Poetry Reading
I've been having something of a stressful time lately. So much so, I hate the word "stress" now because I use it so frequently. Between essays (my last 3 are due next week) and 6 upcoming exams, my nerves are a little frayed. Everyone has things that calm them down, whether it be a hot drink, a cigarette, a bath, sex...for me it's all of those things sometimes, but for the last few days it has been poetry. Poetry I know, poetry I admire, poetry I love. So I thought I'd share some of my favourite selections from Canadian poetry with you...ok, I know most of you probably don't read poetry, know any poetry, or even like poetry...but bear with me, I think I can guarantee that even if you get nothing else out of this, you will at the least appreciate these poems for the beauty of their language.
"The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
"Rage" by Lee Maracle
I scream my rage
at the pages of a book
that I might treat
people - humanly.
"Words" by Lee Maracle
On my desk sits a big, fat dictionary
thick -- oh it's thick
obese with words.
Opening and closing it is the sum total
of my physical movement these days.
I'm tired
tired
torn
weary
without initiative
The phone rings I bubble out a stupid hello.
"How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine," but it is a lie.
The hunger in my life
The absence of joy.
The fire in me blanketed by billboards,
of blonde women and pink, perfumed rose petals
But no one wants to hear that -- they want only words
(pretty, sweet lyrics)
(senseless limericks)
(and honeyed poetics)
"Eros" by Erin Skye Robinsong
I bought two goldfish
and named them Dallas Road
and West Broadway.
Their traffic wound
in a bowl
of streets that will never intersect.
But they had wings.
Full of water.
"Arrows" by Erin Skye Robinsong
Le coeur blesse par son grand amour.
How else.
Walking home
the water is like mercury
and the stars are shot
and it isn't a matter of love or lack of
it is bright running things
and stones.
If you've gotten this far, I have to admit I'm impressed. I got a little carried away...and this is only scratching the surface. I know poetry is an acquired taste for most people, and I don't blame them...But I do hope you liked at least some of what you read.
posted by Jenevieve @ 9:39 PM
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