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Grey Bruce Poetry Project - 2007-2008 Archive

Local Poets in Grey Bruce


Liz Zetlin A Greeting from Owen Sound's Poet Laureate

Community Forum
Welcome to the Poetry Project - a place to share your poetry and to enjoy the many voices of our community. Take a look at our community forum for Grey/Bruce poets.

Submit your poems. Add links to your favorite poetry sites. Load up audio or videos of a poetry reading, or any other poetry-related visions. We’ll have a special section for young poets too. And links to poetry resources and events.

Poets of the Month Archive
To celebrate the many wonderful Grey/Bruce poets, I initiated the Poet of the Month profiles, featuring a treasury of poets from 17 to 100 years old. Below are excerpts from these profiles, previously published by The Sun Times. The complete profiles (with more poems and interviews) can be found at the Owen Sound & North Grey Union Public Library

Canada’s Parliamentary Poet Laureate John Steffler says, “Poetry is language off the leash, exercising its muscle and intricate skills. . . . It can take us to the limits of our world, into griefs and ecstasies, even out into madness and non-human experiences, if we want it to and it’s in the mood.”

Let’s unleash ourselves.
Liz Zetlin
Owen Sound Poet Laureate 2007-2008


The Poetry Project was originated by the Sun Times, in collaboration with the Owen Sound & North Grey Union Public Library & the Owen Sound Poet Laureate

All the information contained within these World Wide Web Pages is Copyright to their respective creator/Poetry Project, 2008. All Rights Reserved.

POET OF THE MONTH

2008
david sereda
Bonnie Gardiner
Rhya Tamasauskas
Daniel Kolos
Anne Duke Judd
Lauren Best
Melanie Knapp
Caroline Menzies
Meaghan Strimas
2007
Liz Zetlin
Marion Fields Wyllie
Kristan Anderson
Claire Fanger
Don McKay
Norah Phillips
Judy Lowry
Christina Dobbyn
Paul Scott
Elizabeth Warren
Nathan Baker

+SHARE
Add Yours @ the Poetry Forum

+LINKS
Owen Sound & North Grey Union Public Library Poet Laureate & Poets of the Month
Random Acts of Poetry
Words Aloud Festival
The League of Canadian Poets
Griffin Poetry Prize
The Poet Laureate Map of Canada


david sereda

david sereda

david sereda has performed in concerts and festivals across Canada, including Toronto’s Harbourfront and Glenn Gould Studio, and Montreal's Place des Arts. He has three albums on his independent label Rocky Wednesday Records, including the critically acclaimed CD The Blue Guide, with another two in the works.

sereda studied classical piano but got the theatre bug in high school. Then he trained under renowned acting teacher Powys Thomas at the Playhouse Acting School in Vancouver, but his boyish looks got him cast solely as a teenager. To keep inspired and working, he co-produced and performed in alternative theatre in Edmonton, including poetry and music performances. He began performing his own songs, touring in earnest. He was one of the first people in Canada to write and perform songs from a gay male perspective.

He returned to theatre as composer and musical director of new Canadian works at the Tarragon (Love Jive and Siren Song with Don Hannah) and Buddies in Bad Times (The Dressing Gown) in Toronto, Public Dreams Co. in Edmonton (The Snow Queen) and in musicals by Connie Kaldor (The Destruction of Eve), Morris Panych (Last Call!). His work been nominated for two Dora awards.

His latest project, TOM, is a full-length musical with writer/director Joan Chandler, inspired by the passion and life of painter Tom Thomson. Produced by local theatre company Sheatre, TOM had a successful premiere in Owen Sound in August 2007. david tours that music in the concert Songs in the key of Tom. He also produces the Stray Dog Salons: evenings of music, poetry and theatre, where artists like Anne Michaels, Daniel MacIvor, Shirley Eikhard and Michael Ondaatje have performed.

david also leads workshops in voice, music theatre and songwriting, and with Joan Chandler, leads the Brush workshops, based on Tom Thomson's life and art, in schools and communities across Ontario. He lives in Annan, near Owen Sound.



Praise - [Song]
under the overhang
scurry urban bird
every nook is booked solid
sky’s undecided
and one more snow would make the
brown grass and trash look less squalid

here from the bus that’ll bring me to us
I see strangers shoulder their days
myriad lives
me on this morning drive
just to be
I give praise

the coach rolls and lurches
past porn stores and churches
line-ups for gas and caffeine
strip of car dealerships
a grey club a gay club
a blank where a bakery had been

downtown
suburbs
little city
little town
on the high ground where spring’s off-aways
and the ones in that graveyard
outnumber the living
just to be
I give praise

more blue above me
groves and farms
city behind me for now
that gathering of strangers, myriad lives
some thriving some
stumbling down

last night on Queen Street
six bundles on concrete
on a see-your-breath evening they lay
what to think? what to feel?
pray that they’ll find a healing
today of all days
I give praise

sometimes the world
is an awful place
people troubled as hell
and in that same world
there’s such joy and such grace
and friends who ring true as a bell

here from the bus that’ll bring me to us
I take in this so-normal day
I miss you, I’m tired
maybe Tuesday I’ll be inspired
just to be
and give praise

we’re so lucky, love
and I think it’s enough
just to be
and give praise

find a way
all must find a way

to praise
praise
praise
praise
find a way to give praise



I Do Believe - [Song]
this happened so easily
falling and rising as a dream
one step leading to the next
stones across a stream
take my hand across the stream

what you give to me is so welcome
how long have I longed for just this thing
now it’s here it’s hard to conceive of
but when you say it I do believe, love
when you say it, I do believe

took my disappointments, made of them a wall
they became my substitute for hope
shielded from both bad and good I sealed myself
away from life, pretended I could cope

what you say reveals to me
these walls are only sand
clumsy armour, off it comes
and I can breathe again
so good to breathe again

what you give to me is so welcome
how long have I longed for just this thing
now you’re here, it’s hard to conceive of
but when you say it I do believe, love
when you say it, I do believe

once upon a time I had a true love
unlike the fairy tale, he died too soon
and now my heart is welcoming our new love
and all the while recalling those old wounds

I never thought such purity would come my way again
but here you are, my Northern Star
and my joy’s without end
could this be joy without end?

what you give to me is so welcome
how long have I longed for just this thing
kisses on my forehead are a garland
kiss me and you crown me king
o

when you kiss me like you kiss me
when you touch me like you touch me
when you say it like you say it
I do believe, love

when you say it like you say it
when you say it, o please say it
I want only you to say it
I do believe


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Bonnie Gardiner

Bonnie Gardiner

I am a late bloomer – or rather a stunted bloomer. I was beginning to blossom as a writer at the age of 16 after receiving recognition as recipient of honorable mention in the Canada Permanent Trust National writing contest when I bought into the Cinderella Syndrome and fell for the belief of marrying and living happily ever after. However, after 18 years, I realized this story wasn’t working for me, and I began over.

This time I am writing my own, unique life story, the ending of which is yet to be determined (and many years down the road, I would hope!).

I am a lifelong resident of Grey County (disregarding a couple of years of city-life during a period of what I like to think was "temporary" insanity). I am currently a resident at A Brush With Words, a four acre property located in the suburbs of Massie, Municipality of Chatsworth with partner, landscape artist and sculptor, Peter John Reid.

I am a self-published author of several children's books and a collection of vignettes & poetry, "Growing in Grey"; also a member of the Highway 4 Writer’s Group. A member of Owen Sound’s Studio XX, I am currently working towards culminating a collection of works for a visual art show as guest artist at the Owen Sound Artist’s Co-op for the month of March, 2008.

For the past six years, Royal LePage RCR Realty in Flesherton has assisted me in paying my bills and helping put my two daughters through University. Further personal history can be gleaned from my biography in poetic form (I Got) which I believe was instrumental in my receiving a scholarship at The Haliburton School of the Arts in 2004.

I would be described as quick-witted with a good, if not wicked, sense of humor and most people are surprised at the dark tone and content of most of my writing.



GROWING IN GREY
(I Got)

I was 17 when I said
in a voice barely audible
even to myself:
I don’t know whether I want to be a writer or a visual artist.
My parents looked at me and said: “Get a real job,”
patted me on the back,
pushed me along their path.

I got a real job.
I got a boyfriend.
I got an apartment.
I got married.
I got a mortgage.
I got pregnant.
I got a family.
I got a dog.
I got a cat.
I got volunteered.
I got involved.
I got pre-occupied.

But the years passed by, and the more years that passed, the more often I would look over
my shoulder at the path that I had traveled.

I got discontent.
I got confused.
I got angry.
I got anxious.
I got irregular heart rhythms.
I got insomnia.
I got thin.
I got cold.

I got betrayed, and not just by myself.

I got separated.
I got scared.
I got tired.
I got sad.
I got angry, distanced teenage daughters.
I got lonely.

