SIX - Ottawater
Transcription
SIX - Ottawater
ottawater: edited by rob mclennan : January 2010 design by tanya sprowl SIX b- ottawater: 6.0 Sylvia Adams Phil Hall Soraya Peerbaye Priscila Uppal Lily . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 four visual pieces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Night in Meldrum Bay (1) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 A Referral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Night in Meldrum Bay (2) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 My Computer is Developing Autism and John Barton Marilyn Irwin FASHIONISTAS Dragonfly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Meldrum Bay (3) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Richard Rathwell OR WHY WE STOPPED BAREBACKING . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Robyn Jeffrey Sara Cassidy City Crow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Cave Paintings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 On Cleaning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 The American Everyday Dictionary (1955). . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Other Disorders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Now That All My Friends Are Having Babies: Bektashi Breakdown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 A Thirties Lament . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Picnic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Lobby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Peter Richardson On Suffering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Echo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Span of the Tay Bridge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Anne Le Dressay She Was His Angel of Palliative Care . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Catriona Wright Sparrows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Anxiety Dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 In a Belgrade Hotel Lift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 MATURITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Third Day of Summer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Things to do in the pouring November rain . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Test-Flight of a Fast-Morphing Craft . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 RE: WORRIED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Aeroflot Service and Groom, Mirabel Airport, 1982 . . . . 68 POTENTIAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Waiter-Confidant Ken Considers Pam’s CORE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 The Engines of Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Rob Manery Michael Dennis Antigone Variations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Imaginary Shawl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 KATRINA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 It’s Hard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Karen Massey Janice Tokar Andrew Faulkner Light Focused Through Our Lens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 nine lines for L. Cohen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Hit and run . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Drug . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 velvet twist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Husha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Spencer Gordon Paul Tyler SHOPPING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Marcus McCann Pigeon Feather . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 STYLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Pale anonymous hetero, havoc comes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Midge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 DINNER CONVERSATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Silverfish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Heather McLeod Gwendolyn Guth The List of What Will Last . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 matter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 How Armando Became a Ladies Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 How Armando Learned to Read . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Christian McPherson “Lavish, lavish promise” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Magic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 crow in the mountain ash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 cover art by: Daniel Martelock ottawater: 6.0 - Sylvia Adams Lily A woman sets out to discover why ghosts wear clothes. They appear at her bedside: bereft maidens in gauzy consumptive gowns, broad-hatted river boat gamblers, Civil War veterans with their heads wrapped in bandages. Did their clothes die too? Or did some spiritual adhesive render their robes indelible – like red dye on a thief’s hands? One sun-scoured day, while walking in April snow, she sees a plane crash in a nearby field. Spirits rise in the smoking wreckage. Their breaths blow lilies on the air. That night the woman dreams she is in a huge warehouse with walls of clouds and a skylight