To break into the poems of others

The Trouble with Poetry
Billy Collins

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night -
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky -

the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.

Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.

And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.

And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti -
to be perfectly honest for a moment -

the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.


I know I have been inundating you all with poetic posts lately, but I think that another part of the trouble with poetry is that reading really good stuff makes you want to read more. Actually, that's kind of the problem with literature in general for me. I read something incredible and am struck with this momentary feeling that I should never pick anything else up again, but then I am like an addict who just needs a fix. I break into others' poems on a regular basis. And the more I do it, the more I want to do it. Poetry begets poetry, whether writing or reading it.

Smells Like Summer

My new perfume? Bug spray and sunscreen. I smell like summer!

Just got back from a picnic and hang out session with the girls. So excellent. And fortunately, bug spray and sunscreen smells are not as pervasive as campfire, so once I shower no one will know the difference.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back

On Turning Ten
Billy Collins

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light -
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I would shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

I have been acutely aware of growing up lately. Sometimes this is sad and terrifying. Sometimes it's exciting. Sometimes it simply is. Regardless of what I'm feeling about it at any given moment though, it has been looming large in my thoughts lately.

Emily Carr

So I tried to post this last night, but blogger was being weird and refusing to upload pictures the right direction. Anyway. On Sunday Sally and I went to the art gallery. It was the last day of the Emily Carr exhibit, which I hadn't made it to yet, so I was pretty stoked. And let me tell you, it did not disappoint. Standing in that room was just incredible. I adore Carr's landscape paintings so much. The lines and the movement are amazing and yet despite that sense of motion in her paintings they exude stillness - it is as if the world is collectively holding its breath. She captures the duality of nature being both beautiful and threatening so perfectly. Nature is alive in her works. It counter's humankind's creations and thus underscores our powerlessness in the face of nature, but at the same time her works are infused with a sense of spirituality, a connection between people and the land. Yes, Carr's nature could kill us, but it is beautiful and draws us into itself at the same time. She not only advocates for human creations, striving to preserve the totem poles she was so fascinated by in some form, but she also advocates for nature itself with works that reveal the decimation created by unrestrained logging and open pit mining. There is a real sense of the tug-of-war between humans and nature in her work. Neither seems to come out on top in the end. It was fascinating to see the changes in her style, the progression and development of her work over time. If you're unfamiliar with her work you should really check it out (one of my personal favourites is Scorned as Timber, Beloved of the Sky, 1935). So, inspired by Carr (particularly The Red Cedar), I present to you this photo from my last trip out to Victoria.

The vivacity of one of those moments would burn us

from "A Tale of Two Gardens"
Octavio Paz

A house, a garden,
                           are not places:
they spin, they come and go.
                                        Their apparations open
another space
                    in space,
another time in time.
                             Their eclipses
are not abdications:
the vivacity of one of those moments
                                                   would burn us
if it lasted a moment more.
                                      We are condemned
to kill time:
                so we die,
little by little.
                  A garden is not a place.
Down a path of reddish sand, 
we enter a drop of water,
drink green clarities from its center,
we climb
            the spiral of hours
to the tip of the day,
                             descend
to the last burning of its ember.
Mumbling river,
                      the garden flows through the night.


I mark the changing of the seasons by these trees, but my absolute favourite time is when the bloom in the spring. The flowers never last very long because the first good gust of wind blows the petals off the trees and creates what my mom likes to call an impromptu wedding in our backyard. The other morning, a couple of days after I took this picture, I actually looked out the window and thought it was snowing because all of the petals were raining down. The weather is a bit gloomy right now, so I thought that sharing something simple and beautiful and summery was a good idea.

I love the opening of this poem. Octavio Paz writes truly stunning poems. The idea of gardens being loci for nostalgia is wonderful and enchanting. They are no longer places but time itself in some way. They capture moments and feelings and then unleash them on you when you return. I think any place is like that, imprinted by the past, imbued with memory. Objects, places hold history within themselves. Not just our personal memories either. I always feel as if locations and objects hold historical memories. Perhaps this is why old buildings or vintage objects are so fascinating. They hold countless stories. And perhaps this is also why sometimes it is nice to have something brand new, something that is blank, that has the room for you to create your own memories without becoming mixed up in those that came before you. I've never had a garden like that, but I can imagine one. It's really lovely to think about.

Being a Bear

Mornings and I do not get along. So much so that when my alarm goes off my first coherent thoughts are usually something like "NO! I hate mornings. Eugh." Consequently I can be a bit of a bear in the mornings. Especially before I'm showered and dressed. People really shouldn't talk to me before this happens. After that I am usually slightly more pleasant, but cannot guarantee my coherence or actual presence in a conversation. This general morning grouchiness has really been called to my attention this week because I've started a couple new jobs and they require me to be up really early. The other unfortunate side effect is that by 2 in the afternoon I am yawning like mad. Exhaustion is only exacerbated by the fact that I can't have caffeine or sugar to give myself a bit of a boost. Lately I've been thinking that Canadians should adopt the custom of siesta. Just taking a break (and a nap) in the middle of the afternoon sounds awesome.

This photo is from the same art installation as this one. There were some really great pieces there.

Because the light says so

You Must Believe in Spring
Jan Zwicky

Because it is the garden.  What is left to us.
Because silence is not silence without sound
Because you have let the cat out, and then in, and then out,
           and then in, and then out, and then in, and then
           out, and then in, and then out, and then in,
           enough.
Because otherwise their precision at the blue line would
           mean nothing.
Because otherwise death would mean nothing.
Because the light says so,
Because a human being can gladly eat only so much cabbage.
Because the pockets of your overcoat need mending.
Because it's easy not to.
Because your sweaters smell.
Because Gregory of Nazianzen said geometry has no place in
           mourning, by which he meant despair presumes too
           much.
Because it ain't over 'til it's over. - Hank Aaron, Jackie
           Robinson. Satchel Paige.
Because Kant was wrong, and Socrates, Descartes and all the 
           rest.  Because it is the body thinking and Newt 
           Gingrich would like you not to.
Because I love you.  Or you love someone.  Because someone
           is loved.
Because under the sun, everything is new.
Because the wet snow in the tress is clotted light.
Because in 1941 it took six cords of wood to get through a
           winter in one room at Harvard and two-thirds
           of Main used to be open country as a result.
Because sleeping is not death.
Because although an asshole was practising his Elvis Presley
           imitation, full voice, Sunday morning, April 23rd
           at Spectacle Lake Provincial Park, the winter wren
           simply moved 200 yards down the trail.
Because the wren's voice is moss in sunlight, because it is
           a stream in sunlight over stones.
Because Beethoven titled the sonata.
I mean: would Bill Evans and Frank Morgan lie to you?
Because even sorrow has a source.
For, though it cannot fly, the heart is an excellent clamberer.


I know this post is a little out of season since (fingers-crossed) summer seems to be underway in this part of the world. However, the lilac bush at my parents' house never blooms when it ought to. All of the other lilac bushes are blooming like mad, perfuming the air and displaying their frothy purple blooms, but not this one. It's still just barely budding. And it will patiently wait until the other bushes have faded. Only then will it burst forth in a jubilant celebration of a season that is long gone. There is something about this that delights me.

This poem by Jan Zwicky also delights me. This idea that the light demands a belief in spring resonates with me. Light is such an integral part of how I think of the seasons. It, more than the often wacky weather, dictates when the season has begun to change.