artist's book pages

poems from my alphaquatics series

are featured on Other Clutter starting now. The site is curated by Jenny Sampiris, a Toronto poet and the co-ordinator of the Scream Literary Festival.

The pieces featured are 1. school of A fish; 2 jelly fish; 3. C-horse and 4. B-fish.

i'll post more in the alphaquatics series soon.

thanks for reading in 2007 and a happy 2008 to you!

upcoming chances to hear me read

Thursday, November 22, 7:30pm, i open with Clare Latremouille for Anne Le Dressay; i plan to read a bit of my chapbook Eleanor and some new work on Kiki of Montparnasse.

Sunday, November 25, 2pm at Sasquatch, Royal Oak II; Roland Prevost and I are co-features. it starts with an open mic. i plan to read the whole of Eleanor and that will likely be it.

at both locales i'll have copies of Eleanor (above/ground press) and my AngelHousePress chapbooks available for sale.

hope to see you there!

untitled

there are those of us who look for light
or the absence a shadow makes
a feeling inside the heart that listens
that is vacant
and it’s hard to explain

emmett took photographs of light
and stark trees standing in front of this light
vic wrote songs about it too

today it’s foggy and there is a sort of no light / greyish light
and that’s ok
because the fog is exactly what i mean

series number yellow

today i partake of yellow

chamomile tea, honey, chardonnay

light to swallow float away on

where

are other pairs of filling eyes

what cannot be contained

overflows

in pursuit of yellow

the obvious candle

in a glass, lemon overhang

Verdi’s adagio for trumpet

a watered down pernod conversation

unconsummated maps

pound cake

egg yolk

lassitude

running from yellow

eagles pierce air with brass calls

of need

hunger sleep

cadmium eyes empty of all but prey

chrome talons poised and gleaming

against blood ochre sun


the yellow phrasebook

how are you ? feeling ochre thank you

the sun shines and the sky also shines

did you know it is impolite to say yellow for hello

what colour are my eyes says the cat

we’re expecting a full moon tonight

please tell mr. smith i will meet him in the front lobby with some yellow

i wish to return these yellow apples. they are stale. please purchase some new yellow apples


yellow neighbour words in the websters ninth new collegiate dictionary

yegg yelper yenshee yenta

yardstick yataghan yeah yeanling yeah


flashcard yellow numbers

i say 8 you hold up YELLOW

the month after may is YELLOW

the smell of jasmine is YELLOW

if you add eight plus one you get YELLOW

ouch YELLOW

daphne’s hair burns yellow

as she blazes

her call

down the branches shrills

goddess into laurel

tree tear off in the fire

heated rivers striate fields

scorched hornets nest strands

of wheat burnish skies with
simmergold sizzled sheaves

a siren's villanelle

a siren’s villanelle

what compels a tangle
hurricane shouts over lullaby
turbulence troubles a rhythm

come for me in the deep, still water
follow the nature of shifting sand
what compels a tangle

i am knotted in seagrass and anemones
strip yourself bare to enter the ocean
turbulence troubles a rhythm

disguised as downpour i fell against your window
you pressed your hand against the shining wet
what compels a tangle

wind builds waves to crescendo
abalone shells glisten in the swells
turbulence troubles a rhythm

come before night pulls down the sun
swim, swim toward me now
what compels

a tangle

turbulence troubles

a rhythm

abt eggs & eggscrement

fold nto bowl

n o n s e n s e sizzles
ovr easy wth a side of whys

staggering works of yolk
breaking genie US

wolf

wolf

an ocean to his singing
octaves dampening my bones
the sand shifts as the waves rock
the dock forth and back to worship
each note as it rolls
along stone covered sea bottom

an open window, an open wing, an echo
the storm rushes through
made of sound, of water
as if there are no such beings as humans
allowed to exist
not with a voice like his

flight

i want no structure no

bridge over to be suspended

between absolutes and mid air


i seem to land on broken

things cutting claws on jagged rock


to walk you must love solid ground not

struggle against forces that weigh you


the bubble, the leaf, the ripple

over water, the moving

shadow, the shift

of feathers on

open wing

occasional vees and bees

[another workshop exercise to discuss remarkable letters; has prompted me to begin the above series, photos of the letters v and b as depicted in nature and human nature]