I got a car loan.
I got a Visa.
I got my own mortgage.
I got a lover.
I got happy.
I got dumped.

I got depressed.
I got a pregnant teenage daughter.
I got despair.
I got fear.

I got a grandson.
I got courage.
I got perseverance.
I got faith.

I got a Writer’s Group.
I got spirit.
I got soul.
I got the Artist’s Way.

I got a Painter’s Group.
I got blank white canvas.
I got intimidated.
I got hesitation.
I got inspiration:
“Life is a great big canvas and you should throw all the paint on it you can.’*

I GOT A VOICE.

*Danny Kaye



Farewell to Dean
A Possession of Suicide

Whatever would possess one to
Slip the hard knot,
The rough rope
Around the muscles of the neck
And tighten it – not unlike a necktie -
‘Til the rough, frayed hemp scratched at the skin,
The soft skin just under the chin?

Did the distraught heart thump
Demand attention
Unheard, unfelt thump, thump thump,
Quiver in the breast?

Whatever would possess the spirit,
To command it so low
Diminish hope and faith
Breed an indeterminate fatigue
A desire to lie,
Hands clasped effortlessly across one’s chest,
A life force quieted,
dispelled to another purpose?
Nothing an effort,
The body still but stiller yet the mind
No more flurry of fury, the turmoil, the anguish of thoughts in conflict
What is the Purpose? What is the Purpose?
The TV blares, intrudes on thoughts that were trying to think but were so easily distracted from their distraction no matter how hard the concentration.

Whatever would possess one to
Slip the hard knot,
The rough rope
Around the muscles of the neck?

red on pink
blood on candy floss
sticky
sweet
cherry on flesh


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Rhya Tamasauskas

Rhya Tamasauskas

Rhya Tamasauskas is a Toronto based writer and visual artist. She grew up in the small village of Priceville, Ontario and spent most of her time running along concessions, mapping her memories with gravel roads and river stones. She began documenting her day-to-day life at the age of seven in a brown daily diary given to her by a close family friend and has not looked back since.

Rhya completed her B.F.A from Ryerson University in image arts in 2000. These days she spends most of her days making the many monsters that live in the nooks and crannies of her mind, come to life at the Monster Factory Studio. She is also an active member the independent writing collective Tuesday, which meets weekly to discuss poetry, between delicious mouthfuls of coffee, tea and the best cornbread muffins you can imagine.

Rhya’s poems have most recently been included in the second volume of the Pilot Pocket Book series, as well as in various magazines and online sites. Her work with the Monster Factory, has been exhibited in Toronto, Seattle , New York and L.A. She has also participated in Toronto’s Nuit Blanche, as a member of A Collection of Foreign Objects art collective. Follow these links to see more: rhyatamasauskas.com and www.acofo.com



Sister Watching
Bobbie-May has fallen asleep.
She is baby-sitting me tonight,
Though I know I am old enough to be left alone.

My bedtime came and went hours ago.
L.A. Law is on,
It is so boring, with too many shoulder pads.

Bobbie drools all over the couch.
A river floods out around her face,
That will leave a mark when it dries,
Like salt stains in winter.

Mom and Dad bought the couch last year,
They were really excited because it is ‘suede’.
I hate it,
With it’s beastly scent and felted skin,
The colour of fried liver.

Bobbie doesn’t say anything about it,
But tonight she leaves her mark,
Maps of sleep,
The evidence of her.

I stop staring at my sister,
She would not like it,
And return to the window,
Waiting for mom and dad’s headlights,
My signal to slip away to bed.



Did You Know?
Bobbie still wears a life jacket.
She says it is because she does not float,
I have seen her swim and this seems true.
Her body a pale anchor, craving the water floor,
Each stroke, saving her from certain death.



Gary
I know, I was thinking the same thing.
How can Bobbie be dating a guy named Gary?
His face is like chalk, and he has two rat-tails.
Gary says the least of anyone I have every met.
His words puff out from between his lips (chapped might I add),
With dry brittle crumbs of a conversation.
His lips aren’t pretty like those of the boys in the posters on her wall
Like Cory Feldman, like Sean Astin

But he does have a nice truck.



Busted
Bobbie-May came home tonight with manure on her heels
Lace skirts smelling like barn.
Her hair more straw than silk

She is busted by mom and dad,
Banished to her room

I can hear the thumping between the walls,
A muffled bass.
I know she is shouting without moving her mouth,
The sound is from the beast inside her chest,
Which is rabid and angry at the universe.

Tonight I believe she could beat Medusa.

Later I hear her washing the straw off her back.


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Daniel Kolos

Daniel Kolos is a Hungarian-born, US citizen living in Canada. He is an academically trained Egyptologist and co-author of The Name of the Dead, Tutankhamun Translated. He produced documentaries on the ancient Near East for CBC Radio, Ideas and founded Benben Books – a specialty bookstore on ancient Egypt. In 1988 he retired to Priceville to write short stories and poetry. His first book, Slipped Out (London, 2003: Pendas Productions), has been warmly welcomed and his second poetry collection, From One Child to Another was published in February, 2007. His work has also appeared in numerous poetry magazines and anthologies, such as Quills, The Canadian Poetry Magazine (Winter, 2003, and 2006) and The Poetry Tribe Review Anthology (Plymouth, Michigan, 2003) among others. Daniel is a member of the Highway 4 Writers (since 1995), Words Aloud Poetry Collective (Since 1999), The Ontario Poetry Society (Since 2003) and the League of Canadian Poets (Since 2007).

Click above to watch Daniel Kolos reading one of his poems.



Full Moon
Full Moon
You brighten the night,
you fool my eyes with cool,
eerie light, and I,
and I become your fool.

Full Moon
Within your bright circle,
I see my lover's face
and when you transit Venus
I ask her to wear her lace.

Full Moon
As one circle gives into another,
passions flow
and my lover becomes a mother.
The western winds blow.

Full Moon
As you change weekly
from Virgin to Mother to Wise One,
we imitate you meekly
and claim Sophia as the Prized One.


Canada Day in Priceville
Cloud covered the sky
faster than dusk could dull it
and distant thunder
turned to frantic lightning
with bolts striking
pine trees and hydro poles.
Ear splitting claps sent
fear into a thousand hearts.

The organizing committee
decided, wisely, to cancel
Canada Day’s fireworks.
Hundreds of cars turned
into the rainy darkness,
flashing their tepid lights
onto the night roads,
their occupants disappointed
that they had missed
the promised fireworks.


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Anne Duke Judd

Anne Duke Judd

Anne Duke Judd grew up in Muskoka District and lived in several waterside Ontario communities before moving to Bruce County in 1970. She began writing for pleasure as a teenager and has worked as a freelance writer and editor for many years.

You can find her poetry in diverse publications from “The Missing Line” anthology, (Inanna Publications, 2004), to “Brush Strokes” for Sheatre, to a calendar in support of Walker House Restoration, Kincardine. Her poem Leaving the Farm won first prize at Wingham Literary Day, (now Alice Munro Festival of Writing) the only year that contest accepted poetry. She has created a hand-bound chapbook called “The Pond Papers.”

A bookseller since 1976, Anne is the founder of The Brucedale Press, an active member of the local Writers’ BLOC, The Ontario Poetry Society and the poets performing as Words Aloud. She helped initiate the Queen’s Bush Book & Author Fair and Wild for the Arts festival.


After a workshop with Port Elgin native Roger Bell, I responded to his suggestion with this poem:

Mining
Mine your life
the much-published poet
advised.

Never one for underground
I decline to delve
refusing to sweat
to get refinable ore.
Nor will
I swill
my muddy waters
to extract a few nuggets.

But I have
mined my life,
armed certain points
so sensitive
that at a touch
everything explodes.



If you’ve visited Douglas Chambers’ gardens near Walkerton, you’ve seen the inscriptions on stones and the patterned plantings. After Words Aloud performed in his barn, I came home to our clearing in the forest and thought about what happens when people change landscape.

After Stonyground
Attende, professor,
in your storied garden,
imposed shapes,
linear patterns
smaller echoes of our grid
of surveyed lines—
concessions, lots, fields,
chains and rods and rules—
meaningless
in Nature’s measure.

Time and sun
root and seed
form the true pattern:
cycles and circles,
meanders of rivers,
ridges of rock,
ravines of leaf litter,
worm-moved and waiting,
as the raspberry canes wait—
wait at the edge of the clearing,
wait for human inattention,
carpe diem.



Two prompts inspired this poem: noticing how we use words like “row” and “patches” in both indoor and outdoor work usually done by women; and noticing elderly people become disoriented in institutional settings. The poem was first published in Canadian Woman Studies, then in The Missing Line anthology.

Farm Wife
She gladly grew
his babies in her garden
tending
rows of knit and peas
patches of jackets and beans
hills of pumpkin pie and wash,
the full pods
of ripened daughters
sending
seedlings to the future,
the harvest of tall sons
defending
against the dark winter
of old age.

