Streaks of colour break up the night,
the river a pristine tabletop.
A single paddle creates an eddy
while mist dances on the surface.
A loon’s plaintive call hangs above
pine sentries lining the shore.
A showcase of sundrops replaces the mist
and the morning’s second act begins.
I watch you dart past,
a lemon blur,
your swimsuit two crisp lines on your small frame,
delight, swaddled in laughter,
ricochets off each pine tree,
hangs in the air
I caught sight of the memory,
a lemon blur,
pulled it down from the sky
with my butterfly net,
swaddled it into
the small of my heart
here I am, a body of memories:
the feet of a walker, coarse and flattened,
thousands of miles have I roamed.
feet that carried the weight of fluctuations
between body love and body shame.
ankles that were cursedly passed on
thick and boney, yet never failing.
calves that connect to the worst joint of
this body of memories: the knees,
the targets of frustrated students.
too many kicks, too many times,
knees that cannot ever decide
whether or not to give out on the stairs.
here I am, a body of memories,
a painful sciatic nerve sending sharp
reminders to move. no, lie still.
belly of Buddha, plump and rolling,
memories of salty and savoury.
here I am, a body of memories
a heart full of love for decades old babies
who nestled all snug in my womb and
now live contently in the small of my heart.
the neck that says oh, what a wonderful
life you have lived full of sunshine unfettered.
here I am, a body of memories,
a face with stories of laughter and
sunburns and a tree in the woods.
eyes of a father, mom’s cute button nose,
a head of hair that wavers between
mousey and the shining grey of later life.
here I am, a body of memories,
a woman of a certain age.
something from the summer I want to remember would be
the mornings at the cottage, each one filled with anticipation,
a sense of possibility, those butterflies I have missed in this
‘unprecedented time’
possibility, anticipatory joy
those beautiful feelings have left the dance floor
they no longer tango through my mind, or
swing by to take me by the hand and spin me
into the future
but on the dock, as I looked up and down the river
I felt hopeful, anxious – the good kind – the kind that
makes small children inhale their food so they can
‘get life going already!’
not me.
I took my bowl of oatmeal, resplendent with
summer berries and sat in the sunshine,
and I inhaled
the possibilities of the day
there’s an eagle and a tree
on a card
on my desk
I keep it because
the eagle is strength
free
to say those words out loud
I keep it because
the tree is nature
with deep roots that
ground me
in those moments
I want to escape
from the candor
on the page
I keep it because
it came from a place
of embodied creativity
I want to capture the artist’s
dedication to her craft
bottle it and take a sip
each morning when I sit to write
or during the dark night
when the questions surface
why make the effort?
who hears the whispers in the wind?
I keep it because
it speaks to the loneliness
of putting words into
the hollow
thank you to Firefly Creative Writing for the prompt and Alana Hansen for the beautiful work of art adorning my desk
A couple weeks ago I submitted a poem to The Power Plant Contemporary Art Museum’s Power of the Poets contest. The idea was to write based on an artist’s work. I chose Black Cloud by Carlos Amorales and wrote from the duality of this view of his work and our current state of isolation.
Though not successful I was happy to throw my net for writing a bit wider.
black cloud, 2020
beauty
marked by distress
despondency
tinted by expectation
out there, life
former
altered, wounded, flaccid
in here, swarmed
obscurity
shadows, panic, death
stillness
streaked with approximations
expectation
shaded with suspicion
out there, anticipating
tomorrow
next week, month, year
in here, trembling
survival
dismay, agitation, loss
hush
mixed with intrigue
grief
mingled with reprieve
out, potential
in, subsistence
thanks to Firefly Creative Writing for two weeks of bringing me to the page at their morning coffee sessions
it’s spring, so
I want to touch nature
I want to walk
on aged pathways
head through fields
earth untrodden
places I’ve never seen
high in the mountains
down in the meadows
it’s spring, so
I want to be
out venturing in
the world
standing below the
cherry trees
in Trinity Bellwoods
walking among the
people of the city
watching the pugs
in their t-shirts
greet one another
at each end of
their perfect
pugness
it’s spring, so
I want to be
taking off
the wooden eye covers
of the little house
in the woods
raking pine needles
I abandoned
in my October rush
to begin a 19-day
bedside vigil
it’s spring, so
I want to be airing
out rooms
wiping down cupboards
to be filled
with staples
I want to fold
fresh linens and
place them in neat piles
on the shelves
fill the wood box
that imperfectly
perfect structure
I made with D.K.
it’s spring, so
I want to pull on
my wetsuit over
my winterized body
take my paddleboard
onto the river
and pretend it’s
July
it’s spring, so
I want to go to
the fruit stand
and buy too many
pots of flowers
that will burn in
the late August sun
I want to walk in
a half-marathon
that torturous
indicator
that age has not
sidelined me yet
it’s spring, so
I want to sit
at a table just
inside the door of
my favourite café
get too hot
when the sun
streams in
I want to
turn my face
in the direction
of children discovering
a trail of ants
I want to hear
wonder and
curiosity
laughter and gossip
it’s spring, so
I want to
see and touch and
feel
all the things
that make me
alive
This morning’s writing session from Firefly Creative Writing began with a reading of Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo. Chris, who led the writing session, read the poem and asked us to find a word, or a phrase, or something else that struck a chord with this and do some free writing.
