Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
The category, Heart, is for posts that make us feel.
where has the graffiti gone?across the rusted railsa pale sickly ochrewashes the bricks belowand above, faded corporateposter art, suffering sun,fog, unplanned exposure,scotiabank, investors groupmoney this and sponsor thatbefore, the walls below screameda tagging riot spray canscolour explosion eye popthe shock of blank wallsdraws me up short huh!where has the graffiti gone?i bow my head, solemn,like…
it rumbled here at four a.m.,an aftershock; i felt nothing,but the dog upstairs barked and barked,sensed something below the thresholdof my feeble cognizance it’s been days without news radio;i flipped the switch; a flippant bitchwent on and on of politiciansmired in local crises, squanderingthe moment with emergencies our kitchen overlooks a church(you’d expect it the…
The beach, the south side, Esquimalt,dancers come into view, pas de deux.Our dogs sniff & whizz while the dancerswhirl in the light / out comes my camera —snap snap snap — raised to the unexpected (how often do you stumble upon dancerson a beach?) Furious waves foamnot from the water below but from the lookoutabove, arms…
Winding along thirty-one as the moon rises from the mountains, river splashing beside the highway as it stalks us from New Denver, the town leaps into view like a postcard from the rack, white wood-slat church, quaint cottages, crafty shops, a stern wheeler moored on the lake, a three-story hotel where we book a room,…
(with a curtsy to Lady Tweedsmuir) Slow while I roll down the window. No, the breeze flaps the maps. But I want to take a photo. We’ll never get there if I slow. Brilliant scenery don’t you think? Like a postcard, a painting, or wallpaper for my computer: endless forests of north Ontario, boring expanses…
I got me an acre of Bad Land. That shit is mean. – Mitch Hedberg Bad to go throughBad for wagon wheelsBad for horse shanksBad for settlersBad for ice fieldsBad for erosionBad for hoodoosBad for sedimentBad for mammothsBad for megafloraBad for snaking riversBad for Albertosaurusand that mounted skullleers through razor teethand says to me: one…
This poem emerged during my poetry challenge (a poem a day through the month of September) which resulted in the creation of a poetry photobook which you can download here in pdf format. I held your hand through New Liskeardand kissed you in Kapuskasing.In Hearst, where we stopped for gasby the pulp mill, I kneaded…
When I was nine, my brother and I climbed into the back seat of our parents’ Ford LTD station Wagon, the model with the fake wood paneling on the doors, and we spent the summer driving across Canada and back.
Nik Beat’s collection of poetry, The Tyranny of Love (Seraphim Editions), is the first of a stash I’ll be sampling over the next few weeks. As mentioned in my previous post, I found this book at The Book Band booth at the Mill Race Folk Festival.
Today marks the 144th anniversary of Canada’s confederation, a time to celebrate national pride. I would describe myself as fiercely Canadian (the word fierce is cognate with the French word for proud), but I’m also fiercely ambivalent about being a Canadian.
After they peeled the tape from the door frame and pulled her head from the oven, the cop came at me, hat in hand, with the obvious question.
Tongue the jagged edge.Take a sliver from unbuffed wood,a splinter in the eye. Blister the ragged thumbthrough a frayed asbestos oven mitt,a searing Pyrex dish. Barter with the man,a local artisan of handicraftsand rustic klatsch. Pause at the eulogy,the rough-hewn words of a nervousnephew’s ramblings. Hoe a chip-edged furrowthat follows a taut stringed template,a back…
Unlike my Dream Sequence #1 (The Lost Bowling Alley of Atlantis), this is someone else’s dream, which I am mining for fun and profit. Yesterday, I was walking down St. George Street, on my way to pick up a book I had ordered, when a man dashed from a doorway and joined me.
We first meet in the smoking lounge. Ward 3C. Psychiatric. The only place in the hospital where you’ll find a smoking lounge.
All My Friends Are Superheroes is a slender sentimental quasi-allegorical tale by Andrew Kaufman. However, the real superhero of this book is Ian McInnis, whose cheeky whimsical cover has probably done more to sell this book than all the other marketing efforts combined.