Here in the high white
hospital bed,
thoughts muddied by disinfectant odours,
dreams of pansy faces
tense smiles on plastic chairs,
sees her wrinkled brown
bulb of body
giving birth
to daffodils.



Trooper Cummings Speaks
I’ve stood silent here so long
a hundred years
only me in the market square.

They sent me to South Africa
a battlefield
nothing like the fields
of my Saugeen Township home
no maples, no snow,
no syrup, no sleighing
no river rolling by
the east pasture,
no rain blessing
seeded ground.

Only heat
and flies
and horses dying.
Agony of wounds
to land and men
to broken families,
trampled crops,
the sun unrelenting
as the generals.

My death barely noticed
except at home
in tall granite, my face
looking down on all who pass,
my twenty-five years
stretched longer.

I liked the primroses every spring,
the smoothing grass,
healer of land’s wounds.
I watched the young
swing on the fence—
still a farmboy,
thinking of fences
linking pasture to barn,
not separating
street and store.
Church bells
gone from the corner,
dancers from the hall
and jail cells too,
such a changed neighbourhood!

Still always few at night
while I kept my watch,
persistent as those pioneers
who planted roots
in Saugeen’s soil.

What echoes now,
this rumbling of machines
ground trembling
beside my position
not from shells or cannonfire
earth blown away
twisted metal
reaching from the sand.
I miss the gentle click
of bowls on the green
the polite white-clad
troops, soft-spoken
in their tournaments.

Soon, they say,
I will have comrades near,
other ghosts from other wars
and here
we’ll band
perhaps in peace,
our duty done,
our lessons taught—
but not yet learned?


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Lauren Best

Lauren Best

Imported to Owen Sound from the suburban wasteland of Mississauga at a young age, Lauren Best has been singing since before she could talk. After starting to sing, she learned to talk, and talk she did. After a whirlwind of toddler-dom (including highlights such as singing "You Are My Sunshine" to a delighted bar crowd), she eased into elementary school.

She wrote her first song, entitled "Tick Tock Goes the Clock", about her difficulties with punctuality when starting a school-day morning. And the rest, as they say, is history. She made her big-stage Grey County debut with Salome Bey in 1997 at the Three-Fires Sacred Assembly. Many musical and creative influences, inspirations, and experiences later, she is poised to generate some musical heat before graduating from high school.

A driven songwriter, singer and keyboardist, Lauren is creatively engaged in performing, collaborating, and working on her debut album. She has recently appeared on stage with her Renegade Company at numerous venues including Summerfolk 07 and opening ceremonies of Owen Sound's 150th Homecoming, in addition to performing and recording with the First Rate People and recently joining the Big Love.

As a triple-threat performing artist she has worked with Sheatre, collaborating and appearing in TOM (A New Musical) and Far From The Heart. Lauren continues to perform in and produce acclaimed concerts, and is honoured be Owen Sound's Poet Laureate's Poet of the Month for June 2008. She is has worked in partnership with the Georgian Bay Folk Society and the Knox Acoustic Cafe as a host, performing artist, and producer as part of Young and Hungry Discoveries. Catch her the evening of July 13th as part of the Harbour Nights Concert Series.



Semblance of Faith
It's the kind of thawing of winter that leaves the snow pocked and dirty and old
With the kind of wind that caresses your bones gentle and cold
And scrapes naked branches against your heart
It's a greying of seasons, it's taking my pleasant illusions and tearing them apart

And it causes me to wonder when you slipped into inevitability
And it causes me to consider how long I've been dancing with reality

Who was it that sowed the seeds of sadness in your soul?
Was there a moment in your life when you understood that eventually you'd lose control?
Every word that you don't say brings me closer to realizing what I know
Even if I maintain some semblance of faith, you're still going to let yourself go
I wrote a birthday greeting on a bathroom stall, in the flock of angry letters

I knew it wouldn't save anything at all, or really make me feel much better
The acrid scent filled my lungs like some non-toxic rhapsody
The futility a sweet resistant harmony

But it was my outcry against your ******* fallibility
And it was my outcry against the humanity of humanity

Who was it that sowed the seeds of sadness in your soul?
Was there a moment in your life when you understood that eventually you'd lose control?
Every word that you don't say brings me closer to realizing what I know
Even if I maintain some semblance of faith, you're still going to let yourself go
Even if I maintain some semblance of faith, you're still going to let yourself go


Ripples
Ripples on water aren't the kind of thing that can be captured
They have to be lived to really truly be realized
Like my mother's love for her daughter, like when a thousand footsteps falter
Like the moment you try to see the world through someone else's eyes

Freeze frames don't have this sort of beauty
The beauty I see every day in the world
Loving and living and crying and singing
About the way I fall in love with every day again

Rain clouds and runaways, long walks on windy days
Ways we try to differentiate between broken hearts and broken minds
Playgrounds oh they're waterfalls, piano bars and curtain calls
The way your heart feels all tangled up with mine

Freeze frames…

A baby's laughter, the way I'm enraptured
By the mutual praise of the sun's rays drenching trees reaching to the sky
Sidewalk chatter, and hope in disaster
Or the moment you find the world in someone else's eyes

Freeze frames…
Soaked to the Soul (excerpt)
Gargoyles play in your consciousness
Between insecurity and false confidence
In your firm sense of righteous deviance
They find a nice place to nestle in and call home
You'll never be alone, but you're always on your own
I want to dance with them
Bathe in this disastrous requiem
Take the shades of complexity onto my tongue
All given, no condition; tasted affliction

And I would give you truth, but it's dynamically divine
And I would give you a sense of security, but that's a silly thing for the constructs of your mind

When I finally open my eyes I see

You and me naked in the rain
Dancing in droplets, dripping pain
Laughing, dancing in puddles of shame
Soaked to the soul

Let me go on an exploratory dive
Swimming into the depths of your mind
And if I make it back alive
I'll go again deeper, deeper
Hoping to transcend the beginning of the end
You can challenge me, you can shake my beliefs
Shock and awe, beckon and tease
Chew and spit, plead guilty and unravel me
Playing between senses, playing between defences

And I would give you redemption, but to have redemption you have to have faith
And I would give you illusion, but as your own illusions will demonstrate

When you finally open your eyes you'll see

You and me naked in the rain
Dancing in droplets, dripping pain
Laughing, dancing in puddles of shame
Soaked to the soul



Lauren Best playing "Back to the Boards"
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Melanie Knapp

Melanie Knapp

Reading Melanie Knapp's poetry is like finding a lucky penny on your path. You pick up it and dream of wishes, hopes and prayers. Melanie's poems epitomize the saying that "poetry is the shortest distance between two hearts." Her poems are playful and serious, musical and lyrical, passionate and compassionate. Here's Melanie in her own words: "Poetry is one of many experiences that stretch people and help build mystical muscles. It's good for the spirit and soul! I'm glad the community of Owen Sound is embracing poetry."

"I developed artistically over years and years of writing word after word, leading to carefully walking step by step, along a creative path of healing and discovery. Finally, I find that my brown hair shines, while the dolphin earring I sometimes wear high on my right ear adds to the zest of a creative spirit who enjoys her funky hats. It is delightful that my fun-filled style is symbolic of an emerging poetic artist."

Melanie Knapp learned a lot about people from her schooling at the University of Waterloo where she studied Psychology. When she was younger she used her talents to direct Presqu'ile Rotary/YMCA Youth Camp. She recently had the rewarding experience of working with some elderly people at John Joseph Place. In the present she is Lead Volunteer for workshops with youth that promote positive Mental Health.

Melanie's background is partly Italian. She particularly loves a special occasion of Italian food. She can think up lots of reasons for such special occasions. Melanie spent some time volunteering in beautiful Costa Rica in her early twenties. When she found poetry she was in a bit of a difficult spot and the ongoing conversation of poetry was supportive company. She found voice and peace in the expression of poetry. She also loves many artistic forms and especially the universal language of music.

One of many aspects of being me involves being aware of the earth with respect and value.

It is my hope that people continue to create sensitive art around the health of the environment. I love observing this kind of art and I think it helps the earth and it's people."



Puppets
This poem is fondly dedicated to the Friends And Neighbors club members and the puppets who help facilitate positive growth and development of people of all ages!
We’re pretty peculiar puppets-
We play and pretend all day!
We pride ourselves in our - perfect popularity,
And are playful pals like you!

Now for some more fun with the letter P.
This is the imagination part of the poem.

Put pickled pebbles in a pond!
And puny parsley on my potatoes please!
Perhaps a purple pencil is better than a pen!
Did you know some people still put plenty of pennies into a piggy bank!

But however peculiar we puppets become...
We are pleased to recite this poem to you!
Hope you enjoy the rest of the poem,
And appreciate the PLUSES of this PUPPET PRESENTATION!


