Our kittens look innocent after their rampant hours in the dark;
I didn’t dream of them, he didn’t dream at all.
The teasing rain outside, someone playing a drum;
I’m not sure whether to believe the weather.
I pull my sleepy bones into dog-facing down, lunge
into blood flow caffeine flushing, stretch, an offering.
A rare sunlight, rising at noon, small journal entries –
I want to somehow keep the sun in this room.
The warm tea and half-burnt scones don’t entice him
from sleep, a hesitant body, a last day of rest.
Christmas continues to hide in corners, another holiday
of hearts peeks around this week’s bend.
My wits scattered like seeds tossed to chickens;
the day already a puzzle with borrowed pieces, some missing.
On this hearts’ day, we brush lips gently
and later I will bake a cake, deep chocolate, cut to the shape of our love.
As though sleep was something we had not been given, we lie prone
under the sheets, suck air in and out, our inside legs touching, in a three-legged race.
No lights on yet – my mind under a comforter;
I keep the cats off dangerous surfaces where they only hurt things.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Morning Couplets
This morning dance we invent of up and shower, and up,
and you make me a sandwich and I kiss you to work.
Tucked into this room of furniture, galloping
cats, a computer, and yesterday’s news piled high to ceiling.
We clear away the walkways and dream of three bedrooms,
a space to pursue and unattached walls to inhabit.
The shower echoes the Monday rain, alert;
a deep drone to signify a yawn, as water stretches and pounds.
A small flashlight in the closet, and the cats jump
around you; I watch, in fetal position, not ready for today’s clothes.
And, again, the earth makes its weary rotation
around a new moon, another month to howl at.
A home for my books, that other place I escape to;
the wet sky outside, my warm robe, the reluctant push to go out.
There is the writing that takes place before the actual
writing. The daily work I go to and the stillness of ending night.
An old man in the above suite moves furniture, drags
chair legs and bangs on walls all night; he tries to find
a living space – goes nowhere.
A careful eye on the clock, tick-tock, the sleepy seconds
rushed to write and create a day before I am chained to a different desk.
and you make me a sandwich and I kiss you to work.
Tucked into this room of furniture, galloping
cats, a computer, and yesterday’s news piled high to ceiling.
We clear away the walkways and dream of three bedrooms,
a space to pursue and unattached walls to inhabit.
The shower echoes the Monday rain, alert;
a deep drone to signify a yawn, as water stretches and pounds.
A small flashlight in the closet, and the cats jump
around you; I watch, in fetal position, not ready for today’s clothes.
And, again, the earth makes its weary rotation
around a new moon, another month to howl at.
A home for my books, that other place I escape to;
the wet sky outside, my warm robe, the reluctant push to go out.
There is the writing that takes place before the actual
writing. The daily work I go to and the stillness of ending night.
An old man in the above suite moves furniture, drags
chair legs and bangs on walls all night; he tries to find
a living space – goes nowhere.
A careful eye on the clock, tick-tock, the sleepy seconds
rushed to write and create a day before I am chained to a different desk.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Morning Couplets
After the gift giving, paper unwrapped and turkey stuffed,
we lie mesmerized in our new luxuries and reflect on twelve months of plenty.
The year creeps away; remnants of Christmas live in drawers and messages on the phone, a card in the mail, snowflakes held like canopied balloons on New Year’s Eve.
A new year of chance, we spend the first day betting
on low and high cards; we wait for the dealer with hopeful hands.
The computer screen flickers a greeting; the cat watches
from the far armchair, startled by my early morning.
A couple of pills popped mask the sharp pang of Monday;
the weekend residue dissipates into beer and late nights.
Icy roads, the sliding of classical movements;
a high flute, soft snow – or is the air moving frozen air?
This morning, filled with intention, slips through cracks
of sunlight; how my floor is joined, I exist in-between.
A new connection, another woman’s words on the screen;
I invited this – the past woven with present, and welcomed it.
We rise together in a working life, staggered showers
and the first to put on the kettle; a happy shift.
Piano music occupies spacious thoughts; notes remembered
better than words; a jumble of sound that creates order.
we lie mesmerized in our new luxuries and reflect on twelve months of plenty.
The year creeps away; remnants of Christmas live in drawers and messages on the phone, a card in the mail, snowflakes held like canopied balloons on New Year’s Eve.
A new year of chance, we spend the first day betting
on low and high cards; we wait for the dealer with hopeful hands.
The computer screen flickers a greeting; the cat watches
from the far armchair, startled by my early morning.
A couple of pills popped mask the sharp pang of Monday;
the weekend residue dissipates into beer and late nights.
Icy roads, the sliding of classical movements;
a high flute, soft snow – or is the air moving frozen air?
This morning, filled with intention, slips through cracks
of sunlight; how my floor is joined, I exist in-between.
