Monday, January 31, 2011

Underwhelmed online

My poem "Underwhelmed, if that's a word" is now online at The Walrus, awaiting your unenthusiastic appraisal.

UPDATE: The comments stream following the poem is starting to get quite entertaining.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Me, Myself and I or Who do You Think You Are?

My latest blog post is up at the Best Canadian Poetry site. It's on my favourite subject.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

DWELLING [revised]



Strolling through these woods, I've chanced to dwell
upon the mouth of this long-abandoned
well. The boards its former owner must have
placed across the hole to keep stray animals
from falling in have rotted, gone to ground;
the stones that ring the lip are so moss-crusted

you can barely see them; a dump of rusted
cans and antique bottles surrounding the well
has sprawled and overflows onto the drowned
carcasses below. Fireweed's abundance
hereabout suggests the homestead's fate, animals
screaming as ember-jewelled rafters cave

in on them. Or not. It may be that I crave
high drama to explain the blown and busted
beauty of this plot. We are the only animals
seeking answers, building myths, raising dual
options. Making errors. What is it in abandoned
land, a refuse heap and a hole in the ground

sends my idle mind winding circles round
itself? Why not just wander on and leave
off speculation? Because abandoning
the understory to fungus and wild mustard
makes the deaths of those domestic animals
mean nothing, turns the history of their dwelling

here to dust. Out of every thing there wells
some essence, each dug hole and heaped mound
tells something of its labour, no animal
is separate from its heritage, so shave
away the surface of the piece of land on
which you stand and you'll find all the mustered

spirit matter of its clumped and clustered
self pulsing signals: activated nerve cells
messaging a brain. No land is abandoned
so long as someone somewhere saves
an image of it in her mind; no animal's
life ends when its bones are buried in the ground.

Time comes to abandon this idyll and heave
off for the green and rust-red concession I've dwelled
upon since birth. Animal smells, a well, tilled ground.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

DWELLING



Strolling through these woods, I've chanced to dwell
upon the mouth of this long-abandoned
well. The boards its former owner must have
placed across the hole to keep stray animals
from falling in have rotted and gone to ground;
the stones that ring the lip are so moss-crusted

you can barely see them. A dump of rusted
tin cans and antique bottles surrounding the well
has no doubt overflowed onto the drowned
carcasses below. Fireweed's abundance
hereabout suggests the homestead's fate, animals
screaming as ember-jewelled rafters caved

in on them. Or not. I could just be craving
high drama to explain the blown and busted
beauty of this plot. We are the only animals
seeking answers, building myths, raising dual
options. Making errors. What is it in abandoned
land, a garbage heap and a hole in the ground

sends my idle mind winding circles round
itself? Why not just wander on and leave
off speculation? Because abandoning
the understory to fungus and wild mustard
makes the deaths of these domestic animals
mean nothing, turns the history of their dwelling

here to dust. Out of every thing there wells
some essence, each dug hole and heaped mound
tells something of its labour, no animal
is separate from its heritage, so shave
away the surface of the piece of land on
which you stand and you'll find all the mustered

spirit matter of its clumped and clustered
self pulsing signals: activated nerve cells
messaging a brain. No land is abandoned
so long as someone somewhere saves
a picture of it in her mind; no animal's
life ends when its bones are buried in the ground.

Time comes to abandon this idyll and heave
off for the green and rust-red place on which I've dwelled
since birth. Animal smells and well-tilled ground.






Against Originality

My latest blog post is up at the Best Canadian Poetry site. Check it out!

Monday, January 24, 2011

an explanation

I posted a new version of my poem-in-progress, which is not something I usually do. What I typically do is post a working draft I'm reasonably happy with and twiddle and tweak it without saying anything about the twiddles n tweaks. But I did quite a bit of tweaking on it today, so I decided to repost it altogether and undo some of the tweaks (the ones I could remember, as I'm bad about keeping drafts) in the previous post. So if you're curious to see a bit of step-by-step in my revision process, you now can, you lucky ducks.

PIECEMEAL



I construct nothing without first tearing
it down. My body's the sum of everyone's
parts. I do hope you won't begrudge sharing
your heart. Not that I care: half of the fun's

in begging forgiveness. I laminate
your private thoughts and post them on my wall.
I've always found it better to come late,
ill-dressed, than never to show up at all.

I've so far declined the experts' advice
concerning long-term palliative care
of my parents. I'm a dog for this vice,
my soft spot for anything counter and quare.

Reviews online and poem in print

Just found out that my brief reviews of Jim Johnstone's Patternicity and Jeff Latosik's Tiny, Frantic, Stronger are now online (along with many other reviews) at Arc's website.

I also found out that my poem "Underwhelmed, if That's a Word" is in the new issue of The Walrus, which I haven't seen yet, but I got an email from someone who has, so if it's not on a newsstand near you, it soon will be, tra-la.

Virtuosity

I'm blogging for the Best Canadian Poetry antho over the next couple of weeks. My first post, on the much-maligned topic of virtuosity, is now up.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

PIECEMEAL



I can build nothing without first tearing
it down. My work is the sum of everyone's
parts. I really hope you don't mind sharing
your heart. Not that I care. All of the fun's

in begging forgiveness. I violate
your private thoughts and post them on my wall.
I've always said it's better to come late,
ill-dressed, than never to arrive at all.

I've so far declined the experts' advice
concerning long-term palliative care
of my parents. My sole bond is to this vice,
my fondness for all things counter and quare.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Sunrise in the Eyes of the Snowman

Very pleasant surprise today to receive my copy of Goran Simic's Sunrise in the Eyes of the Snowman, a book I'm proud to have edited. Might I suggest you order a copy?

Monday, January 17, 2011

IN THE CONCENTRATION CAMP



Distilled silence;
condensation
on a pane.






Monday, January 10, 2011

Car cancer

Got an alert today for something rather droll. Seems the good people at the How Pedestrian blog got these two fellers to read my poem "A Winter." Seems they only got one take...



You can also hear me reading the poem at Julie Wilson's Seen Reading.

One Question

Alex Boyd had one question for me. And I done answered it.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Some Love for Josh Trotter

Michael Lista think that Joshua Trotter's All This Could Be Yours is one of the five best books of 2010. And he's in some heavyweight company here. I'm super-biased, having edited the thing, but I agree. (I edited it because I think it's a great book, not the other way around; editing Josh's ms. was, I must say, not a tall order.) Order yours today!

Saturday, January 1, 2011

WAYPOINTS


for Elizabeth Bishop

Comes a time, traveller, to rest your bones
by the roadside, to stretch out in a flowered
ditch, catch your breath and watch the patterned
play of sunlight and shadow on the membranes
of your eyelids, a few minutes or an hour
if needed. Comes a time at a trivial
junction to pause and reconnoitre,
reconsider flight plans and waypoints, wait
for someone with a wagon to pass by
and offer you a ride wherever it is
they're going. Comes a time when the sky
's dyed rose and darkening, to find a roof
or some other form of warmth and shelter
that might, on waking, be mistaken for a home.