With a Little Bit of Hope
Hello...Africa
We hear you-
Singing your songs,
Drumming up some
Love and care for your people.

Intelligence, peace, harmony, hope.

Hello...Canada
We hear you-
Talking your talk,
Sharing some
Love and care for people in Africa.

Consideration, empathy, sincerity, persistence.

You aren’t so small.
We aren’t so small.
Life isn’t so small.
The world isn’t so small.

Kindness, cheerfulness, partnership, health.

Working towards helpful goals,
Creating a lovable world,
That children want to live in.

Large to small, small to large.
Heart to mind, mind to heart.
Hand in hand, counting on years of wisdom,
Knowledge and experience as guidance.

Step up to courage.
Step in time to the music of hope.
Step forward to the future.
Step back to a lifetime of learning.

Three steps forward, two steps back.
But keep traveling towards a sustainable, attainable, lovable future.

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Caroline Menzies

Caroline Menzies

Caroline Menzies was born in England and raised there for twelve years. After living in Michigan and various places in Ontario, she moved to Owen Sound in 1979. Married to retired teacher and cartoonist, Robert Menzies, their blended family includes six children, a grandchild, and several fur-balls.

Writing credits include: 50 or so articles for local arts and entertainment rags, two short stories, one with Brucedale Press, the other with Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine (Dec. 2007); and an unpublished novel. Her poetry has appeared in “Brush Strokes” (Ginger Press/Sheatre, 2007), and in a self-published chapbook, “Walking in Sky” (Dec. 2007). She manages the Owen Sound Artists’ Co-op, and also makes hand-bound journals.



Cloaked
Fog whirls in,
an ocean of sheep tumbling
through narrow streets.
Curling crests of whipped vapour
devour every inch of the city;
and where, before,
black dread was lurking,
now there is luminescence
and I am walking in sky.

I go to greet it, alien invader;
offer my cautious hand,
which curiously disappears
within its hungry breath.
But I stand defiant -
it is, after all, my street, is it not?
I am my own beacon
and I know just where to shine.

Each step in white darkness,
the same as in white light;
and so I move in trust of my kinetic memory;
but by inches, not feet,
as if treading on cracked ice.
I find each tree, each hedge,
each post and each curb.

Or, at least, they find my hands and feet,
and impart within a new delight,
a revelation: I can navigate this strange world.

But others are not so sure.
Blinded by the white,
they cannot drive,
their lights unable to penetrate
its thick veil.

My heart races when I recognize it
as a gift, this cloak.
It is glorious and strange.
I must ride through it,
let it absorb me,
and I wish for a white stallion
but my red bike will do.

I know the way - it’s etched in my memory
and I can stop on a dime if I must.
I’m the fastest horse in town this night, and invisible.

I ride on blind faith;
I am a ghost who owns the night,
but I am alive and impervious;
all others are dead.
Or at least in mortal danger,
they think.

The streets belong to me,
me, who used to cower in shadows,
fearful of perverts, predators, and punks.
Now I awaken anew and I am utterly free.

I glide unscathed through crippled streets;
amid shrieks of steel, insistent horns,
I laugh unheard.

In this impermeable realm,
all is muted except the fear of immobility,
but its screams are futile.

Drivers cower behind shrouded glass,
afraid of bumps in the night.

And as I zig zag all around them,
unapologetic,
like a dark angel mocking,
it occurs to me
what a safe world this would be
if everyone
    suddenly
        went blind.


Surfaces
My fingernails are chewed clean off;
I can’t bear to scratch the surface,
reveal the truth concealed beneath:
my cracked foundation,
the termites in my bones,
the silent tumour.
Let it be.
I just don’t want to know.
For six weeks, till spring tells its tale,
    let me live in a 2D world,
    flawless, shallow as water’s skin.
    Let me glide on celluloid,
    spread myself like paint, too thin.
    I’ll draw in blood,
    I’ll let me win.

Claws. sharpened on the door frame,
sink into the pencil that drew
stick figures in mud, before it
sank beneath the surface.

I can no longer look beyond
the worlds I create on the page.
    Let me be a cat for just one day,
    see the world in primal terms.
    Catch a mouse, then let it go.
    Let it breathe for six more minutes:
    a lifetime of sighs, of gratitude,
    before I bite its neck, swift and precise,
    feel its life drain out;
    drop it tepid and limp at your feet.
    Love’s offering of finality.

The prongs of the garden fork
pierce the April shroud of winter,
beneath fallen branches in the yard.
The trellis stands twisted
from February’s storm six weeks past.
The grape vine, though brown, denuded
with tresses like errant dreads,
seems the only thing still holding on.
    Let me creep along the fence,
    turn green, send out tendrils twining;
    weave thick shade from brazen sun,
    bloom, bear fruit, feed birds, then sleep.

    Let some part of me still know this earth;
    and with no more need for weeping,
    I will return each spring anew;
    tread softly where I’m sleeping.


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Meaghan Strimas

Meaghan Strimas

Meaghan Strimas, Owen Sound bred poet, editor and novelist-in-the-works, definitely gives us something to shout about. Her poems are taut & tender, heavenly & boozy, refreshing & inventive. Not only does she have a strong poetic voice, but her work as editor of The Selected Gwendolyn MacEwen is a great accomplishment.

If you’re not familiar with MacEwen, who has been called the greatest poet of her generation, Strimas has provided us with a beautiful compilation of her work. When asked what she hoped the book would achieve, Meaghan replied: “that MacEwen’s work finds a bigger audience . . .” And I’d say the same for Strimas’s poetry.



Nod to the Drunkard I Once
Sat Next to in the Park

Well, here we are is what comes to mind
though I do not speak it. As here you are,
piss drunk at noon & stinking of piss
& booze, heavenly booze, & you’re likely
randy, though gentleman enough
not to touch or make mention of the woman
next to you on this bench. I am lunching
& lonely & I’d like to chuck my ham sandwich
across the park just to see the pigeons flock.

Come closer my drunkard friend, miracle
that you are, singular, you will never happen
again, much as I will never happen again,
but loathe, we often do, this singularity. I’d
like to touch you, but like many, I am fearful
& I’ve been told that open reproof is better
than love concealed. Of both, I am guilty.
If I had the gumption, I’d smile, but what we
share is silence & in this moment I see you
turn from green to gilt to gold, you who are,
unwittingly, thankfully, in this moment,
my Angel of Repose.


An Old Broad’s Belongings
When the old broad, who lived across
road, went kaput, I thought—I hope no person
ever refers to me as “the old broad,” and the sick-chambers
of my brain wondered (in this heat)
if she’d been up there long. The broad’s kids
parked haphazardly in her lane and hustled from their cars.
Two daughters, garbed as garish Gerber daisies,
cleaned house, while the son (a capital V virgin I’m sure)
played with the stake of a “For Sale” sign;
after several puncture wounds to the lawn, it stood erect.

I’d been to estate sales before, but not like this—
the impression of her lower lip, Violet #21, imprinted
on her water goblet (selling for a dime), and the dregs
of her final breath still crawling out the front door.


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Liz Zetlin

Liz Zetlin

Liz Zetlin was born in Norfolk, Virginia and immigrated to Canada in 1969. After working in Toronto as a waitress, community organizer and commodity futures broker, poetry appeared in her late forties, when she found herself writing in every room of the house.

Retired twice, first from the Toronto Public Library and then the Tom Thomson Art Gallery, Liz now devotes most of her time to promoting and writing poetry. As part of the National Random Acts of Poetry Week, she’s traveled thousands of kilometers, done hundreds of readings and given away boxes of poetry books to people all over Grey/Bruce.

Best known as a “nature poet with a twist,” Liz plants garlic to form words of prayer; inscribes words on ornamental gourds as catalysts for poems; grows punctuation marks in her hay field and writes odes to punctuation marks.” “Her poetry celebrates the human community, at once passionate and compassionate, a delight for eyes, ears and sensory appetite,” says Olive Senior, winner of the Commonwealth Writers Prize.

Liz's publications include The Thing With Feathers (BuschekBooks, 2004), Taking Root (Seraphim Editions, 2001), Said the River (Penumbra Press, 1995); Connections (Always Press, 1994), and Ghost of Glenelg (Always Press, 1995), all collaborations with visual artists.

Her chapbook The Gourd Poems received the Canadian Poetry Association's Shaunt Basmajian Award. Her poem “Holy Days” received a Stephen Leacock award. Her video poems, The Limestone Ghazals, were exhibited at the Tom Thomson Art Gallery and in Newfoundland and Ireland, with the Limestone Barrens Project.

Liz is also a teacher, workshop leader, editor, arts advocate and co-artistic director of the Words Aloud Spoken Word & Storytelling Festival, which produces the annual Words Aloud Spoken Word Festival in Durham.

She is the mother of two sons, Ira Zingraff and Chiah Holman, and grandmother of Zoe and Keagan Holman. She lives in Traverston, near Markdale, with her husband Don Holman.


