Poetry - Issue 3
IT’S ABOUT TOM THOMPSON’S REMAINS
Weevils burrowed deep
Between pine and newspaper
Left behind in an Algonquin cottage
(the kind where you've never travelled, because they've pulled them down)
But that I know
Without eye-sight.
It's mapped out
against a tent's canvas
as taut as muscle
and as white as my quiet feet;
In the thicket,
married to the wooden roar
of the winter silence
engulfing the fragility,
where snow stitches
in fringes to the ragged shore;
Canoe Lake
in January
Insists on a sacrifice.
The heat isn't enough
And my mouth
Wills
The warmth.
Tom's under this
ancient pocket of water, (tight fist around a sketching pencil, canoe his back)
that's been tucked in
hemmed away
until the thaw;
his body
like his love
never made
it to the surface.
And now women
write about him
as if he were an
innocent serving
time,
his release in this
transaction:
trans media
over decades
and
a Toronto
art scene that isn't sure
if they've properly
buried their father.
Tom Thompson
was a sacrifice
for a story
they keep telling up there.
When really
he had an attack
of the cardiac variety
(making their tale
almost true).
Between pine and newspaper
Left behind in an Algonquin cottage
(the kind where you've never travelled, because they've pulled them down)
But that I know
Without eye-sight.
It's mapped out
against a tent's canvas
as taut as muscle
and as white as my quiet feet;
In the thicket,
married to the wooden roar
of the winter silence
engulfing the fragility,
where snow stitches
in fringes to the ragged shore;
Canoe Lake
in January
Insists on a sacrifice.
The heat isn't enough
And my mouth
Wills
The warmth.
Tom's under this
ancient pocket of water, (tight fist around a sketching pencil, canoe his back)
that's been tucked in
hemmed away
until the thaw;
his body
like his love
never made
it to the surface.
And now women
write about him
as if he were an
innocent serving
time,
his release in this
transaction:
trans media
over decades
and
a Toronto
art scene that isn't sure
if they've properly
buried their father.
Tom Thompson
was a sacrifice
for a story
they keep telling up there.
When really
he had an attack
of the cardiac variety
(making their tale
almost true).
COOPER LAKE, ONTARIO
I can't be
an explorer even if I tried
to untie the frayed strands of
genuine curiosity, good deeds and monastic principles
from colonial tendencies to rape what wasn't
theirs.
Here, at Cooper Lake
I can't settle into the
advertised urban comforts
heated bathrooms (rustic) and extra-firm mattresses (rest soundly)
because
in downtown Toronto
there are two men
I see every day
and I know the untaught
history
that led them to
the intersection
of Young and Bloor.
Cooper Lake
is deep and
my paddle is wide
but I can't glide
up to the sheer rock face
with the weight of
what we aren't saying.
I sit at the pine table,
at Cooper Lake
and worry about Canadian children
and what
we aren't teaching them.
an explorer even if I tried
to untie the frayed strands of
genuine curiosity, good deeds and monastic principles
from colonial tendencies to rape what wasn't
theirs.
Here, at Cooper Lake
I can't settle into the
advertised urban comforts
heated bathrooms (rustic) and extra-firm mattresses (rest soundly)
because
in downtown Toronto
there are two men
I see every day
and I know the untaught
history
that led them to
the intersection
of Young and Bloor.
Cooper Lake
is deep and
my paddle is wide
but I can't glide
up to the sheer rock face
with the weight of
what we aren't saying.
I sit at the pine table,
at Cooper Lake
and worry about Canadian children
and what
we aren't teaching them.
ROLAND BARTHES ON LOVE
I won't tell you what I did with my copy of
Barthes;
performance art signalling my annoyance
with his need to eviscerate text
digging out every signifier and lashing all
signified; he left
them
splayed out
completely,
pages flapping,
vacant of all value.
But, as I've found myself
in this way
full of [signified]
and us
semiotics now
a critical theory I can engage
because this hand
<readerly to me> becomes a million tender
encouragements in you <writerly>
Suddenly, Barthes is leading
this parade of
heartbeats
pounded out into soft breaths
<because that is how
you
rewrote them.
Barthes;
performance art signalling my annoyance
with his need to eviscerate text
digging out every signifier and lashing all
signified; he left
them
splayed out
completely,
pages flapping,
vacant of all value.
But, as I've found myself
in this way
full of [signified]
and us
semiotics now
a critical theory I can engage
because this hand
<readerly to me> becomes a million tender
encouragements in you <writerly>
Suddenly, Barthes is leading
this parade of
heartbeats
pounded out into soft breaths
<because that is how
you
rewrote them.
Lyndsay Kirkham has fiction and non fiction in many places; she currently writes down the road from where they filmed The Sound of Music. She is fierce and tattoo-covered.