that opens upward forever. Naked spirits are everywhere, wandering around fingering silks, trying on cloaks, tunics, kaftans. Adorning wrists with bracelets, feet with golden sandals. They chatter among themselves, ignoring her. Some walk through her; all she senses is a chill, astringent swish. The voyeur within her spins with earthbound guilt. She wakes shivering to find her bedroom window open, shawls of mist enshrouding her, soft and chaste as a nun’s robe, caressing and kind, clean as the world’s first lily. 1 2- ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 John Barton FASHIONISTAS OR WHY WE STOPPED BAREBACKING for Marcus McCann These days, happily, I keep myself under wraps, a filmy reserve coating me in a cling-free glow reflective of sun-struck apples or salmon steaks beginning to thaw. What allure under denim with a shirt still fresh from the iron any lingering urgency sealed coolly within. At last call, it makes men who can’t leave want to undo me, a hostess gift or an after-hours snack but sitting back at your place with a default beer not dumbing down foreplay, how can I forget myself in your designer darkness my clever little skin all a-crinkle glittery as you strip me of everything but an instinct to love and a few heady inhibitions? Fear shrink-wraps desire, leaves nothing to error, dispassion custom-fit to the age your day-timer pulled from a bedside drawer my comings and goings logged with a wristwatch. Eased up and contained by me, you push inside limits our modernity may stretch taut for us. Not once do we kiss after and skip breakfast: nothing gets out, nothing gets in. Reid McLachlan Tomorrow medium, oil on canvas www.redcanoes.ca/reid 3 4- ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Sara Cassidy Cave Paintings The American Everyday Dictionary (1955). Suppertime arrives, merciful exit wound. All afternoon, time’s directive abandoned us, the clock’s pendulum drumming side to side in its box, an ineffectual wrecking ball. In the stone house in Burgundy - even in France it can happen!my father and I are at loose ends, unable to get a hold for no reason beyond the ordinary. the dictionary\s gone wild burst its seams five hundred pages loosed from a brittle spine a stack rather than a book A thunderhead of flies funnelled through the doorways, landing on sills and mantels, a tease of punctuation periods, quotation marks. I killed a few, just in case, for a spark that didn’t catch. My father and I tried three times to make conversation, put yeast into the air. Really, we launched questions. the book called to me mute cacophony from a battered table at a church bazaar its ragged pages already edging toward the effable I collect lowly objects the near-forgotten helpless chipped pitchers rheumatic eggbeaters wool socks gasping for a mend I restore utility it’s how I love Finally, seated at supper, I report on cave paintings, the sum of an afternoon reading New Yorker back issues. I’ve only visited undecorated caves, but all caves go black when the flashlight’s dropped, the sightlessness more pure than blindness. Sacred iconography, teenagers’ doodles, maps to hunting grounds - what I know now is there’s no unifying theory. but there’s been violence: red ink penned by a hand that trembled from despair or titillation silliness need circles the word prostitute no concern for the definition a beheading! As we talk, my father, who by virtue of age has had more seasons of despair than I, opens the table’s single drawer for matches and lights the oil lamp on its hook. The firelight hovers over us, a yellow circle chalked on stone. A parachute. the preface (top of the heap) declares it an instrument by which exact understanding in language is achieved I long for such surgical clarity but I am no one without longing but in the esses a long single hair with wave laughs across stirrup stitch suturing the gash stout-hearted 5 6- ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Span of the Tay Bridge. Sparrows Memory’s a proven. It isn’t picked up and put down like a framed photograph on a dresser, but live: synapses leap, ions charge from neuron to neuron as the brain, and all its tugs on the heart, re-enact the original layer. So I break down in a British pub on the west coast of Canada, a re-enactment itself: carpeted floors, pint glasses, a man on the fiddle and another on the guitar and bod’hran - your instruments, I’m getting to you, even though you aren’t listening – all the comforts of that home I kept for a year and four months when I was twenty-two, twenty-three. There we are again, in the pub that was so small the door remained in my peripheral vision. There: the tables we worked around to play darts, your cheeks flushed from the long evening walk across the bridge, both of us in battered surplus army boots, wool socks. You study your feet when you walk across a bridge, their bravado calls to you. We’re Fife side of the Tay River, we’d been curious, we’d heard that the people of Fife were different, gnomic, inspired. So what. What? I don’t remember the walk back. It wasn’t the drinking, there was always drinking, liquid dreaming those years, I pay for their glory now, took my vows, married