Some Functions of Snow
           – inspired by Don McKay’s “Some Functions of a Leaf”
For quiet. To play
charades with the trees,
tickle the backs of lakes.
For obliteration, alliteration
and rhyme. To refrigerate
knees, force us to slow down, simplify,
clean out the closets. To insulate
and lessen loss – of water
from dormant plants, of sadness
from the rest of us. To sparkle.
           To make us dig out from under
crystallized patterns. To clear the palette.
To remind us we’re not in control.
To awaken shoulders and ache backs,
make us look up from whatever we’re doing,
bring us closer to clouds. To be
atmospheric, translucent, one of a kind.
To halt traffic, close schools, disturb reception, cancel
just about everything as we fall to earth,
flail our arms like wings, become
what we like to call snow angels,
enter stillness, melt.


APRIL ADDICTIONS
anything that melts or intoxicates
           dark chocolate, warm earth, red wine
anything that promises to unfold
           winter aconite, abilities, handwritten notes

being

those who find in themselves
greater pride and confidence as creators

being here

those who show their grade two students
how to turn cumulus clouds into concrete poems

being here breathing

those who step on stage for the first time
speaking their own words aloud

being here breathing, listening

those who understand creativity
cannot be legislated or corralled

being here breathing, listening, hoping

those who arrive with cartons of words,
dark laureates, poet chocolates

being here breathing, listening, hoping, grateful

anything that melts or intoxicates
anything that promises to unfold
-from Addictions of a Poet Laureate (Always Press)



Night Walk: Boreal Poetry Garden is an experimental docu-poem by Liz Zetlin that follows Newfoundland artist Marlene Creates, lit only by flashlight, on a walk through her Portugal Cove boreal forest to the Blast Hole Pond River. Along the way, she stops to read poems conceived at these sites. Words meld into forest, trip down paths, flow into the river, where inspiration lurks like a moose.
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Marion Fields Wyllie

Marion Fields Wyllie
Photo by: Liz Zetlin

Marion Fields Wyllie was born October 26, 1906 near Collingwood, Ontario. Her autobiography, My Nine Lives, was published by the Ginger Press for her 100th birthday. It is, she says, "the story of my life so far." An award-winning author, Marion's observations on the past century are intriguing. She was there (age 3) when the first airplane flew over Toronto and she remembers when running water and electricity replaced outhouses and oil lamps. Besides writing, Marion has been a farmer, parent, Sunday school teacher, lay preacher, and news correspondent. Marion has also self-published five chapbooks and two haiku calendars, as well as a children's book and skits for amateur actors. For 20 years, she published the quarterly “Soft Voices” and was religious columnist for “50 Plus” for two years. Marion is the founder of the Grey-Bruce Writers' Club, which continues to meet and provide support for many local writers.



ODE TO THE SYDENHAM
You rose from deep rock caverns
And from rainwater caught in hollows.
You rippled down the grassy slopes
And dripped from craggy ledges.
Your leisurely loitering created wetlands,
The habitat of peeping tree-frogs
And wading waterfowl.
You pooled in saucered spots
Where wild creatures can drink;
And flowed through flowery fields.
Refreshing the grass, to nourish cattle
Whose thirst you quenched.
How calmly reflective is the pent-up pond!
How swift and thunderous the plunge
From the cliff’s edge to the bouldered brook
Between high walls where evergreens
Precariously cling!
Rapids and deep pools alternate,
And rosy-tinted rainbow trout
Spawn and prepare to die.
At last, assuming the dignity of age,
You take a strong, unwavering course
And make a harbour where great ships may call,
And sailing craft cry out for an artist’s brush.
From thence you merge with the long waterway
That leads to the Atlantic.


Through Closed Eyelids
Before the dark of night at length comes down
Some light comes through my closed, translucent eyelids.
I see a network of fine scarlet threads
Spread over pale flesh, tissue-paper thin.

Then shadows obscure the scene until a light,
Glimmers across, white, flickering but calm;
After the light a dark sky, lit with stars.

Again a change – a quiet-coloured room
Where sits a baby-like, soft-sculptured doll.
Its long, white nightgown and round, dimpled face
Give way to someone tall, in flowered print
With adult features wistful, sweet yet strong.

Always I know that, to my waking eyes,
Such forms will vanish into nothingness.
Should I, in the interest of reality,
Raise my eyelids to dispel these myths?
Or should I cherish all such images
My closed, but seeing eyes create for me,
For company and comfort until I fall asleep?


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Kristan Anderson

Kristan Anderson

My name is Kristan Anderson. Kris being the one syllable version that most names get shortened to. I was born in Owen Sound 38 years ago and lived the first year and a bit of my life in Annan. My father was the minister of the church there and when we moved at the ripe old age of 18 months or so, I did not return to my "Motherland" until just last June. Kind of an interesting fact, returning to the land that gave birth to me and yet, not having much familiarity with it. My own nuclear version of a family now includes my partner Vickie. Four lovely (most of the time) children: Raewyn, Eilish, Hannah and Shea'mn. And my partner's mother Aida.

We have moved from North Vancouver Island to just south of Owen Sound; about half way between Owen Sound and Durham, near Desboro. We've always wanted to have a cozy country living and the kids are still young enough not to resent us for it. I've been interested in writing since I could hold one of those big red pencils and make some semblance of letters.

Of course, like many writers, I wanted to write the great Canadian novel. However, my ADD makes it difficult for me to focus on ideas long enough to sustain them for that long a stretch. Thus, poetry was my natural fallback. I've always loved theatre and acting as well, which is why I guess I went into teaching. I live for performance and live action. I enjoy the spontaneity of interacting with an audience or fellow thespians.

Being new to the community, I'm hoping to connect with the greater Owen Sound artistic community and join in with some collaborative projects, as well as share some of my own personal ideas. My goal for this year is to publish a compilation of some recent poetry and do as much performance bits as I can. Practically speaking though, I'm still in transition and am working to just familiarize and climatize myself to this place called "Home."



A Perfect Place to Call Home
Houses grow on you slowly.
But like an ivy you plant,
You’re hoping for that quick, perfect picture
In your head
Which it can’t
Possibly be
Those things you’d hoped you see cause,
Things take a little time to become
Perfect.
If ever.

It’s what’s lost over
What’s gained.
And when I say perfect
It’s just the only name
I can give
To my waning heart
In the light of dark
Times
Like these,
My fresh start.
Cause roots
Don’t grow well
When they plant on
Stony soil.
They must fight
And force their way
Down
Grinding their flesh
Into callused joy.
And new places are the same
Like new faces
With no names
Like seeds
They got needs.
They got to live a little,
Laugh and cry
And feel a trickle
Of some pain
Fall from your eyes
To stain the floor
And then,
Yeh, even then,
It’s not gonna be what you expect.
Cause perfect ain’t planned neither.
It arises from what you thought was a defect.
Those cracks and imperfections that you’d
Swore one day you’d fix
But instead you’ve just learned to live with ‘em
Cause you learned it’s worth the risk.
And what’s worth dying for
Is worth living through
Even more.
All rebirth
Involves a little pain,
I know it’s a cliché
Too obvious
A redundant saying
But everything remains the same
And as much as things change,
They don’t.

It’s the way we come
The way we go
And the way
To find a way out
And away and
Back home again
But
Home, is a four-letter word
Trying
To own you,
To define you.
It gets a hold of you
To try and realign
And choose
Your life.
Friends and family
Your backyard and other
Aspects of Geography
Make up a part
But apart from that,
What is it?
And where are you really?
Cause four walls and a roof
Only define a shelter.
And a shelter’s no more a home
Than talent is bred in the bone
Or blood can be bled from stone.
No.
Home, is personal.
You don’t have it
But it becomes you.
You carry it with you always
And yet it’s not until
You’ve lost your way
That you understand – Hey!
I’ve lost my home.
And there’s nothing scarier
Than being alone
With no place to call your own.

Once,
A long time ago,
My mom told me
That if ever I got lost
I was to do nothing,
Stay where I was
And wait cause,
She’d come find me.
And she’d take me back home.
But mom’s not here anymore.
And there’s no more home
Than here’s where I was born
And here’s where I am
While there’s got me damned
And now I lay
Caught between here and there
Near and far
In empty space
Circling a cold star
That shines…
Well, coldly.

And I know it’s just
A matter of time
And perspective
Before I’m feeling
Less alone,
Less reactive.
And my look on life
And how I live
Just might become
A bit more proactive.
Like the house I’m in
Starts to feel more
Like a second skin
And these people
And this place
All start to feel
In place
Again.
Like I’vev
Gotten somewhere.
Somewhere that
Might just be,
Back home.