V voluptuous velvet heart shaped chocolate box

vivacious mosquito killer buzzzap arc electroredblue

vee - red orange sunrise popsicle melt of heat between

b chew the mint leaves, taste, chew, taste

seagreen ocean gathering waves

bee - scarbob cufflinks lacquer reflected

hum of beetles clicking against june brick

green petals plucked from a burgundy tea rose

CUNT

[inspired by a workshop exercise to write about a single word]

CUNT

begins with a hard c followed by a guttural staccato one syllable nasal grunt and ends in an explosive t gasp for breath.

the convex consonant pushes itself into the concave vowel which opens itself to an erect t.

the word CUNT is powerful, misappropriated as an insult. it shocks and evokes emotion, it’s political, sexual, and taboo, evoking secret pleasures we’re not supposed to talk about. as a noun, CUNT has 16 different meanings.

[if you haven’t seen Eve Ensler’s the Vagina Monologues, you should go see it or read it. Ensler acts out real women’s stories of intimacy, vulnerability and sexual self discovery]


Cunt: A Cultural History
http://www.matthewhunt.com/cunt/index.html

To Shave or Not to Shave

[based on a few requests to post, after my discussion of the word "cunt" in my poetry workshop; originally published in John Barlow's "Pyschic Rotunda IV/V", with a little help from Shakespeare]

To shave or not to shave,--that is the question:--
Whether tis nobler in the pussy to suffer
The nicks and ingrown hairs caused by dull blades,
or to take razor against a sea of pubic troubles,
And by shaving end them?—To let them die,--to choke cunnilingualists,--
No more; and by not shaving to say we end
The cunt-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wisht. To cut,--to shave;--
To shave! perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that smooth dream what dreams may come,
When admirers have shuffled off this bare and mortal cunt,
Must give us pause: there’s the fear
That makes a hairy pussy of so long life:
For who would bear the nicks and cuts of blades,
The shaver’s wrong, the proud woman’s hairy,
The pangs of despised hair, the lover’s delay,
The insolence of unshaven pussy, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unshaved takes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat over a hairy snatch?
But that the dread of hair in the teeth,--
The undiscover’d wiry pubis from whose bourn
No sexual adventurer returns,--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those hairs we have
Than shave the ingrowns that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of smoothed pussy
Is sickled o’er with the dark cast of follicles;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their razors turn awry,
And lose the blade of action,—No longer soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my skin remembered.

after bpNichol's Cycle 22

wrap up of august poetry postcard fest

August’s Poetry Postcard Festival revitalized snail mail for me. I’m an Internet enthusiast, always finding new ways to communicate, collaborate and connect with people. I particularly appreciate the irony that the PPF was organized and initiated through the Internet and couldn’t exist without it. That’s what I like about this era: you can use the typewriter and then scan the piece for electronic distribution. you can take a photo with a digital camera and then add blots of paint and use a brush pen to enhance it. Today we are not restricted to any method.

I enjoyed receiving cards from poets I didn’t know and was fascinated by the various styles of writing. I wouldn’t like to choose a favourite, they were all compelling in their own ways. I didn’t receive postcards daily but in exciting bursts. My mailbox would be full of brightly coloured missives with text that defied the plodding linearity of credit card bills, the jingoistic pamphlets of political propaganda and the obnoxious cliche-ridden advertisements i usually receive in the mail.

From a writing point of view, I found the activity ritualistic and meditative. it was something i did every day for almost 31 days; sometimes, i found myself writing more than one at a time. i tried in my creation to find out a little something about the person i was writing to and incorporate it into the text. i’d google my recipients and if they had poetry on line, i’d use something from that; if i found a bio, i’d try to include a detail from that. failing all else, i’d put something in about a commonality of our geographies, but i tried to find some common ground to establish a connection. in order to document the work, i took photos and added little bits of my own mischief to the flotsam. this was fun too, but time consuming. in the future i will probably just let the cards be and enjoy the rituals. i plan on keeping a stack of cards and postage available for any old time when i want to touch base with someone.

