siberian squill

unaware of the state of emergency up above

purple flowers poke their heads through the sodden prairie soil 

just because

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Doubts, they swing open
a door
into a room
with no
walls. They are never
entertaining.

I fall asleep knowing I have
failed my parents.

I write poetry.

In the morning, truth still
matters. So does the sun. I think of
a title: "A Hard Rock To Swallow".

The phone rings. It's you.

A door shuts.

The main difference between a poet and a madman is













.

Lasso

Twist rope into a jaw
(large enough to swallow
the calf whole, horns first).
Hemp tail limp in your left hand.

Wrist bones knitted into a honda knot,
pulse with each precise turn.
Your arm the axel, lariat the kicking wheel
of an overturned cart.

Hoop of rope level, steadily catching
lip of wind, whip-whistling,
lashing like an aspen’s arm.

You throw a hawk.
Watch it soar, snatch its prey,
squeeze.

Walking the dog

What a day--surprised a crane in a sudden clearcut
takeoff fast, not a speck ungainly.
Vole-holes and inhale juniper,
brand new long-haired dog, happy
the way only dogs can be happy with their noses buried in underbrush following the breeze
into the trees, like birdwatchers, novice spring
forest-walkers, tempted so often off path.
Ticks in the upholstery for weeks.
Tail thumping as we tweezed them each.
Happier than me running
fingers through my hair.
But no parasites go to dog heaven.
Scatter her ashes in the boreal forest,
off mossed and faint path,
tuck our pants into our socks,
and wag our tails.

The Impossibility of Fireflies

She wants to believe
in the impossibility of fireflies,
their existence a rumour
perpetuated by friends from the East
and their poetry and songs.

Briefly, she confuses them with bees
and their ridiculous honey, then remembers.

Syrup, she’s been told, comes from trees,
but she’s sucked the sap off palms
after days spent amongst pine and sagebrush
and wonders why the world
continues to lie to her. She concludes
it may as well come from fireflies
or their cousins, the fairies.

She know roads have been diverted
to appease the elves. She can’t think
of anything that could appease her.

Breath

Our baby's breath is small and white, and it smells like milk.
I used to lie, senses open, in the path
of your heavy sleep, watching your giant mouth hang slightly open,
your girlish lashes flutter tinily. Your breath
smelled of beer and Mexican food,
your skin like chiles and sweat.
It was hot. We were broke.

Her breath is sedative, a hot toddy.
It might as well sound like warm rain, the kind I wake to wondering
why did I sleep in? Because the rain is still resting its grey sleep down.
A rare mid morning, and on her face, your ample mouth puckers.
Your eyelashes on her eyes. Twitch-crack--and

up.

June says

Hurry up and plant, hurry up and grow.
Fitsbew, bzeee, your time is now.
June itches to go swimming, go barefoot, go.
Gorges on strawberries and cherries—
hatches fruit flies inside the house.
June wobbles its bike in the tennis courts,
sports t-shirts and shorts, lakeside girls
flipping front to back like toast.
June has a heady nose: larkspur, peony,
and rose, the night air freshly laundered, warm
enough to sleep with windows open.
June swells with pea pods
and days fat as beach balls.
June brings the frenzy before the lull,
each rounded letter a cup about to overflow.

Secret Ops

The big ugly on the news
flies past my head—

no cell in my brain cares
about far-flung death
or wants to be reminded
of so much hate
hidden in bunkers
plotting new deaths
in the name of holy hates.

I am powerless.

Tonight when I scan
my wits for any link
to strong protection
do I spot the Navy Seals pin
left one night years ago
when my high school lover
visited this small house
shook my husband’s hand

hugged me with his steel arms
and left before dawn,
the pin on my side table.

In a writer’s desk clutter lies
my golden link to one man passing by,
my human history still caring,
checking to find me safe

calling the situation
all clear, in good hands.