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Claire Fanger

Claire Fanger

I am a poet and a medievalist and I have been both since I was in my early twenties. I am fifty now. When I was a child, my father read to me every night; we read Mark Twain and Dickens, Hawthorne and Melville. A most important thing for me was that we reread the Lord of the Rings every year, starting when I was about six. We read the whole thing every time; every boring speech, every ballad.

Tolkien was a medievalist, though I had no knowledge of this as a child hearing the story. Then, when I was an undergraduate I had to take a course in English Literary History, and we read some medieval lyrics. I remember reading the words “middle earth” in a Middle English poem (“middle earth” is a common term for this world – what lies under Heaven and above Hell – in Old and Middle English). And I suddenly thought: “So it’s all real!” I knew had found all the sources of Tolkien’s imaginative world. (Only it turned out, as so often happens, that the real history when I began to enter into it turned out more gripping and infinitely more strange than the fiction spun from it.)

I wound up at the University of Toronto some years later, in the PhD programme for Medieval Studies. On the way, I picked up a Creative Writing MA from Boston University. Long slippery slide to philology in that first experience, and I have never looked back. Both the academic writing and the poetry are so much a part of me I could not live without doing them – I can hardly imagine who I would be if I did not.



SILENCE IN TWO VOICES
            Saghi, I am
hearing your voice it is breathing

it is breathing
on my skin       it pulls me
turns to me      asking for my name

it is listening
it is catching at my garments
like a wind
it is asking me questions
I cannot answer
it is trying to break
my silence       it is air and darkness

it is a hidden wind blowing
through Owen Sound

Saghi, I am
drinking your voice it is liquid
overspilling       it is written in milk
it is written in milk and in ashes

Saghi, I am drinking your voice
on the mountain         halfway up
while the baby tumbles
slowly
from the horse's back

I am falling
into your voice

which catches me       half way up
as though I were waking
to see my face in the mirror
of your voice      a blue pool
at which I am drinking
your voice which is liquid

undisturbed      open to the sky

it is still alive
it was hidden in Turkey
it was hidden in Iran
it is hidden here
in the empty chair        it is hidden
in your breath              it is written
in silence on the podium
written on the hidden wind
draped on our skin       like silk
on the podium      like cobwebs
blown off the chair where
you don't sit and the iron
chain by which you are not
confined
                          it is breaking up
as you speak it is coming
undone               it is the voice
of the silence
the voice of your sleep
being broken                on the mountain
it is fighting back

it is the voice of the dead

it is still alive

Saghi, I am holding your voice
in my hands                 it is still alive
I can feel it being written
on my skin        its text becoming
under my hands a veil
which does not cover you        a skin
which is not broken
like the silence

which is still alive

I can feel its inscription
your voice upon my skin

draped like the veil
broken like the silence
                                           I am writing
your voice
on the skin of my silence
breaking


IN THE GARDEN
i.
the prophet is
an instrument full of speech

the ruby throated
hummingbird hangs

like an exclamation
off the honeysuckle

(whose trumpet blossoms
are every shade of flesh and wine)

his throat fills with liquid
his body fixed in air

on wings invisibly
moving

ii.
the garden is planted
in the soul

origin of delights
pleasure necessary

as prayer or music
invades us

from these mullein petals
rich as crumpled cream

from the hummingbird’s body
a small prism radiating

colors aqueous
as the eye itself

the eye which becomes simple
as the body fills with light

until it is only an instrument of vision
damasked rose and bronze

iii.
if the hummingbird were not
robed in the garments of this world

this world could not endure
he is the lock and key

instrument of prophecy
the liquid in my throat

the living text
dividing soul and spirit

joints and marrow
& if my bones choose death

the hummingbird remains
moving as the twilight


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Don McKay

Don McKay

Don McKay has published numerous books of poetry including Birding, Or Desire (1983), Sanding Down This Rocking Chair on a Windy Night (1987), Night Field (1991), Apparatus (1997) and Another Gravity (2000). McKay has won two Governor General’s Awards for Poetry (in 1991 and 2000), a National Magazine Award in 1991, the Canadian Authors Association Literary Award for Poetry in 1983, was a finalist for the Governor General’s Award for Poetry (also in 1983) and was shortlisted for the Griffin Poetry Prize in 2001 and 2005, winning in 2007. McKay also won the Dorothy Livesay Poetry Prize for Strike/Slip. Born in Owen Sound in 1942, McKay is known as a poet, an editor and creative writing teacher. He has taught at the University of Western Ontario, the University of New Brunswick, The Banff Centre, the Sage Hill Writing Experience, and the BC Festival of the Arts. He has served as editor and publisher of Brick Books, and from 1991 to 1996 he edited Fiddlehead magazine. He lives in St. Johns, Newfoundland.

Griffin Poetry Prize judges say this about McKay’s Strike/Slip: “In Strike/Slip, Don McKay walks us out to the uncertain ground between the known and unknown, between the names we have given things and things as they are. This is wonder’s territory, and from within it McKay considers a time ‘before mind or math’ before rock, in human hands, turned over in the mind, becomes stone. The poems confront the strangeness and inadequacy of using language to address the point at which language fails – the point where, ‘wild and incompetent, / you have no house’ – and suggest that in such an unsettled state we might truly pay attention.

In McKay’s work, attention is the foundation of a poetics and an ethics in which otherness is respected, indeed cherished, for its ability to unhouse. But Strike/Slip also speaks to the intimacy of our relationships with time. How, at once metaphysical, practical, and intuitive, the weight of it is thought, felt in the body, and discerned in the landscape as sediment and growth, rust and erosion. McKay’s meditations on time’s evidence acquire a similar heft, proposing, in their discipline of mind and generosity of spirit, a way to be at home in the world. A book of patience, courage, and quiet eloquence, Strike/Slip manifests, like quartz, ‘Some act of pure attention … simple, naked, perilously perfect’.”



SOME FUNCTIONS OF A LEAF
To whisper. To applaud the wind
and hide the Hermit thrush.
To catch the light
and work the humble spell of photosynthesis
(excuse me, sir, if I might have one word)
by which it’s changed to wood.
To wait
willing to feed
          and to be food.

To die with style:
as the tree retreats inside itself,
shutting off the valves at its
extremities
          to starve in Technicolor, then
having served two hours in a children’s leaf pile, slowly
stir its vitamins into the earth.

To be the artist of mortality.



FRIDGE NOCTURNE
When it is late, and sleep,
off somewhere tinkering with his motorcycle, leaves you
locked in your iron birdhouse,
listen to your fridge, the old
armless weeping willow of the kitchen.

Humble murmur, it works its way
like the river you’re far from, the Saugeen, the Goulais
the Raisin
muddily gathers itself in pools to drop things in
and fish things from,
the goodwill mission in the city of dreadful night.



SUMMER AT LEITH
In those days
every moment was a hunch
and pause was full.
An afternoon became itself
simply.
Freshie with the aunts, paced
in the shush ah of the beach’s breathing
(possibly the boys
would like to learn canasta?), scented
by the overhanging cedars, in whose shadows,
wings ablur,
their iridescent needles pointing nowhere
dragonflies were dozing.

Sometimes, if a bat
flew down the chimney, evenings would erupt
in harmless panic, laughter, shrieks,
kids and uncles flailed with anything
that came to hand. One
was volleyed with a tennis racket and became
an old burnt-out cigar.
Whip-poor-wills, then
waking on the porch
embroidered by a warbler’s soft motifs, all,
the whole thing taken for granted.
The only rule was not to know the rules
made elsewhere.
Let memory blink you’re out like a bat
dodging traffic, ears tuned
to the heavy rumour of your future,
while the image of you, fuzzy
as fuzzy old Pooh (Auth Helen
never really caught on to photography), still
trundles its toy milk cart
cottage to cottage.




Pond, the second docu-poem in this series, features Don McKay reading his poem “Pond,” from the Griffin Poetry Prize winning collection, Strike/Slip. As McKay says, "I don't think that poetry is in any danger, that it runs deep and will always be there. It will survive, with cockroaches, beyond us."
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Norah Phillips

Norah Phillips

I was born in the village of Brechin, Ontario and grew up in Barrie. I graduated from Ryerson University and my teaching degree is from Queen's. I have taught high school in Owen Sound for the last 20 years. My initial specialists were in English and Media; I've also taught World Religions, Creative Writing, and an interesting variety of alternative programs.

I began taking my writing more seriously at Ryerson. At Queen's I was in a program for writers and started publishing and editing there. There have been a few contests and awards here and there and writing workshops through the Humber School for Writers and The Ginger Press. Through my Creative Writing course at the OSCVI, I have been fortunate to participate in special writing projects at Sydenham Public School and Summit Place. I have written many course curricula and other materials for the classroom. Most recently, these include my newsletter about educational issues called Teachability and my work with MendEd. I've come to believe there is a book-length piece of writing in my future but my timidity (rarely evident, I know) prevents further discussion.