the internet is quite wonderful and i don’t see myself returning to the mail in any full time way, but from time to time, it provides a languid and patient pause that i find restful and mysterious at the same time. i’ve always loved the Griffin and Sabine books by Nick Bantock, in which he artfully documents the imaginary correspondence of two people. the postcard festival reminded me of that only on a larger scale. wouldn’t it be fun if we published a book!

thanks to Paul Nelson and Lana Hechtman Ayers for their initiative and dedication to this project. i'm sorry i won't be at the reading; i'm sure it will be splendid. do send me a card and tell me how it went ;)

collide o scope

latin # 5- ad infinitum

latin # 4 - modus operandi

latin # 3 - carpe diem

latin # 2- sub rosa

latin # 1 - tabula rasa

postcard 31 (last one!)

postcard # 30

postcard # 29

postcard 28

postcard 27

postcard # 26

postcard # 25

postcard # 24

postcard # 22 (having trouble with order apparently ;)

postcard # 23

postcard # 21

postcard # 20

postcard # 19

postcard # 18

Postcard # 17

postcard # 16

postcards 14 & 15

postcard # 13

postcard # 12

postcard # 11

postcard # 10

postcard # 9

postcards 7 & 8

postcard # 6

postcard poem # 5

August 23, 2007 reading at Factory Reading Series

i will be reading with Marcus McCann and William Hawkins. we are all launching chapbooks published by the wonderful above/ground press.

Factory Reading Series
Ottawa Art Gallery
Arts Court
Thursday, August 23, 2007
7:30 pm

at some point, Marcus and I will be on Susan Johnston's Special Blend show on CKCU. i'll put up a notice.

postcard # 4

August Poetry Postcard Fest

i signed up for this neat thing, better explained here

here are my first three. all the postcards are works of art from canadian artists

three reverse poems

published on www.ditchpoetry.com

finale-a sonnet for the end of our world

tales from the end of our world

reynold throws stones at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse apartment. water sluices from a functional sculpture, tumbling over paddle wheels, splashing on black rocks painted with the words “joy,” “gratitude,” and “sky.” a stunted bonsai lies on its side in the corner beside a lacklustre rubber tree plant. sometimes reynold hits. glass shatters, disturbs the sound of water, the gentle background music, the still leaves of the dusty plants.

denise likes to eat french pastry from larks, the latest trend in high fashion eating. you fill you cheeks with soft yellow cream and chocolate profiteroles, pause and spit. the thin and stylishly dressed waiter to your right holds a bucket and wipes your mouth when you’re done. you feels as if you’ve indulged in gustatory excess, yet when you leave you are empty. strangely empty.

zoe rides a harley hog across california’s coastal highway number one and listens to the grateful dead. she wonders about her mother, ashes and bone finally cold in an urn on her mantle in the family home where zoe dreamed of escape. she’s given her mother everything she wanted: non stop big screen colour television and the security that nothing will ever change.

bridget’s eye is still bruised from the old lady’s fists. she wouldn’t have sex with him, the man her mother sold her to. she discovers a gray army blanket and an old box of crackers. for the first time in weeks, bridget sleeps. in the morning her body is so frozen with cold she can’t feel her toes, her fingers. there’s a hole in the roof of the shed where she’s run to. winter light melts the ice. she opens her mouth and gulps.

david composes text on a typewriter, blots empty spaces with gray smudges caused by eyes that refuse to remain dry. he takes a sip of his morning martini and watches the words blur out of sense. a long list slides slowly down the refrigerator door, its overwhelming and impossible to complete obligations too heavy to be held by magnetic force. david shoots out six typewriter keys and saves the last bullet. t h e e n d

cassiopea makes the best pizzas in the city. the teenage boy watches the curves of her body bounce as she twirls another circle of dough in the air and laughs like she means it. his mother kicks him under the table and tells him to chew his food and stop gaping. his father folds the pages of the business section until the creases are so sharp they cut. while his mother goes to the ladies room and his father pays the bill, he steps through the kitchen and out the back door, a still warm ball of dough cradled in the palm of his hand.