Bound

Height my constant companion, Cheng to my Eng. It is my wife, my work, my home. The one familiar in these stuffy cities, so alien and greasy with privilege, where coins slide too easily out of pockets and into frippery, petty entertainments. (How can the hulk of a man be worth a whole dime? Papa had to work for one until his legs quavered, jaw too weary to chew his skimpy supper. I make my living on God’s back.)

This body my glory and shame. Cross and salvation.

I could lop off my foot at the instep and never squeeze into a standard shoe, never take a staircase without turning sideways. Grind down my shoulders and I’d still clip both door jambs.

But, even days I dream of being skinned of my burden like a buffalo, I lean on it with the full beast of my weight. Savour the luscious odyssey made by a slow swallow of whiskey down and down my long throat.

First ride

Each day thinking soon, soon

as snow recedes from pavement,

water slips down storm drains

thinking of chrome fenders flashing sun

the comfort of a padded seat, a bell,

a taillight blinking. The hairpin turn

by Omand's Creek, the bridge,

the birdsong trail. Rush of air

past bare arms, magic of gear ratios,

power of these less-than-muscular

legs, my slow flight beneath arching elms.

That will come later. The first ride

is scarf and gloves, cold seat, cold ears.

Mere minutes till thighs grow stiff,

slightest incline becomes a hill,

and thoughts turn to how far

I should venture before

I can say that's enough

for now.

Myhead

soround sofull sowide soflat contains mybrain mysoul myeyes mynose myears mymouth
so fat: mythoughts
gotsmacked sohard myhead sawspots and onlyholes wherewords oncelived where
language

breathed

nowcavities

gape

theback of myhead above thenape of myneck. can'tcheck. can'tsee. a mystery to wake upstaring at thesky calling "anyonethere" existentially

myname begins andstarts with"A" ithink aboutthat nightandday.(AmnesiaAphrodesia. WhoAmIandWhatAmIDoingHere) AnnoyingAndAwesome AllAlone, annoyingawesome or awesomelyannoying: Ithink ofwords
thatI coulduse to
legitimize
my personalviews, theway iam theway iwas theway iwrite atnight
because

i'mscared wheni wakeup i'llbe somethingmuchless thanonce wasme.
smacking
yourhead isclose to obscene,only beat bymeetinga
guillotine/CUT

Table graces

Mornings while we dress

water bubbles in the kettle,

news and weather murmur

from the kitchen radio.

Reading and prayers, each

of us in turn, and finally

Come dear Lord

and be our guest. Then

corn flakes with milk, one small glass

of juice, toast with gooseberry jam.

Or bran flakes in the bowl,

rhubarb jam on the toast.

We come home at noon to brown buns

with salami, a little lettuce, maybe cheese.

Canned fruit and cookies after.

It's Come dear Lord quickly mumbled, then

a reatreat into separate worlds:

the Old West, the Future, Middle Earth.

For supper, a steaming casserole,

dill pickles, bread and butter.

Dessert every night. We're fond of sweets.

But first: and let this food

tu use be blessed Amen. We joke,

argue, fall silent. We remark on

the state of the world.

We pass the milk.

Desecration

for D.M.

You buy your anger by the carton,
light the tip and watch it smolder. You're
still here, what's one day less from a doubtful
future. Not all grow older. Smoke
rises

at the trial of your sister's
death at a stranger's
hand. Your mother's
cry in the courtroom when they read the charges
to the bland-faced
man.

"Indignation to a body",
adjourning to
your mother's
scream.

You flick
the Bic,
inhale tobacco.

Exhale:
dirt
dead leaves

charred
flesh

Daleen.

Homebound

On a sick day with enough sun
to keep tears locked in the sky

the squishy ground sinks
with each rain soaked step,

like nose wet marks
heading home to dry,

stepping through patch
after patch of emerging colors.

Dozens of poppies vibrate
in the silver fuzzy patch
just past the blue iris clumps—

jade tongues frame
the violet tinge in each
humble bowing bloom.