For me, the line swept our hearts clean with sacred wings stood out and so I went with that.
the moments I have witnessed
the moment of life
I have witnessed
a moment where
life swept our hearts
clean
the journey was complete
for a suspended moment
there was you
your beginnings
no sound
the suspension between
when you were there
and when you were
here
life swept our hearts
clean
your presence central
in the chaos
breathe in
the moment of life
I have witnessed.
the moment of community
I have witnessed
a moment where
love swept our hearts
clean
the emptiness was complete
for a suspended moment
there was only two
just a girl
and a boy
no sound
the suspension between
when you were hidden
and when you were
seen
love swept our hearts
clean
your presence embraced
the forest
breathe in
the moment of community
I have witnessed.
the moment of death
I have witnessed
a moment where
life swept our hearts
clean
the emptiness was complete
for a suspended moment
there was nothing
no feeling
no sorrow
no sound
the suspension between
when you were here
and when you were
there
death swept our hearts
clean
your presence evaporated
in the silence
breathe in
the moment of death
I have witnessed.
There’s the kind of hugs that a toddler gives, the little humans who barrel down the hall at the sound of the front door opening. The hugs that hit you full force, mid-leg; you cannot move or reciprocate but only take in all that day-long, pent-up love, because as quickly as it started the squeezer hug is over and the little human toddles away, satiated.
There’s the kind of hugs that happen at airports, the goodbye ones that you try not to fill with anxiety or sorrow, the ones you try to imprint with every ounce of your love, enough, at least, until ‘next time’. There’s the kind that are ‘hello’, ‘welcome home’, ‘my gosh I have missed you, don’t ever go away again’. There’s the ones where you share the vulnerability of being apart.
There’s the kind of hug that says ‘I do’ even when there’s no piece of paper from City Hall or a church or any witnesses, the kind that binds two hearts forever. There’s the kind that says, ‘I’m sorry, I thought we’d make it, I loved our time together, goodbye.’
There’s the kind of hug that says everything when words fail you. The ones that are offered to try to alleviate unbearable sadness, grief, loss. There’s the kind of hug you give someone, so they know they’re not alone in life, in struggles, in death.
There’s the hugs you squandered when you thought they came in an endless supply. The ones from someone who is now out of reach.
(thank you to Firefly Creative Writing for the morning coffee session prompts this week and Shari and Mike Photograph in Vancouver for the photo of a sibling pre-wedding hug)
These days I’m being carried by words. Words of those leading guided meditations, the words that remind me to breathe, and focus on the spaces in between. The words of instruction about how to squat and roll over and rest. Words of my favourite yoga instructor telling me to keep seeking comfort in movement and be gentle with myself. The words of young moms finding their way in this uncharted territory of pandemic and new motherhood. The words of parents trying to be all things to all people.
These days I’m being carried by words. Words of people suffering loss who cannot be with others to mitigate their grief. Words of front-line workers, the tentative ‘hello’ of a grocery clerk who has been berated and can relax when they see that we see them. Words of nurses who are carrying the burden of being the last person to touch and comfort too many people. Words of doctors begging people to stay home. Words of people full of sorrow and anger over losses contrasted against the ignorance of others who feel hard done by in a world of restrictions and believe their anger and resistance belongs on top of others’ lives.
These days I’m being carried by words. Words of my son who asks how are you doing, are you okay, do you need a hug, this casserole is amazing, thank you. Words of my husband wondering how my writing is going, do you want a salad/dinner/hug, how was your walk, what can I do, thank you for keeping us safe. Words of my daughter from the other side of the country, checking in, trying to make sense of things, sharing words of sunshine that she finds in each day.
These days I’m being carried by words. Words that make it on to the page. Words of my classmates who encouraged me. Words of my instructor who told me to keep going, that I got my words right. Words of writers putting their stories and their imaginations out into the world. Words that help to relieve the sorrow, to recognize the grief, to touch the part of people that distance has created. Words of hope, sadness, life.
These days I’m being carried by words. Words of health officials and scientists telling me how I can help, what effect I can have, and what they hope will be next. Words of politicians who have surprised me, sounding a little more leader, a little less divisive. Words of journalists questioning political truths which are false, numbers which are fixed, history which is fictionalized.
These days I’m being carried by words.
