House Space

But the unconscious cannot be civilized. It takes
a candle when it goes to the cellar.

-Gaston Bachelard
The Poetics of Space

Rising from sleep at dawn, sun-kindled
like a wave you flow from room to roof

securing the edges of your day.
You say this is the grandeur of your solitude,

this rhythmic wash through bounded space,
balcony, dining room, kitchen, den, the attic

where your careful poems salt the antique air.

Beneath the house, water scours the cellar wall.
You wish to descend the sea-worn stairs

but at night, unsettled by the obscuring dark

you fear the rip-tide’s pull
will drown the candle in your ageing hand

and carry you boundless into the unsayable.



Still Alive

Ancient woman, young as a child
older than you thought possible

agèd as the earth’s crust
shaking the mortar of your home

shock waves teaching your feet
all they need to know

about temporal and eternal
about time’s mouth opening

for breath of life at midnight
breath of memory

ear cocked for the sweep
of time’s wide, dark hand.

The world sleeps, new moons
between dying days of silver rain

the green world wakes
season of planting

leaves ripening and after harvest
chaff lying sunstruck in the stubble.

Now your winged hunger comes
swooping to the field for grain

in time of drought, for the taste of love
in time of fear.

And you are here, still alive
carrying your earthen tray of poems

like living fire into the sanctuary.

Love’s Law

We believed in those days
that love belonged to us

we had no idea of love’s law
could not imagine

the child’s death in winter
would tie our frozen hands

together, fasten us like prisoners
to judgment’s bare tree

and that when we looked
we’d see a ruined branch

and turn our grieving faces
away from each other.

In those days we had no idea
of love’s law, could not imagine

how, in time, mercy would unbind
our wrists, release us

into each other’s custody,
that there would come the gift

sometimes given to lovers
who endure loss: the grace to turn

and see the wounded branch
see the green leaf open.

#healing-poetry-for-those-who-have-lost-a-child, #response-to-the-death-of-a-child


Kids at school laughed, said he stank like squirrel stew
or mouse shit, like an old suitcase, man,
smell of the country he came from
or the sweater his grandmother knitted
in her old kitchen, garlic and wild leek, the rabbit
she caught boiling in a pot on the peat hearth
needles clicking odour into the wool
row after row.

He threw the sweater in a dumpster on the way home from school,
bought a new one, red, white and blue
at the five and dime with paper route money
but the kids still laughed. He thought
something inside his skin must reek through the pores
of his long hands, thin chest,
maybe his grandmother’s life poured
out of his mouth with every breath his heart pumped,
a foreign smell, stink in his blood, her story
living in him, old words knitted beneath new.

New words came to him in pieces
but when he strung them together, he smelled shame
for the place he’d come from, his grandmother’s childhood
on the farm, her hands old at ten, look.
How the soil starved during the war, malchik, she said.
Acorns and thistles.

And how, when she fled, the child she carried on her back
lived almost to the border.
Your uncle, she cried. Before your father was born,
listen, malchik
, weeping in her new kitchen
trying to reach him
trying to knit their worlds together.


Charred Driftwood

Charred Driftwood

Blessèd Be The Waves

Blessèd be the waves
carrying your ashes

the door to memory
of winter

image of small hands
pulling on boots

red-striped touque, mitts,
feet pounding

down the hall of the old flat
nothing to hold you

from the race
to stairs and front door.

Blessèd be the perfect snow
for snowballs

the goofy smile
on your snowman’s face.

Blessèd be the white world
created only for you.

Blessèd be new snow