A new connection, another woman’s words on the screen;
I invited this – the past woven with present, and welcomed it.
We rise together in a working life, staggered showers
and the first to put on the kettle; a happy shift.
Piano music occupies spacious thoughts; notes remembered
better than words; a jumble of sound that creates order.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Empress Letters by Linda Rogers – A Book Review
by Andrea McKenzie Raine
Linda Rogers’ novel, The Empress Letters, is a tale abstractly woven into the historical setting of Victoria, BC during the early 20th century. The story is told through current, intimate letters written by the mother and narrator, Poppy, to her daughter who is lost in China. The word ‘lost’ holds multiple meanings, and sets a tone or an understanding for what is occurring in the narrator’s mind. There are many lost or buried pieces. With the assistance of her travelling companion, Tony, Poppy is on a quest to reclaim her daughter as well as her own truths. The unfiltered letters reveal a strange and hard truth about the unfolding events of the mother’s life. They are also an attempt to explain a family history and rekindle a strained relationship, which has not been reconciled.
The narrator’s experiences of growing into adolescence are somewhat shielded in a proverbial snow-globe of luxury, which is inevitably shattered by the larger, grittier world as she witnesses the human reality of the Chinese slaves “Coolies”, the emergence of World War I, the facades of social hierarchy, and her own confusing desires of coming into womanhood. Her perspective is quickly moved from the smaller scope of her privileged existence to a larger, more philosophical, political and sexually-charged coming of age. Sexual boundaries are crossed, as well as geographical and imaginary ones, which are often skewed by the narrator’s younger, innocent recollections while trying to associate worlds.
Poppy uses art, particularly painting, to define her world through the mentorship of the historical Emily Carr’s free-thinking ideas and committed lifestyle. The historical figures, such as Emily Carr and the Chinese slaves, ‘paint the scenery’ for both social and political events in a turbulent era. For instance, the novel delves into the mysterious underground world of Chinatown during the turn of the century. There is a lesson of place and identity, ritual rhythms, and being safe with your own kind.
There is also constancy in fighting for independence, which resonates through the narrator and her childhood companions. At the same time, they are each in desperate need of support, affection and stability. Poppy revisits her important rites of passage, as she literally journeys across the Pacific Ocean on a cruise ship, The Empress of Asia, to rescue her daughter from the strange, mystical holds of China.
Throughout the letters, there are currents of disruptive change, which are personal, historical or both. The ground shifts underneath like the San Andreas Fault, as Poppy rides the moving earth and adapts to new surroundings in her childhood home, or learns to accept what will not change such as the cruel effects of her distant relationship with her own mother.
Linda Rogers’ novel, The Empress Letters, is a tale abstractly woven into the historical setting of Victoria, BC during the early 20th century. The story is told through current, intimate letters written by the mother and narrator, Poppy, to her daughter who is lost in China. The word ‘lost’ holds multiple meanings, and sets a tone or an understanding for what is occurring in the narrator’s mind. There are many lost or buried pieces. With the assistance of her travelling companion, Tony, Poppy is on a quest to reclaim her daughter as well as her own truths. The unfiltered letters reveal a strange and hard truth about the unfolding events of the mother’s life. They are also an attempt to explain a family history and rekindle a strained relationship, which has not been reconciled.
The narrator’s experiences of growing into adolescence are somewhat shielded in a proverbial snow-globe of luxury, which is inevitably shattered by the larger, grittier world as she witnesses the human reality of the Chinese slaves “Coolies”, the emergence of World War I, the facades of social hierarchy, and her own confusing desires of coming into womanhood. Her perspective is quickly moved from the smaller scope of her privileged existence to a larger, more philosophical, political and sexually-charged coming of age. Sexual boundaries are crossed, as well as geographical and imaginary ones, which are often skewed by the narrator’s younger, innocent recollections while trying to associate worlds.
Poppy uses art, particularly painting, to define her world through the mentorship of the historical Emily Carr’s free-thinking ideas and committed lifestyle. The historical figures, such as Emily Carr and the Chinese slaves, ‘paint the scenery’ for both social and political events in a turbulent era. For instance, the novel delves into the mysterious underground world of Chinatown during the turn of the century. There is a lesson of place and identity, ritual rhythms, and being safe with your own kind.
There is also constancy in fighting for independence, which resonates through the narrator and her childhood companions. At the same time, they are each in desperate need of support, affection and stability. Poppy revisits her important rites of passage, as she literally journeys across the Pacific Ocean on a cruise ship, The Empress of Asia, to rescue her daughter from the strange, mystical holds of China.
Throughout the letters, there are currents of disruptive change, which are personal, historical or both. The ground shifts underneath like the San Andreas Fault, as Poppy rides the moving earth and adapts to new surroundings in her childhood home, or learns to accept what will not change such as the cruel effects of her distant relationship with her own mother.
