uncivilized.

How simple they were

to think love

could be so easily silenced.