I long to pass through the glass
storm door and gather
an armload of May to carry inside—

but the sky is too big
the clouds too close
too much all of it

and even the knowing robin
makes her nest outside my window
in an abandoned strawberry pot

so I may watch the purest clutch of
four blue eggs sit like petals
of an amazing flower

until life cracks appear
and allow me to bear witness

in my fragility
to the unfolding of tiny wings

gifts to carry my limits away
into the open bigger blue above.

Shrinking

The world shrinks. A little every day, as if brick buildings, steel railway cars, wither in the sun. Rooms everywhere close in; walls slowly march toward one another, ceilings cede to gravity. How long before I’m suffocated?

An eating apple becomes a crab in the bowl of my palm. A ladle a teaspoon. Woman’s face a cameo.

Children lost to me now. Though their thin voices sometimes tiptoe, reach up, grab at my chin. Trees have shed all authority, all majesty. Like a father, the first time he cries before his son. At age nine, I outgrew his hand-me-downs.

14th and Woodlawn

the park with crows calling
is still there, though
that time is done and it is
light out now.

you are still the same lost boy
and I am still hiding
between the door and the wall
behind blue velveteen robes
that smell like dust and coffee.

they invite me up again
into the same black branches
where the view is all feathers
flapping downy down and rain,
yellow moss, bark, bird legs and claws.

Housekeeping

Hey May Day poets! PLEASE tag your posts with your name! (And preferably only your name!) So I don't have to waste valuable May Day time tagging them for you!

Delusional Parasitosis

Doubt covers the skin.
And yet not doubt, yet as sure as spring.
A new creepiness: one, two, three
thousand little doubts and frustrations crept up
from the past, and descended finally in a Biblical deluge.
An innocent box of matzoh, seal broken, a conduit
for decades of unscratched itches.
One plague, two plagues, three plagues times the number of fingers, etc.
But the worst plague of all descends alone, on only one,
the worst plague is invisible and improbable,
tingling skin static humming: ignore ignore ignore ignore ignore.

4 mai

hola mayo!

bonjour mai!

hello mon beau!

o

o

o

je suis ici (hallu hallo I'm calling down to you, from the top of your rabbit hole)

et je t'attends

patiently patiently

o mon beau, mon beau, mi amigo (guapo guapo in your deserts, you are quite frankly, delicious)

the plum blossoms are opening

they are fragrant as Shiraz,

they are the colour of Persian carpets

yellow finches balance like drunkards

in my fruit trees

o mon amour, mon amour

this winter you kissed and kissed me

in my kitchen, whispered,

this love will take great patience,

then went out, took the axe, cut and stacked

my winter's wood (it kept me warm)

I cried

when you drove away

o may, o mai, o mayo, o may

my love come swiftly

o may you, my love,

come swiftly,

o mai, mon amour

come swiftly

like white homing doves

swiftly, swiftly,

to me

May Poem #1

Eating vanilla yogurt, 10pm,
straight out
of the container, standing
at the counter
with the company
of the half curved off
cresent moon

tin-foil lid, facing me.
The road sounds
like an ocean, each car a wave
crash, I suck yogurt foam
off the spoon, another dip,
another thing pulled in
by the moon.

-Kaitlyn Boulding

Fashionably Late Introduction

Hello, May
I introduce myself,

I realize I am a few days
late for the month
but I hope to make up
in poetry
what I may
lack
in promptness.

--Kaitlyn Boulding, new May-Day writer (aiming for 3/week) writing from my kitchen in Winnipeg.

Returning from seeing the man with the beard of bees

The rain is a field of snapdragons.
We avoid the orchard—rotting plums bite ankles.
There is another baby on the way, skin
first a slick eel, then inevetibly, powder.
I am impatient your tongue is not a scroll
inked mystical, clairvoyant, stern.
Instead, we choose the comfort
of a half-packed suitcase and stones
polished by a blue-eyed girl
and I let the peppermint grow wild.