Enduring Enlightenment
I arrived unexpectedly at my own enlightenment.
It should have happened at a hilltop monastery in Tibet –
chanting, bells, prayer flags fluttering in a saintly breeze,
me and the monks
flirting with eternity.

Looking back, I see now why it had to happen this way.
The crows had been following me for days.
Fields of sheep
bleated with the significance of nature
but I would not see the signs.
And when the feathered serpent arrived –
well, I wasn’t home.

Instead
I am at the deli counter of a supermarket
when bliss hits.
So powerful is my oneness with the universe
that I feel compelled to hum
in perfect tonal unity with the coolers around me.
When the deli lady speaks to me, I order honeyed ham
so that she will go away and I can hum again.

And again and again –
Angus beef, Noah Martin summer sausage, European-cured pancetta –
anything so I can stay in this pulsating paradise
this nirvana.

But nirvana doesn’t get the laundry done.
Life goes on
and to my surprise, so does the oneness.
Transparent routines come wrapped in revelation.
The car wash, the stop light, the parking meter –
all unexpected instruments of enlightenment.
No Zulu sunrise chant
no forty days in the wilderness
just the bliss of every day.



Hymn
I did not dream of the bee-loud glade.
I dreamed the bees.
Ten of them, precisely. Ten stings, but little pain.
Bees in the curtains, bees in the water.
And of manatees I dreamt also
and other flippery things
a fish I have seen before
which I cannot now name
and angels of kelp, impossibly green
directing my way on the beach.

My mouth, when I woke, was bleeding,
my left arm heavy, supported by God.

I have bled words of you.
I have sung your name
in phrase and praise and prayer.
I have leaned into the light of you
like a housebound plant.
And still I could not find you.

The dreams are gone now.
Somewhere the bees are dreaming me.

I will not build me a willow cabin at your gate
nor holler your name to the reverberate hills.
I will arise now but I will not leave.
I will knock at the door to your life.
I will say or I will sing
(the words are still the same)
I do not desire the stingless path
I am here I am here I am here
I am at God’s door,
my door,
I have arrived now
and I am here.


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Judy Lowry

Judy Lowry

My birthplace was Hamilton, Ontario but I never lived there. I had a transient childhood due to my father’s Forestry career. North Bay, Kapuskasing and Sault Ste. Marie were the northern towns I grew up in. At age 15 I returned to Southern Ontario, but within four years I was roaming again, this time Europe.

On my return, I worked in a restaurant in a small Southern Ontario town to be able to return to Sheridan College. This is where I studied Commercial Art, Painting and Drawing and Ceramics.

Within four months of graduating I was fortunate to become a full-time instructor of clay at George Brown College, Toronto, where I stayed for ten years. I began exhibiting my visual work as a student and have continued for over thirty years. In 2008 an exhibit of my recent work is planned for the Burlington Art Centre Courtyard.

I left teaching in 1985 for a self-funded sabbatical on the sunshine coast of B.C. Although I have never stopped writing since I first began in my early teens, it was out west that I passionately embraced it again. When I returned to Ontario, I moved to Grey County to establish a permanent studio with my partner, ceramic artist Jim Louie.

I have been a member of the Words Aloud Collective since its inception, performing poetry whenever possible. A first chapbook (The Last Nine) was self-published in 2004 and Exile No More (my first book of poetry) was published by Ginger Press, Owen Sound, in 2006.

I have done everything over the years from tree planting, painting houses and fences retail, Learning Through the Arts teaching and presently working as a dyer of wool, so that I can get a little bit of time in my studio and at my typewriter.



THE FUTURE
how can I speak of the future
without talking on the past
how can I speak of the future
without talking of the present
they are a trinity
past present future
how can I speak of the future
without talking on the past

I am not you   not looking forward
not saying hello    rather
on my way out   saying goodbye
how can I speak of the future
without talking on the past
there is only one past I know
it is not ours
it is mine

Khrushchev setting off his bombs
his underground tests
we kept counting his detonations
would he ever stop
we just kept counting
the earth shook
we practiced duck and cover
quick       under your desks
duck and cover
duck and cover

scanned maps of fall-out zones
pinned cities      targeted sites
the major ones      the big ones
New York  Washington   Boston
Philadelphia
we were 17 miles from
a nuclear airforce base
not in the epicenter
but close
too close to the edge
too close for comfort
it would not take long
we would die early
radiation poisoning
Khrushchev
just kept setting off his bombs
his underground tests
how many was it now?

duck and cover
duck and cover
in schoolyards during our lunch
our recess     we debated
the pros and cons
of going slow or going fast
sirens wailed
we practiced
duck and cover
duck and cover

in my small border town
fallout shelters sprung up
secret leadlined preparation
heh do you know who’s building one
No!   that’s what I’ve heard
I thought it was that house
that one    over there
stores were running out of canned goods
the sirens practiced their wails
duck and cover
duck and cover

a think tank of scientists built
themselves a clock
a giant clock
as the tests intensified
no end in sight
they moved the minute hand
closer to midnight
sometimes eight to twelve
sometimes a few minutes to go
duck and cover
duck and cover

9  10   11  years old
dreaming of giant clocks
hanging in the sky
reoccurring nightmares of aeroplanes
only twenty minutes left
before they drop their payload
from the first siren wail
we would have twenty minutes
duck and cover
duck and cover

for years I’ve drawn mushroom clouds
aeroplanes coming overhead
missiles standing alert
ready for launch

how can I talk of the future
without referring to the past
Oppenheimer, Dr. Strangelove
will we live til tomorrow
will we make it?
live for today for tomorrow
may never come
tomorrow & tomorrow & tomorrow
duck and cover
duck and cover

now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord my soul to keep
if I should die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take
every night
I made my mother say to me
see you in the morning
I’ll see you in the morning
duck and cover
duck and cover

how can I speak about the future
without talking on the past
how can I talk of the future
without talking about the present

in the present wild turkeys
are outside my kitchen window
scavenging birdseeds
a lone coyote went across the field
toward the tamaracks
ravens are building a nest in my barn
watched them float into the open spaces
where the boards have fallen off
herds of deer graze
nearly invisible     brown on brown

one brilliant cardinal flashes
against white
my paradise high

in the present
I dwell on mortality
about saying goodbye
rather than saying hello
because I would be a fool
not to recognize how lucky
I’ve been to remain this long
on this earth

how can I speak of the future
without talking of the present

in the present I am 57
a neighbour asked me
was I upset about getting older
upset
I couldn’t believe we’d made it
this far
the world hadn’t blown itself up
my dreams of mushroom clouds rare
nobody has pushed the button
duck and cover
duck and cover

in the present
the run off has ended for another year
witnessed the sap dripping
again tasted
sweetness of the process
in the present I am not 17 16 18
the future is not for me
the future is for you
the future is yours
you are looking forward
I am finishing up
know more dead than I know alive
it may take long my finishing up
if I’m really lucky
there is so much to do to see
all those places I’ve never gone
Amsterdam  Shanghai  Lsasa
Petersburg  Machu Picchu  Timbuktu
Cordoba again to the mezquita
at Cordoba
to sit on that bench
talk on knowledge
Istanbul
to cross the bridge to Istanbul

I am not 17     not 18
the future is yours
make what you will of it
there is so much to do
to see



Amaryllis
first bloom
     explosively rapid    radiant ruby         pungent unfolding
                          untwisting wide
    darkening stamens stretching
                              laden heavily exquisite

second bloom
     a subdued slow quiet
    struggling unperceived
                     paler than transparent white
                 delicate petals drop
                       soundless wings



Summer Storm
let you go to the elements

stood you on
the front porch
stood you in the garden

proudly displayed you
on the concrete slab
your pointed ends thrusting
took a chance exposing you to the wilds

let you break up               disintegrate
to hard rains       freezing ices

in time parts of you broke up

let you break up              disintegrate

slowly sometimes         sometimes
            violent separations

              spiraling wind thrusts
              downspiralling
              vortex toppling

sometimes slowly         sometimes
          in violent separations

      how could I hold onto you
    crate you in darkest protection
               put you in storage?

when your place must be in random chance
           cyclical passing
      the butterfly flashing
in my palm held tight    a short piece of stoppage

  but it took wing
 flew right through my flesh
 I taste it         breathe it
 though my heart wades deep in it still
 it is gone

let you go to the elements
     let you break up disintegrate

smashed to memories    fragile smokes
    intangible mists



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Christina Dobbyn

Christina Dobbyn

I was born in Guelph, Ontario, but have spent all but two years of my life, kicking around Bruce and Grey Counties. For the past 18 months, approximately two nights a week I wield a sword; Kendo practice at the Dragons Den. I am a Grade 12 West Hill student and I hope to take zoology at college, somewhere, at some point.

While my mother, yes my mother is Francesca Dobbyn, focuses her energies on human suffering, homelessness, hunger etc, I intend to focus on the suffering, hungry and homeless animals of our community. Eventually I hope to work as a zoo keeper.

