mercredi 30 septembre 2015

Chatham-Kent 5. The Blue Planet

The Blue Planet

I was born of blue,
of the waters of Erie fair
in the southern-most
bottom of this warm
opening of a new nation.
Born of the waters of
Matrilineage:
Mother born of the fast-
flowing St. Clair,
taking in ships and families
with her  - once old
then fresh;
slow and gentle pools
bay at its end signaling
the place to birth
and bequeath.

Grandmother born of the
Atlantic, a deep wide
sequestered expanse with
room to keep memories
afloat, or
let them sink to
the dark sands of Poseidan’s
private waters.
Where a commitment
must be steadfast
for there is
no return fare, in
this country of blue.

I was born of blue,
the colour that calms
my heart,  waves
that lull my thoughts, lovers
that wash me
on this ‘Blue Planet’.
ETs of red or green
or brown know us not-

just as Blue.

Chatham-Kent 4. The night the music ended

The night the music ended

Leonard says he’s
always loved
to dance
Disco night at the
Gallery or
when he was 26 and met
Sharon.
She thought he was
boring, arrogant
even full of  it
but he showed her -
him
dancing, at first
the swing,
then twisting, moving
to the sound as his brush
with a life all its own.
Not like today.
Then there were
regular dances
couples taking a drag
and making out:
lips locked in dark
corners. Feeling
movement, sensations
soft, liquid.
Today art cost the
corner artist 50%
60% in Toronto.
And there are no dances
cigarettes dark anywhere;
ostracized to the light.
Now he
stands still
quiet.
Reproach ending

the dance.

jeudi 24 septembre 2015

Chatham-Kent 3. Built Lines

On the occasion of artist Lorie Thibault’s exhibit, “I Walk the Lines” (September 24, 2015):

Built lines anchor
structures of brick, granite,
wood slats
to their ground.
dependent axes of studio windows and
blinds,
lost lighthouse shingles and
Parisien balcons bleeding
smoky residue onto the
masts of tall Seine ships
running down, down -
one with gravity
to the floor of our world.

Natural lines curve up,
 just enough
for mathematicians to puzzle
the Poinsot of ragwood leaves, the
Klein quartics of peonies,
Euler spiral snails and
rhododendron catenaries -
all growing contrary to
the epicycloid center of
  construction.

“If a tree falls in a bog”;
if “Number 7” windows
fall into disarray of their
tidy y-axes; what
“distraught iron” wouldn’t
leave its prim ‘inside’
lines for the
softening,
curving, widening
release of Gaia?
In the end, all
lines flowing to
the independent
x-chromo our
“Neighbour”

right beside us.

mardi 22 septembre 2015

Chatham-Kent 2. 11,000+ Heroes

11,000 +
George, Mildred, Jack, Hugh, Pauline, Bob,
Harry the names of the Past
preserved for the future
here.
Our names.

“If I don’t make it home…” he wrote.
What will I do now? she wondered.
Voices speaking like cell phones on King.
here.

IODE. In those days, just women.
Museums, Culture: In those days, just men.

Today preserved for higher learning
preserved by us to know higher
here.
11,000 +








Chatham-Kent 1. Meal Cycle

1.     Meal Cycle

I.
I wake them with a gentle
shake
and a, “Madainn mhath!”
then warm the stove top for
tender, jelly-like
eggs
that grow dark
and hard as the
large hot pan attacks the soft
new edges.

I pop and butter toast, bake
scones as my gran did;
fry bacon from the new
country that
bubbles till it shrinks and
curls into itself.

We say grace, talk
about what the teacher wanted
who has practice later
what he said at school
 when they’ll
be home. I
kiss them
Goodbye.

II.
Work rushes,
children,
touch,
warmth
absent from the swim
of frenetic
fiddling email
schedules
calls
travel
no food,
no rest,
no sitting down
 then
 gone.

III.
The children wander home at their
own time,
one
after another
the order of age.
Now the soup of the day
simmers on the stove
all the past dinners
absorbing the cold
liquid fats between the
tarragon rosemary
turmeric
softening the crusty
edges of hard meat
bread, rice.
They talk of meals
in other homes
now. Children
I will not wake
any longer,
no dishes,
no pudding
stories of lunches
in classes with
sandwiches and
celery sticks,
the supper

of a life well fed.