Fuck you, hair gel

I think it's time
to throw out
this hair gel
I bought at the Walgreens
next door to the church
for your wedding
to a guy you now fight
for who gets to love
the kid more

where I met the man
who became my lover
then my husband
then my not-lover
then my not-husband

The Walgreens
was burned down
a few years ago
by bored 11 year olds,
one of whom lost
a hand in the flames

So fuck you hair gel
Your patented
super-hold formula
hasn't held anything
to
gether
at
all

Bird watching

The nest yoked to willow branches strung with galls
the nest cured over winter
empty

is an dry mouth flooded
with saliva
and no prospect of food

trees to either side gnawed and dragged into the bog
the willow in-fill housing
a crown.

Imagine the egg. The shell mulched
underfoot, bird
watching from a nearby tree.

Coyote

That coyote's no cat-killer,
can't even jaw a hare, just
stares at it, ears aquiver.
Thin as a rat, mangy coat--
can’t you see it’s too weak
to hunt, too young
to be orphaned to railroad
and back alley scratches
with raccoons over trash--
that coyote won’t make it
through winter without
a little help. Vegetable peels,
dog food left out, just till
it fattens up.

Fixture of the parking lot.
Whistle and it comes.
Photographers win close-ups
of its trim trot and sleek waist,
see the fur’s grown in—
no show dog, but toddlers
outstretch their mittens.

Do not feed wildlife
signs paper every post. Incident
waiting to happen, a nip
to the hand or collared throat. That coyote
won’t make it through winter,
going to get shot first.

Catching up

Here since the beginning, working through distance, cancer, blockages and confusion, I come to write again with friends who gather in May. Recent medical issues delayed my 2011 entry but I will be posting as ability allows. Some days I limp; some days I run. Other days I am perfectly still, silent as a poppy unfolding in the dawn.

Birth Defects: The Tongue

Did they explain the deeper mysteries of the birds
and the bees with a few simple exercises
in Mendelian genetics, blue eyes
versus the brown-eyed peas?

Or in Scotland. I saw in Bonnyrigg
more teen mothers than even in Winnipeg.
Roads crowded by stone walls, ditches crusty
with shattered Victorian dishes, and buses bursting
with pale incomprehensible babies.

In Scotland, a failed homework assignment:
a third of students with impossible blood types.
Birds: 1.
Bees: 0.

If all blood types hold true,
then my father's father's mother's mother's
father died falling off an Edinburgh roof.
His greyish-skinned teen bride,
the chimney sweeper's wife, smelling of spent fossil fuel,
with her lightly smudged and also incomprehensible child.

But in school. There was something about the tongue,
rolling the tongue, like a pancake
just waiting for a greasy fellow to slip a sausage in it.
When I brought the baby home, she rolled her tongue at me.
Does this mean I am not her mother?

Or did I learn it wrong?
Like that other girl, in a science lab,
dutifully scraping her tender cheek
for cells to dollop with yellow dye and magnify
beyond lack of recognition. But the diagram must be wrong.
She records it graphically with a number 1 Deep Yellow Laurentian.
Cells still swimming from lunch hour under the stairs.

Spectacle

Among impossible occupations: thievery. Though my coat is large enough to conceal a woman held for ransom; palm could swallow the crown jewels. Eyes, always on me, hold me honest. Even a half-witted witness could pick me out, and from behind. No need to make up the wanted poster. No other man fits this description.

Of course, I don’t need to steal; wouldn’t, even if I could find a shadow large enough to slink into. I have money in my pocket and my only job is to stand up straight. Compared with men who break horses, break land, I’m already a shyster. But I envy the privacy of the burglar, silence of his work. I’d like to know stealth.

Eyes on me the way swarms fix on the rankest man. So thick, there’s no point in swatting. I’ve learned to let them crawl over my face, hold my gaze steady on the horizon, imagine my getaway.