sobriety, that dry river bed filled with ghosts, rocks that once sighed against each other. I’ve learned to believe in the power of suggestion as I nurse O’Doul’s, 0.5%. I am working on a problem here, looking into my glass. I’m not watery with nostalgia or trying to catch the fish of one’s biography. I’m trying to divine what I’ve forgotten. I force myself to step onto that bridge, as if to walk the plank. And it comes to me. On that walk back across the bridge you told me you didn’t love me. My heart turned to a sinking stone and the bridge ossified into a skeleton of this world. And you probably singing, just singing, beautiful in your handmade scarf. I loved you the first time light carried you to my eyes. I am happy with the sparrows on the worn fence beside my gravel driveway. They’ve been constant, keep a modest distance. Only hunger brings them closer, or my own slowness, reading, thinking: then they crowd onto the lawn, pecking at, I imagine vaguely, seeds, hopping in their light shoulder-shrunk way, right to the legs of my chair: I freeze as if a statue on a postcard. I know some people, their noses sharp, eyes closely spaced, emotions so inscrutable as to be deniable as much as assumed denied: talk always turns to the binoculars around their necks, small, clever things, dark translators. These people travel long distances to tick off birds from a list. A poet once told me to specify my birds, shoot the arrows of their names, pin them down, butterflies on a spreading board. He himself had flocks of poems with red-necked warblers and black-headed I don’t know, I don’t see them. Once, I was in some woods and saw what I guessed was a blue jay. A man with whom I planted trees would occasionally kill a grouse with his shovel, then coat the bird in mud and bake it in the evening fire. We lost our shyness once it was cooked, as we pulled on itsmeat, what meat! That man and I swam together naked under a full moon. In British Columbia. or Alberta. Yukon? He was really a teenager, always finding arrowheads as if they truly were his birthright. I lost the one he gave me. It is perhaps my biggest loss. There are people who clip parrots’ wings; a dude in my city rides his bicycle with such a parrot on his shoulder. It opens its wings again and again, you wonder if it’s trying to fly or just feeling the wind. That man doesn’t look like a bird at all. More like a pirate, a little mean. I’ve dated men like him but they’re jumpy, wary of self-awareness, the word love in their mouths so much spit. My sparrows don’t suffer from self-awareness. In fact, I can’t tell them apart. They’re your sparrows too. 7 8- ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Third Day of Summer Heather Munro Dollhouse www.heathermunro.ca How quickly some women shake their sun dresses free of wrinkles and the darkness of the closet. Within an hour of the sunshine spilling down I saw three, the women - ghost-pale arms, shoulder blades like naked wings devil-may-care. I’ve freed our beds from their winter blankets, now piled, a melting snowbank, at the top of the basement steps. My daughter complains the heap is in the way but I explain: it’s summer. I almost say that’s life, but her limbs gallop where she stands; I’ll measure them today, write the numbers in indelible ink. Last night, she called me to wave her top sheet so the air would rush and cool her. I almost said, you know, my mother did this for me, too, but instead I chose the awe that assailed and silenced me: her skin glowed with otherness not mine, as in my little girl, and barely her own. I witnessed the preternatural beauty that possesses teenagers then as I raised a breeze with the cottton sheet the wail of ambulance wended sharp as a needle through the open bedroom window, threading through us the dark river where that beauty bathes. We haven’t heard sirens all winter - it’s as though they slept while we slept, but I know that’s a lie, our sleep a muffling, suffocation rather than hibernation. No wonder we raise the windows come what may, throw open the doors, and those closets with their bloom of summer dresses. 9 10 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 The Engines of Beauty 1. A scrap of beach we found by a lake, fly fishermen whirring fishing lines like lassoes, writing and re-writing: abracadabra as dragonflies mounted each other on air, jewel-blue bodies redoubling the sunlight. Those fishermen didn’t catch one fish. You and I didn’t love each other yet. Didn’t pretend love was why we were lucky dragonflies landing on our knees. 2. A fall fair, a parachutist angling down to a soccer field dotted with paper plates. We were still new to each other; nearby, couples in crisp fall jackets rooted through each other’s pockets for a five-dollar bill. At a table, someone took the money for a good cause, wrote the couple’s names on a plate before setting it on the field, a tidy randomness. We put our names in, too, though the prize seemed impossible: a week at a resort, white sand, blank horizon. The parachute neared the plates, the crowd hooted – the woman in the harness: was she happy? She landed exactly raised the plate from under her foot, waved it, a silent tambourine as her parachute dissolved behind her like an exhausted squid. She read the winning name into a microphone. I want to say we’ve never needed that white sand, blank horizon. I watched the parachutist fold her sail with an engineer’s care, tie it finally with canvas straps. As she headed to the parking lot, I heard the bitter music of the keys in her pocket, and admired her courage to know the cheerless engines of beauty. 