I have 5 cats at home, all of them rescues of one sort of another. A bearded dragon and an older brother complete the creatures at my house.

I spend time writing in online forums, creating imaginative stories, collaborating with others to move the stories forward. When I get frustrated, angry or enraged I find writing calms me down and allows me to express how I feel. I’m always surprised when people like my work, to me, I’m just fooling around with words.



She
When you cry she wipes
Away the tears
When you fall she is there
to catch you

At night when the demons creep
Into your dreams
she is the light that casts them
Back

She is the one you go
To about boys
She is the one you go to
When the spider shows

When in her arms nothing
Can hurt you
Her words make everything better

She is the light
The guardian
The creator
The healer

She is Mom



Demon wrapped in paper
White mist floats from my mouth
And bumps rise from my flesh
My blood turns to ice and
My bones feel fragile

So this is dying

My friends told me I’d be popular
My friends told me I’d be cool
But they didn't tell me that
The demon wrapped in white paper
Would turn my lungs so black

If I only knew that with
Every toxic breath I take in
I would be breathing out my life
For it to be swept away by the wind

Now I lay here on the sidewalk
Listening as my friends scream
And run

With a demon wrapped in paper
Tightly between two fingers
I watch as my sight clouds and
Their voices fade


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Paul Scott

Paul Scott

Born in Chicago on Robbie Burns Day (January 25, 1933), Paul Douglas Scott acquired his Master's in Education (MEd) and taught in the U.S., Yap Island in Micronesia, and Grey County. Always active in the arts, Paul was the first administrator of the Grey Bruce Arts Council and helped start the Summerfolk Music and Craft Festival. He began writing poetry at age six. Here is the earliest poem he can remember from that time:

If you've a gift
give it out of your heart
Make and create it yourself from the start
for if you do
you will give a gift
that is part of you.

Now retired, Paul continues to be a prolific poet, condensing his many life experiences into thoughtful and accessible reflections which resonate with many readers. For the past several years, Paul has written and read a poem at the annual Writers' Wordshop at the Owen Sound Library. He has also had poems published in several local anthologies and Mosaic magazine. Paul continues to support many local writers groups and is always willing to help wherever he can. Paul and his wife Stella Keenan McPeak Scott live in Owen Sound. He is currently working on a book of his poems to be published next year.



I Sing
I sing all my songs with love!
Why sing with less?
If there is deity above,
this is the truth I would confess.
I hold all particles of being mine,
claim everything there is as good,
know what is, is the divine.
“god” is: our human being understood.



Two Fall Haikus
Red leaf in my path
bright reminder among the greens
that all summers end.

Burst of bright colour
subsides to brown and blue
sky between bare limbs.



A Reason For Wrinkles
Wrinkles are folds
in the largest organ of the body.
New undulations and convolutions.
Perhaps one way of increasing our surface interface
of awareness and sensitivity as we grow older
in our latter contact with new realities,
to compensate for our lessening of faculties,
to aid our reassessment of being?
Perhaps, to be looked upon
as the origami option of human capacity . . .?



Winter Scene
So many thoughts of you
like trees upon a hill
back lighted by the setting sun
sending thick black shadows down,
thin black fingers up,
to ribbon-wrap the snow
and cloisonné the sky.


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Elizabeth Warren

Elizabeth Warren

Elizabeth's quirky short stories about the guerilla warfare called relationships have been published in prestigious literary magazines throughout Canada, the United States and Great Britain. Her poetry has won international awards, been featured in anthologies and performed in Toronto & Japan. Her non-fiction articles have appeared regularly in industry magazines and the Financial Post.

Described by Canadian Fiction as one of "today's best new & emerging writers" Elizabeth is a graduate of Carleton University and has a Postgraduate Certificate in Creative Writing from Humber College.

A highly creative marketing and public relations executive, Elizabeth had a successful career working in the fashion industry in Paris, for Sotheby's auction house in London, and in the securities market on Bay Street before moving to Grey County to operate a farm. Needless to say, she writes from an eclectic background, often bringing these varied experiences to her writing.



SENRYU POETRY
painting on poppy red lipstick
to create
someone else’s smile


replacing toilet paper
there’s just no end to
a woman’s role


in the lush garden
a wasp and I
negotiate over a drink


lonely winter walk
leaving behind
deep blue shadows


Country girl asks,
“Are there blood-suckers
in this pool?”


TOY SOLDIERS
MAY 20, 1994, NEW YORK CITY –
Following news of her death
a crowd gathers on the grey stone steps
of her Fifth Avenue apartment building.
Traffic backs up in every direction.
You take your place among the mourners.
Symbols of our lives clash together:
Your arms once carried protest signs on campus,
an M-16 through the Delta,
and me across the threshold.
Now they carry a bouquet of sweet heart roses
-  poignant pink.

After your draft notice, you said,
“You’re the only girl I’ll ever love.”
We were children
What was it you were trying to remember?

She was wife, mother and First Lady
- youth and sophistication in the White House.
After the bullet, a moment of struggle.

March!
Being in Vietnam increased your passion.
Your first letters were colored with
China Sea blue, jungle green and Saigon red.
Written while keeping watch,
they portrayed whores that filled empty rooms
where anything was possible.
They asked me to describe a woman taking off her stockings.
How could I
Didn’t know how.
Wore jeans,
or nothing at all when you embraced me.

Women of style spoke in whispers;
Their secrets held in place by girdles,
Kept under wraps in Givenchy suits.
They understood the mysteries.
            Released from garters
            one by one, stockings slip down
            legs crossed . . . then undone
Your return was the real invasion.
You taught me to face the truth
While you embraced deceit.

At the wedding banquet you told me,
“Frog tastes like chicken.”
                        Eager to trust,
                        I swallowed
                        everything you said.
I thought you needed me,
but torment was your chosen companion.
Nightmare images slept with us.
I competed with demons.
You couldn’t let go of the war
and wouldn’t hold on to me.
Committed to history
your stories became legends.
With madness clutching you,
you created myths,
clung to mementos,
constructed monuments.
Personal memories lost,
you preserved traditions.

The questions forgotten,
her private life decayed discreetly behind pages.

            Leaves falling
from an ancient address book
turn to dust

You approach me now.
I remember when
you pledged allegiance to the flag,
burned the flag, paraded the flag, draped the flag -
            Small boy steps forward
            salutes another soldier
            caught in the line of fire

You enfold me.
Captured in the eye of a camera
our hearts open to a common stranger.

The clan gathers.
Camelot is dead.
It ended before it began.
Never had a chance.
Long live the lie.


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Nathan Baker

Nathan Baker

I was born in Barrie, Ontario, and lived in Bradford until I was four, when my family moved to Owen Sound. In the summer of 2007 I graduated from McGill University with a major in English, and last October I went to the Banff Centre to write under the mentorship of Halifax poet Don Domanski. I now work and write in Kingston, Ontario.




6th Ave West
The lawns were illuminated
             one by one
mowers tolled motor bells
             for the sun
we felt your presence then
             we felt none
we closed our front doors
             one by one
shut steel curtains
             on the sun
the witnesses knocked but
             they found none

I swear the RE/MAX hot air balloons issued
in the repetitive sun
It was a quiet day
wind rhyming through the trees
men rhyming on machines
there were too many in the neighbourhood for thought
This was
a Saturday to the rhythm of Saturdays
boys in basements dreaming gunsmoke
parents at the windows with the ripening tomatoes
a man drawing a minimalist grid in his grass
unknown and authentic
a score of imagined homes on our block for the one score
years of its construction

And we had nobody to thank
for our attained hygiene
the wind and motor song,
the metronome of the sprinklers all
lacked their choir
the sky was a depthless crystal vault
and we were too many for thought

Today I can’t remember
I can tell you all about wading pools with their one-foot slides
and the timed regularity of gunshots
             reporting wide off the escarpment
I can describe my mother’s scarves
in the metal chest
but that is all too much
and we are still too many to hear it all told again
and have you gone without a thought



A Place Between Two Shores
Once I swam my heart out
to a place between two shores
that was the time I nursed my anger
I went out on a limb
drove out along the darkened shoreline
where stars bit tiny
where stars were overdone and I
loved them
and from them came a poem

Once I got strong
took beating heart and arteries
tied them into one round closed circuit
like a red and living inner tube
and pumped and pumped in my own way
and let no blood go yours
that was when the night took me
and I ventured out so little
and I ventured in so far

Once I lived as water
within a rocky bay
and I rocked by day and at evening time
till at night I slept and moved no more
as water I was lyric, moved syllabic
like the waves, observed calendars
of sunlight and midnight
dreamt
and avoided the company of men

And once at night I heard my stillness
once I saw myself alone
my pride grew sad, my strength aimless
my heart began to whisper
thoughts of swimming home
and that’s when I found you again
so fair and so much grown
I released the jury-rigged clasp within me
and sent my blood to roam


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