I wake often, certain I see a figure bent over the bed, hear eyelashes brush key hole. Alone only when hunchbacked in the outhouse, I’ve come to relish the cloister of a long, hard shit.

Post Election Blues

Woke up with a whine-induced
headache nothing could alleviate.
Woke up wishing the whole country
could take a morning after pill.
Woke up to find half a nation
holding a wake, the other half
nodding satisfied.
Woke up feeling newborn, but
with a cord around my neck
turning me blue, turning us
all blue. A blue country. Blue
skies seem distant. Blue
birds sing "four more years, four
more years" and beyond a flash
of orange in the bushes, all I see
is solid blue to the horizon.

Woke up wondering where I can go
until the next election.
Woke up thinking the shadow cast by the blinds
looked a lot like prison bars.
Woke up wondering when we're all going to
Wake up
Wake up
Wake.

3 mai

eeny meany miney mai

my may my mai may my

my may mai may I my may

mon beau, mon love, mon I?

First shower

A drop, a drop. Water sets water in motion.

Wave-circles blink on puddles,

spread, disappear. Here and gone

before you can say there—look—

skin of water quicksilver, sprinkled

silent drops making chains of perfect

rings quickly broken, random,

prolific. Drops fall without

a splash, setting pools aflicker,

small drops just sufficient

to raise the first scent of wet earth.

Sudden florescence the signal

of what's to come: when,

after slow unfolding, mere hints

of growth, the greening world

accelerates.

Bed edge

Bed edge

We balance on the edges,
Tightropesleepwalkers,
Limbs thrust to outer darkness
Where the cold things are.
Mommy, turn on the blankets;
I'm cold, and my eyes are broken:
The only person here with
A full slate of mattress beneath.

This bed has been shrinking, while the other edge still
Grows more and more distant.
Fuller, emptier, sleepier, giddy with years.
Only this one rung visible
On a very long ladder.

Fairyland

Fairyland a city of electric lightbulbs – easier to count raindrops, blinks of your own eyelids. A skyful of stars neatened into lariats; dark tarted-up in endless blazing garland. No shadows to slouch behind, no night to melt into. No reason to pack up at dusk when dimes still glint in palms.

I prefer the honesty of sun (chance to catch my shadow at mid-day – a moment to be ordinary), flattery of a high, full moon. Breath-flicker of lantern, laughter of campfire, cracking sparks into the sky. Sweet, unrequited kiss of firefly.

These bulbs have no flames to hatch, to suckle. No life in them. So easily made, unmade. Conjured. And the buzz relentless as mosquitoes furious to pierce tent skin.

MayDay Intro

My first 2 poems were therapy! I was covering a body building event and needed to work through my issues. Thanks for bearing with me.

The MayDavians (?MayDayans?) rock.

This is my...3rd year on May Day. I am in SK but have some roots in MB, too. I may mostly be a lurker this year, but I'll try and contribute.

One of my poems from prior years was shortlisted for TNQ's occasional poem contest (one of Kerry's was HM I think! She has really been rocking it!) 4 Batoche poems from last year won subTerrain's Lush Triumphant poetry award (the issue that is out now, I think.) Their illustrations were amazing.

I was knocked unconscious a few weeks back and am still having head and eye (and language) trouble, so I'm keeping my expectations low for now. (Just what every writer needs, a head injury: I've been typing with my eyes closed as a coping mechanism.) I am having some tracking/comprehension/memory difficulties I'd rather attribute to being another year older. Then again if it's injury-induced, maybe it's reversible, unlike aging!