Turning Over A New Book Leaf
The summer has rolled by, and now we are settling into the cooling month of September; embracing a new season with the opportunity for seclusion and reflection. I had a busy summer with a life-changing adventure: marriage. Now that the ceremony is over (but never the honeymoon), I am rediscovering the time and space to return to my various writing projects. My hand has been drawn to prose over this past year, so I am working to bring myself back to the strange, ever-changing landscapes of poetry. I am also playing more with the abstraction of poetry, rather than taking images based on my own ready-made experiences or perceptions -- I am trying to step further away from myself. I want to try on new skin, even if I don't understand where it is coming from or where it is leading me.
I am also going to make a more solid commitment to this blog (I can sense your eyes rolling... if you are still there). As I get deeper into my projects, more questions will arise. They are already forming, as I struggle with the confidence to say "okay, I've come up with this idea, but do I have the stamina and guts to follow through?" The answer always comes back as a triumphant "Yes!", but never in terms of "How". That is the journey.
First, I am making sure I spend time on my own writing each day -- morning: couplets, after work: blog, or tweaking any number of genres. Really, take your pick - poetry, book review articles, novels, and most recently an idea for a novella I've been exploring. I have more than ten projects lined up at this moment. Ambitious, right? Nerve-wracking, definitely. Doable? Yes. Tonight, I've started: I am in my writing room unwinding after my work day of, well, writing... but the excitement of my own writing (as opposed to the structured formulas and set language of government writing) takes the tiredness out. I'm now releasing the words that have been waiting not-so-patiently, and switching over to a place of play...
I am also going to make a more solid commitment to this blog (I can sense your eyes rolling... if you are still there). As I get deeper into my projects, more questions will arise. They are already forming, as I struggle with the confidence to say "okay, I've come up with this idea, but do I have the stamina and guts to follow through?" The answer always comes back as a triumphant "Yes!", but never in terms of "How". That is the journey.
First, I am making sure I spend time on my own writing each day -- morning: couplets, after work: blog, or tweaking any number of genres. Really, take your pick - poetry, book review articles, novels, and most recently an idea for a novella I've been exploring. I have more than ten projects lined up at this moment. Ambitious, right? Nerve-wracking, definitely. Doable? Yes. Tonight, I've started: I am in my writing room unwinding after my work day of, well, writing... but the excitement of my own writing (as opposed to the structured formulas and set language of government writing) takes the tiredness out. I'm now releasing the words that have been waiting not-so-patiently, and switching over to a place of play...
Morning Couplets
Trees bow to each other and dance madly; a celebration.
The dog in his yard stands bewildered, watching.
I light candles mid-day, a tribute to the heart
of December. Soon, we will blow out their cinnamon scent and join the wind.
A crisp sunlight, slice of sky, illuminates a year
closing, opens a window; a bird glides by effortlessly.
The cats pamper each other briefly, in an hour
of change and bricks lifted from shoulders sagged; a fresh coat.
As the rain buckets and near night greets us, we hibernate;
in our flannel, with writing utensils, I lasso words and he untangles numbers.
When the kittens forget the seasonal tree, and chase sunlight,
after the winter night storm that made us all twist our necks.
Like bears, we stay in our soft cocoons, rise to dark skies;
we walk, still asleep, burrow lightly into the folds of each other’s arms.
I am pummeled with sounds – the words and voices of unfinished
speeches and stories – of records by those real or not; always real work.
I awoke to more deaths printed and, still, this day chokes me;
this could be a last day I sleep through and glide my hand across.
The kittens circle the perimeter of the tree, invade diameters,and scramble across the hard surface with overturned parcels in their wake.
The dog in his yard stands bewildered, watching.
I light candles mid-day, a tribute to the heart
of December. Soon, we will blow out their cinnamon scent and join the wind.
A crisp sunlight, slice of sky, illuminates a year
closing, opens a window; a bird glides by effortlessly.
The cats pamper each other briefly, in an hour
of change and bricks lifted from shoulders sagged; a fresh coat.
As the rain buckets and near night greets us, we hibernate;
in our flannel, with writing utensils, I lasso words and he untangles numbers.
When the kittens forget the seasonal tree, and chase sunlight,
after the winter night storm that made us all twist our necks.
Like bears, we stay in our soft cocoons, rise to dark skies;
we walk, still asleep, burrow lightly into the folds of each other’s arms.
I am pummeled with sounds – the words and voices of unfinished
speeches and stories – of records by those real or not; always real work.
I awoke to more deaths printed and, still, this day chokes me;
this could be a last day I sleep through and glide my hand across.
The kittens circle the perimeter of the tree, invade diameters,and scramble across the hard surface with overturned parcels in their wake.
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