the end of our world-a poem cycle

big bang theory: countries broken
views of earth from space
as viewed from earth from space from earth
close up where planets splinter
genealogy over atom
stratified centre of quake
birth monsoons
tsunami




before burn
wax effigy packs for apocalypse
carries child raggedly unstitched
plays radio
severs surgeon hand
speeds train
throws bird over cliff
plummets diver
swallows an open mouth
begs an answer




saving the world
wanted—
fuel efficient
fish that flies
and leaves no ecological footprint
afterwards you can eat it
without ingesting mercury or depleting
scarce ocean resources
is powered by hot air
converts noxious bleats into energy
you if ever travelled by fish
know about economies of scale


turntables rewind empathetic breath
until tuesday the stars
rescind hills folded over egg
whites of rivers, eye lids
shutter before after
yolk rises in the east
sets elsewhere
eel or jelly crust unbaked
stuck to the bottom of
bellows suck and fan
the blastfire
finale


the prince counts hands in the valley
while his wife searches for shoulders
in the kitchen
and the butcher needs meat to chop
gristle for the chattering teeth
chew 32 times a feast of galaxy
burn wholes in celeste’s brand
new night table cloth
the dog ticks frenzies from his collar
hind leg thumps to the renaissance
beat of under
again a question breaks the window

rob's assignment on sound poetry

for this week's workshop class, rob asked us to go to the website PENNsound and listen to bpNichol and Steve McCaffery and write something in response. my response is below and the poem cycle i wrote is the entry after this one.

Sound Thoughts

Steve McCaffery - love his language, it goes all over the place. with his work i like to read and hear it. silly at times, such as “what as poetic”:
“the rain in spain falls mainly on mark twain” “an avant garde a kierkegaard”
just so full of rhythm and implausibility, fantastic. absurd “poetica, helvetica, ars poetica.” “when i grow up i want to be a version of a virgin of a brain surgeon” all kinds of unlike ideas put together. “a walnut covered walrus” what happens when you let your mind run free in association with sound? [on a side note, i enjoy also his idea of poetic research being different from other kinds of research in that it is a reaction or response or inspiration rather than necessarily a comment on it, pataphysics, beyond the metaphysical and a parody of science...all fun! love his seven pages missing volume one.]

in bpNichol’s sound poetry, single syllables are emphasized, his word associations are based on sound rather than concept, there’s often strong & sing song rhythms to his poems and he also plays with pitch. some of his poems are like tongue twisters.

also Bill Bissett’s Lullaby from Motherlove-love the language of an unknown or invented language; see how sounds alone can create an atmosphere; this is soft, repetitive like a lullaby.

the addition of sound effects is so much fun; shows you there really are no limits; folks like antonin artaud and william s. burroughs played with all of this years ago, yet it’s still treated as something new. they played with sounds alone, added effects, slowed down and lengthened discrete sounds, distorting them. to me it’s like going deep inside language to really consider it and analyse it in depth, slowing down each individual sound like an isolated moment. this to me is what poems are...the isolation of a unique moment and its articulation on paper or in the air. today folks like max middle and jw curry here in ottawa, a. rawlings in toronto and others all over the world are creating sound poetry. it’s as exciting to me as visual poetry and every other media being used.

i dig the idea of removing and or playing with expected patterns of meaning. seems to me that changing languages is one way of doing so. i fell in love with words for their sounds more than their meaning. i have always spoken my poems out loud and the poems of others. as a child i would repeat and still do, little phrases and words, such as “the theory of plate tectonics” my favourite phrase and “lugubrious.” I love what these sounds do to my tongue, how they fill my mouth, how they resonate in my brain: “the murmuring of innumerable bees”-Tennyson.

in one of the music classes i can still remember from grade school the teacher has us listen to peter and the wolf and tell her what we were hearing without knowing the story. i was fascinated by the way music and sound alone could convey mood and tone, could tell the story without words.

i have always played with language, inventing my own as a child. this exploration of sound has brought me back to that playfulness and the idea of invented languages.

in this poem cycle, “8 planets speaking in tongues,” i’ve chosen vocabulary from existing languages and also added my own invented words. i haven’t chosen the words for their meaning, but rather for their sound. the sounds are meant to have onomatopoeic associations with specific atmospheres...let me know if they do...

8 planets speaking in tongues

to be published by my self-publishing imprint Angel House Press and to be launched at the ottawa small press fair along with two other chapbooks on june 16, 2007

away by train