Looking forward to cheering you on. A

mai 2

ah me ah my ah mon

amour, amour, mon amour

la guerre nous avons blessé

et tu m'avait blessé

blessed me blessed me

white rain, phosphorous

your lips, soft bites, a thousand gorgeous injuries

blessing my spine, the back of my neck,

a year after the nights we slept a room away,

abandoned white Russian schoolhouse, Afghanistan

M6s, AKs, weapons all around me, my frag vest, helmet, ballistics tucked

under the green army cot, you sleeping

I could already feel you coming towards me

through three foot thick hand-built stone walls,

past big wooden doors, HQ's sleeping platoons, the arties in place,

the middle of the night, CP crackling like wrapping paper

you, crackling, keeping watch, watch, watch, keeping me alive,chewing your gum,

under purple Afghan mountains, the ridge of sky

la guerre mon amour, la guerre

has blessed us/wounded us, bound us,

ever.

Ladies First

Mincing onto the stage, orange plastic skin,
high heels, sparkly bikinis
quick flex, knee bow and a wave
line up at the side precisely.

"And the first five ladies, proceed
to the centre"
- a man comes out to point them into place:
you cannot be female, strong, and smart
after all

"and a quarter turn to the right"
- Malibu Barbie on a rotisserie,
flexing her biceps

"and another quarter turn..."
- they flip their styled hair to show off
their backs, some tattooes (one woman
still turned sideways until the judge says
"face the rear of the stage")

"and another..."
- legs are flexed, triceps too
tummies sucked tight

"and..."
- told to relax, they all have
splayed fingers, painted nails
the same fixed and vaselined smile

All those muscles and you docilely go
wherever the men tell you. No posedowns
no flexes, just 3 quarter turns while the
audience whistles: nice ass.

The winners are the thinnest ones. Platinum
blondes with ribcages like bracelets.
Sorted by height, for the convenience
of the massahs.

flooded, ii

"The more I am, the less I know

And what I do is all too much"

George Harrison

you take a piece and

then an

other

and it's all too much

like he said it was

so take a piece but not too much

because I am

sinking.

I want to float, 

be filled without drowning.

Flooded by your needs

I am

sinking

and it's all too much

it's all too much

you know...

Mai

ah me

ah my

ah may

ah may I

ma-i

avec vous?

back for year 5 or 6? coming out of the trenches (literally and figuratively). I was thinking about writing Lazarus. not sure about it. I was thinking about writing about bull fighting. not sure about it. my daughter says, "Why don't you write about something nice? Like flowers." (she's sick of army. sick of war.)

nice. hmmm. nice.

well anyway. I have some news. I've won a big award to do my PhD (writing) in the U.K.

etc.

glad to be back

A giant undertaking -- literally

Hi everyone,

Meet Edouard Beaupre: Born in 1881 to homesteaders in Willow Bunch, Saskatchewan, he grew rapidly due to a pituitary abnormality, eventually measuring 8'3". His dream of being a cowboy dashed (so tall his feet dragged on the ground), and to support his family who were very poor, he toured with various circus sideshows, displaying his height and performing feats of strength. (This despite being very shy.) He died of TB in 1904 (age 23) at the St. Louis World's Fair.

You'll be getting to know more about Edouard over the month of May.

Not sure how often I'll post, but I'm looking forward to the work and reading what all of you are up to.

Cheers!
Kerry



David’s stone



1.
Each breath a wave that grabs a new handful of sludge from the reedy depths, dredges stones and junk to clatter along ribs, echo through chest.




2.
Dust-strafed
Hail-pocked
Wind-thrashed
Summer-scorched
Turned mush by freeze-thaw-freeze
Vine-strangled
Light-starved
Mite-infested
Blood-sucked

Lungs
slowly eroded, as if by vultures




3.
On The Pike I’m a Titan, lifting cannon balls and anchors, men and mares above my head. Ten cents to see me, another dime for a photo. The show always swarmed, but no one sees the rot under my long coat, muscle gone maggoty, skin greyed by shallow breath.




4.
Can’t laugh,
turn my head from every crude joke,
so as not to stoke the cough.

Can’t sleep,
only ten minutes in a hard chair
until my neck quakes.

Can’t eat,
no strength to cut the meat,
work the jaw.

Can’t take the handkerchief away
from my lips without thinking the blood
is like berries mashed in a child’s palm.