And cats.
TRIBUTE
The year ebbs
Sodden fields slump beneath sullen skies
Waiting for winter's blast.
Hatred unfurls
Grief immeasurable tears our hearts
Splinters lives.
Above a kestrel waits
Hunter.
The wren sings from the bramble hedge
Heartfelt challenge to the sky.
Hope.
Sodden fields slump beneath sullen skies
Waiting for winter's blast.
Hatred unfurls
Grief immeasurable tears our hearts
Splinters lives.
Above a kestrel waits
Hunter.
The wren sings from the bramble hedge
Heartfelt challenge to the sky.
Hope.
Lynne Crookes Pepper is currently writing a crime novel 'Dark Peak' and also writes poetry - when inspiration strikes.
Corners
For All Those Who Have Suffered and Suffer Still
I.
I saw a world,
where Evil had won all of its battles
which were no real skirmishes
as that would imply a willing opposition
I saw a grey city breathing in
the first of its very last breaths
dying, withering, ungracefully falling apart
I looked into faces, faces, a thousand faces
and followed trickling down into their souls
finding nothing but Abaddon and emptiness
I saw the void, I saw the lack and fear and hatred and indignance of Love
parents saying goodbye early in the morning
coming back at night laden with Moloch
but bearing no Love, and asking the right questions
when it had been already late if at all
I saw the shivers under the covers,
I heard the screams of night
waking the hundredth time from the same terrible nightmare
and I saw the perpetrators
I swear I did, laughing
smoking a cigarette around the corner
I saw no Justice and I saw no Redemption
only countless cunts and motherfuckers
waiting in line to abuse the next Individual
in an uprising against the clearly superior
abhorrent executioners of difference
I saw the playground (read football field or school),
and I saw them play and talk
breathing in the plagueish corrupt air
And I saw the victims
Oh dear Fate!
I did see the victims.
II.
Abaddon! Demon of demons!
Fearless harbinger, portrait of fear.
The spirit of abuse, God of abuse
wingless unfathomable distasteful deranged
hopeless caged rotting animal
raping the most vulnerable ones
honourless, heartless heathen
tidebringer and tyran of trauma
father of a thousand legions
master of a million, undefeatable
destroyer of human lives
the oldest of all, Abaddon!
Abaddon! I know your spawn
The broken creatures you created
I see the proud in their weakness
Sly succubes, pretending to have lost
you’re caged pinned to the wall, yet utterly dominant
revelling in anxiety they feel
devouring their insecurity and fucking
their ravings, incomprehensible
I know the incantation to free you
as do all others but prefer to survive not live
in the cozy torchlight of Abaddon!
Then walk through the Darkness
towards the vindicating light
Abaddon!
hiding in the face of a lover
Abaddon!
hiding in the fists of a ten-year old sadistic bastard
Abaddon!
hiding in my life contained in eyes and more eyes
I see you, come to the light
and disappear be expelled and exorcised
Abaddon!
hiding behind corners and cornerstones
behind your brother’s skirt
You are not invisible, not to hearts that seek
Not to hearts which seek to defeat Abaddon!
III.
Come take my hand walk with me
through the deserted streets of Tangier at dawn
Let us walk around the corners fearlessly
Trust me, I know You won’t, You can’t
He is still there, I know, believe me I know
I know You are cheating on me with Abaddon
Take my hand, You’ll understand
you see, this is not the same hand
that caused all that pain
an eon ago ruthlessly
tell me, tell the truth for once
Tu conosci mio segreto
Tell me thine
Thou knowest the words the ways
perhaps you have seen the steps as well
it’s simple, it’s like Waltz
one, two and three, admit it
see the Darkness in front of thee
You feel how he rattles his cage
You flinch, I know why and so do You
drop the mask, all that sense of invulnerability
we are all humans underneath
we want to laugh and we want to Love
we desire, and we should care
there is no reason; I know of no reason
to hide, since there is no escape
no escape from Abaddon
only compromise, only defeat
let him out, and grab thy sword
let us fight then together
for the light
for tomorrow
hand-in-hand
I.
I saw a world,
where Evil had won all of its battles
which were no real skirmishes
as that would imply a willing opposition
I saw a grey city breathing in
the first of its very last breaths
dying, withering, ungracefully falling apart
I looked into faces, faces, a thousand faces
and followed trickling down into their souls
finding nothing but Abaddon and emptiness
I saw the void, I saw the lack and fear and hatred and indignance of Love
parents saying goodbye early in the morning
coming back at night laden with Moloch
but bearing no Love, and asking the right questions
when it had been already late if at all
I saw the shivers under the covers,
I heard the screams of night
waking the hundredth time from the same terrible nightmare
and I saw the perpetrators
I swear I did, laughing
smoking a cigarette around the corner
I saw no Justice and I saw no Redemption
only countless cunts and motherfuckers
waiting in line to abuse the next Individual
in an uprising against the clearly superior
abhorrent executioners of difference
I saw the playground (read football field or school),
and I saw them play and talk
breathing in the plagueish corrupt air
And I saw the victims
Oh dear Fate!
