Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
and now it’s time to say good-byewe liked the fantasy of living herean almost perfect daydream imagining anewa new housea new viewa new routinePaul, who made the leap from fantasy,gives the grand tour: this is whereI worked my first jobwe had our first dateour boy was bornthe drunk driver spilled diesel during the salmon runyou…
Eighteen years since Clayoquot SoundToday the trees keep fallingInky tears drip on the pageA pulpy sheet for writingMore organic, they exhort meGrow your words like corn stalksBut I press them out precisePlaned and stacked like lumberi’d throw a wrenchdrive a spikefill the gas tank with sandif i knew howor whereafter that what would i write…
i bear my cameralike a crossframing goodexcluding evilturning a coolcompassionate eyeon injusticebut mostly conqueringdeathwith my obsessiverecordingrecordingrecordingwhen i returnthis will all be gonethrough photosmy grief will findits consolationbut when I’m goneno trace of mewill remain in myrecordingrecordingrecordingonly a deep holean absence in the caveof my vision Download the complete collection of poems and accompanying photographs as…
Wobbly-legged, we rise from lunchand chardonnay, the capstoneon a noon-time tasting.Best to pause, recoverequilibrium, gaze acrossthe vineyard rows, reminiscentof corduroy or shopping aisles.In the middle distance, a farm,hot-houses where flowers grow,row on roses, all of it—grapes and blossoms—handledby Mexican workers shippednorth for the growing season.With cool weather on the thresholdthey’ll be packed back where they…
Can’t you snap the cap of the toothpaste tube?Keep the invader microbes from breeding there?I admit: I’m supposed to be large-hearted,above the nit picking details of domesticliving, but this issue grates on me.How will I make it with you through this journeyif the toothpaste gapes on the countertopmoldering night after night in the open air?Our…
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.
In my grade 12 English class, I had to read T.S. Eliot’s ”The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”. I took nothing from the class except the line: “Do I dare to eat a peach?” which I repeated over and over when we went down to the cafeteria. Sitting in my jeans, I paid no attention to the preceding lines: “I grow old … I grow old …/I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”
The poets I read are really aliensreporting from distant worldsall they see through bulbous eyes: beachheads by lakes of firewhile overhead the sky igniteswith the light of twin moons rising oceans of liquid methanechurned by the tidal pullfrom ring-wound gas giants gravity lenses that bend lightand draw a heart’s beatto the span of a frozen…