Greetings!

I'm so happy to not have a major film project distracting me from being a Real Participant this year!

I'm writing mainly from Chicago, but will also be in Winnipeg and Ohio this month, which should provide many thoughts and stimuli as good fodder for words and images. I will adopt Ariel's sagacious goal of averaging a poem every other day, but will secretly hope to build up a surplus...

Happy poeming to all!

May Day

May Day

I don't know anymore

what's even possible

she sighs.

White blossoms

float on the breeze,

nestle in our hair.

I want to

use the excuse of

brushing one

from her wrist

to turn her fingers over,

tell her my answer:

Everything, everything,

Everything.

First Winter

For months, nothing
but winter rain, slush,
the dull coordinated
plumage of stubborn
pigeons, and a changeless
dirty-newsprint sky,
as though all the city's bad
news ran together
soggy and absent
of colour. The only heat
steamed dark and fleeting
from cardboard coffee cups,
puddles of tar
in new potholes, a brief
blast from a dark doorway
closing. How did we live
here, in damp chill,
in black and white? Not well.
I stayed home, ate,
watch television, slept
late or not at all, balanced
on the thin thread
between thermometer zeros.

Bonjour, joyeux mai!

Hello everyone! Happy to be May Daying with you for a second year. This year I'm writing from Montreal. I'm in the midst of having a houseguest and jobhunting, but I'm hoping for two poems a week, and maybe more. No set themes this year, though I expect the recent influx of spring here will prompt a flurry of naturey poems (though today's poem is decidedly unspringy! it's maybe part of a multi-part multi-season piece. I'm not really sure yet). Looking forward to reading everyone's work and swapping feedback. Thanks, Ariel, for inviting me back.

-Marika.

Hello!

This will be my first May Day year. Ariel kindly asked me the last two years, but I couldn't due to other commitments, but here I am this year and very much looking forward to it. I won't be as active as I'd like to be, though. We're moving in two months, so I'm packing my house, trying to find tenants, solo-parenting two boys (3 & 5), and I'm pregnant. I'm exhausted just thinking about it all!

I've recently wrapped up my second manuscript of poetry, and I have no idea what I'd like to write next, so what I will be posting will not even been full poems and literally written the night before, most likely without anything uniting them. It's scary to do this, but I think it will be a good exercise. I hope to post every three days or so, ending up with 8 - 10 first drafts of poems. I won't be commenting as much as I should/would like to, and consequently I don't expect my poems to be commented on much either.

I look forward to getting to know you through your work. Happy May, everyone!

p.s. I haven't properly introduced myself, have I? My name is Marita and my first book of poetry, All Things Said & Done was published in 2007. I have an MFA in Creative Writing from UBC, grew up in small town BC, lived in Vancouver for about twelve years, moved to Edmonton in 2007 and will be moving back to Vancouver this summer (hence the packing). You can see my poor, neglected blog here.

IN THE SHADE OF THE PALM

Fallen leaves fasten to the bottom of my shoe
drenched green and flattened
like strangers in crowded street car
holding to an unsteady support.
We climb aboard after a quick drench
from this summer gust of wind, wetness filling
the brim of her hat, a small dam in woven straw
a heart about to burst despite the heavy-handed
nest. I keep my hands at her elbow as we ride,
her shoulder leans into me with each sudden tug
left then right. Standing room only
flattens us closer, hip/thigh, our breathing
still shallow from the short run—
darkened park of elm and young oak
opening to the slippery road.
The downpour stuns the tram's metal
roof, stings my ears before slowing,
a choir settling into a song
tenor voices from Florodora mesmerizing us
until we are all standing in front
of a piano in Seattle’s parlour
listening to the even sound
rain playing nature’s keys—
this new tune thumping the surface
of our afternoon contemplation.
But I'm roused from this spell by her palm
tapping my hand with every bump.
The soft rain beads on her coat,
drips in quarter notes along pleated fabric,
the perfect rhythm of awareness
my eyes following the path,
my foot already there.