I did see the victims.
II.
Abaddon! Demon of demons!
Fearless harbinger, portrait of fear.
The spirit of abuse, God of abuse
wingless unfathomable distasteful deranged
hopeless caged rotting animal
raping the most vulnerable ones
honourless, heartless heathen
tidebringer and tyran of trauma
father of a thousand legions
master of a million, undefeatable
destroyer of human lives
the oldest of all, Abaddon!
Abaddon! I know your spawn
The broken creatures you created
I see the proud in their weakness
Sly succubes, pretending to have lost
you’re caged pinned to the wall, yet utterly dominant
revelling in anxiety they feel
devouring their insecurity and fucking
their ravings, incomprehensible
I know the incantation to free you
as do all others but prefer to survive not live
in the cozy torchlight of Abaddon!
Then walk through the Darkness
towards the vindicating light
Abaddon!
hiding in the face of a lover
Abaddon!
hiding in the fists of a ten-year old sadistic bastard
Abaddon!
hiding in my life contained in eyes and more eyes
I see you, come to the light
and disappear be expelled and exorcised
Abaddon!
hiding behind corners and cornerstones
behind your brother’s skirt
You are not invisible, not to hearts that seek
Not to hearts which seek to defeat Abaddon!
III.
Come take my hand walk with me
through the deserted streets of Tangier at dawn
Let us walk around the corners fearlessly
Trust me, I know You won’t, You can’t
He is still there, I know, believe me I know
I know You are cheating on me with Abaddon
Take my hand, You’ll understand
you see, this is not the same hand
that caused all that pain
an eon ago ruthlessly
tell me, tell the truth for once
Tu conosci mio segreto
Tell me thine
Thou knowest the words the ways
perhaps you have seen the steps as well
it’s simple, it’s like Waltz
one, two and three, admit it
see the Darkness in front of thee
You feel how he rattles his cage
You flinch, I know why and so do You
drop the mask, all that sense of invulnerability
we are all humans underneath
we want to laugh and we want to Love
we desire, and we should care
there is no reason; I know of no reason
to hide, since there is no escape
no escape from Abaddon
only compromise, only defeat
let him out, and grab thy sword
let us fight then together
for the light
for tomorrow
hand-in-hand
Slade D. Wilson started writing poetry on an Autumn night in 2014. Since then a year has passed, as he continues to express himself in poetry on his blog.
Spirit Awakening
Drums are beating
from ancient places
as I open my eyes
to the filtered light
of a new day.
Chants are echoing
from ancient places
as I make hot water
turn black and smell
good this morning.
Tears are pouring
from ancient places--
my heart pounds painfully
as I try to remember
what my spirit
could never forget.
Beating-beating
drums, beating
air from Father Sky
fills my lungs
as ancient places
surround me
with light and open spaces.
Feet are stomping
from ancient places
from Mother Earth
the dust rises in a cloud
to cover my skin
brown and red.
Dancing to the drums
singing the song
I have always known,
my spirit is born
my teeth
honed.
from ancient places
as I open my eyes
to the filtered light
of a new day.
Chants are echoing
from ancient places
as I make hot water
turn black and smell
good this morning.
Tears are pouring
from ancient places--
my heart pounds painfully
as I try to remember
what my spirit
could never forget.
Beating-beating
drums, beating
air from Father Sky
fills my lungs
as ancient places
surround me
with light and open spaces.
Feet are stomping
from ancient places
from Mother Earth
the dust rises in a cloud
to cover my skin
brown and red.
Dancing to the drums
singing the song
I have always known,
my spirit is born
my teeth
honed.
Kim Bailey Deal is a writer, poet, amateur guitarist and avid reader. She is editing two novels and blogs weekly at wordjunkie1966kimbaileydeal.wordpress.com. She lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Morning Silence
The birds
have disappeared into
the cold. An old man is
having his coffee, steam
curling the way smoke
takes the sky. It all means
nothing. Somewhere someone
is coming home. Somewhere
the story turns out
different. You lift your eyes.
Only dawn here, only
the morning's emptiness.
have disappeared into
the cold. An old man is
having his coffee, steam
curling the way smoke
takes the sky. It all means
nothing. Somewhere someone
is coming home. Somewhere
the story turns out
different. You lift your eyes.
Only dawn here, only
the morning's emptiness.