Happy MayDay!

I'm grateful to be writing in May once again (I do believe this is my sixth year)--I'm hoping to do something thematic; I've been contemplating writing some poems based on Tom Thomson for quite some time, and perhaps now is the time to do it. I can't say that I'll keep a regular schedule of writing or commenting, but I'll post and get to some comments when I can!
Tracy.

Introduction

K.I. Press here. This month I hope to post poems on weekdays, and take weekends off to play Sims.

I'll be creating new rough drafts, and I hope doing some second drafts from a big, big pile of roughs I have lying around.

I'm also experimenting with writing on the new iPad, so expect.... A lot of typos.

I need you.

If a tree falls down in your yard
cut a block
and round the edges.
Then you have a small table
or a stool,
ottoman.

Wake up,
every morning early
and do something until a certain time.
Then do something else
for awhile,
repeat.

When you hear a bird,
find out what bird you heard
and remember the name.
Then you will know
for next time,
which one.

If you need me,
tell me that you need me
somehow.
Then I will decide
whether I need you,
too.

good may, good night

hello everyone, glad to be back in May with you all. I'm hiding in Ontario for the majority of the month, but am hoping to post new work as it arrives on the page.

for now, good night!

Built.

"And pose. And relax.
And please if we could have
Some music now for the 30 second
Posedown."

Prance. Flex. Show the others up, strike
a better pose, pivot, pose again.
How many months to make
this tan-in-a-can man
dripping oil, tensing 'til he shakes.
Grimace and flex, strain against the constrain
of veined and sinewed skin.

"And front double bicep -"
- arms shiny like drumsticks

"Front lateral spread, please -"
- plastic chests gleam

"Side of your choice - "
- pivot, turn, tuck and duck, like there's
too long a line for the toilet

"Gentlemen face the back of the stage please - "
- a leg extends, plants, the muscles of the back
dance. A whole body suspended in one giant
charlie horse, a ripple of stones across shoulders.

"Front isolation - "
- washboard abs, women in the audience
absently reach for laundry baskets, recover

"Side triceps - "
- these men could rip off their own heads
if they so chose

"Final pose, most muscular -"
- how do they find clothes?

"Bring these gentlemen
their participation medals."

Unable to stop, they push imaginary
grocery carts and lawnmowers to make their
muscles pop. Ken dolls with real hair, bulging
trunks. Skeletal rolls and ropes, basted turkeys
with no dark meat.

So muscular
they can just barely move: have not
eaten real food
in weeks.

"And leave the stage so we can announce
the top three."

Reluctantly sliding out of the lights
snapping their trunks
slapping their feet.
Three come back.
Inevitably: the biggest man
wins.

flooded

.

Waves leap at the sand-bagged banks

Winter is forecasted, again

the muddy red has had her fill.
.......The levees are lowered now
.......Inundated, her eyes
.......can no longer retain
They say the crest will soon arrive
.......Will it be soon enough
........................she wonders

.

How to learn morse code

1.
Put a peppercorn on your tongue. Swallow. Repeat.

2.
Sprawled on the grassy berm just behind the mall
trucks-in-reverse are to loading
docks as tagged whales
are to breeding grounds: sounding frequently.

3.
Oily fingerprints on a door.

4.
Um. When armageddon comes, your tippity-tap skills will be on par with those who can kill remorselessly.

5.
........ pitilessly.

6.
Dried raindrops on a window.

7.
Necessity may be the mother of invention, but loads of free time and a touch of OCD is the aggressive step-father.

8.
Soft fingertips on your inner arm.

9.
In a moment of crisis: your thrumming heart in your throat + your buzzing phone in your breast pocket.


* * *

Notes:

"To indicate that you have made a mistake while broadcasting the previous word, transmit eight dots. This will tell the receiver of your message to cross out the last word transmitted before the signal." - Tip #4, How to Learn Morse Code.