11 12 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 3. For years, you floated as you slept, hands dangling over the edges of the bed, trailing the air. I lived on the absence you made, that unconscious where. Sleep, for me, small meals delivered by an anxious waiter: do you need a glass of water? did you lock the doors? have you studied for your exam? What exam? I’ve sought shelter against your sleeping, edged close, let your heart’s surf cover me. Thieved you, burdened you. asked that marriage be a sharing of deficiencies, too. Tonight, you draw the same slow breaths into the same body, sure. But it’s as though over the years, gravity has collected in you and you are falling, failing, beyond my imagining. Heather Munro Untitled www.heathermunro.ca 13 14 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Michael Dennis It’s Hard Gail Bourgeois Oil and graphite study 2 www.gailbourgeois.ca It’s hard to get your dreams to work out on time laying in your hospital bed looking up at white tiles and knowing your knowing is done you see the to and fro of the active medical staff watches as tube go in others come out you see your family frantically stoic panic spastic in their eyes you see them approach and know they are trying to impart some final wisdom some important thing you need to know but they are apparently much further away then they seem as they mime their way into your eternity you often wondered how it would end who would gather at your bed what regrets you might have you are thinking exactly this and then 15 16 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Andrew Faulkner Hit and run Swing a hefty wrench against a hollow pipe. The resulting sound only sort of sounds like “foul”. This sort of thought can occupy a lifetime. It can also occupy hours while high. Approximate Major League action everywhere! Let the toilet run and swing away. Like dusk in the corners of a room, higher minds are unwilling to focus on anything in particular. The fun I’ve had has robbed me blind. Gail Bourgeois Oil and graphite study 1 www.gailbourgeois.ca 17 18 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Spencer Gordon SHOPPING STYLE Shopping is always a treat. It is always a treat to receive. You have always known this. The girl will wrap your gift so you do not have to. The bow, the paper, the sheets. Free. Look into the mirror and adjust your face. Listen to Phil Collins pardon you, What’s a poetics? No, nevermind: meander through fragments; be a style; uncover pockets of skin and trust in your brilliant good looks. Be desired. Inside the museum the art is properly illumined, not dusty. The painting went well. There was natural light in every crevice of the attic. We spoke of un-becoming things; of breaking sense into split atoms. We were glad scientists, watching each other in prototype, as saps swigging coffee. So nevermind. your entirely normal face. Your face is entirely average. The gloss in the glass, the brand new tooth in the woman’s face. Cosmetic attendant. Retail assistant. Sledgehammer smell of perfume in your skull. Breathe deep. Breathe deep and know you’re not sleeping, this is real. And when they go home with you, the women who wrap your gifts, they will eat rotisserie chicken dinners in your living room, sucking their bones on your couch. The grease between the ribs and the white, white bread. You can mop it up. Waiting outside the bathroom, you can listen to her weep to her father. Shopping is always a treat. I like glass and candy and meat under my nails, she says, while you watch the sun come up in the morning and you forget your name and your face and you receive and receive and receive. Her hands had paint stains, red knuckles. The sex was performative. Today all she needs is restricted space, a line against herself, these sharp edges. And words to be elastics, tying up her hair, while the light was right in the window, right there, touch it; on the nape of her neck silver, moving, immaculate. every hair 19 20 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 DINNER CONVERSATION You are often bored and unsaved, walking amid light that insists on itself, resisting talks of tomorrow, placing you helpless in patinas of leaf and breeze and tedium. Emerging into worlds above typical tunnels, average ruins, bureaucratic wastes, Kafka hells, and bells toiling interminable hours for who? Me, you. Bored with the task before you, the dinner party to host, the broom to sweep scraps, the room made presentable for people you sometimes talk to, see, tolerate. Who will eat your food like good people. The sunlight all now, all willing. You are often bored and unsaved, thinking of some maxim overheard, some lyric or adage or claim made to appreciate light that insists on an oblique version of yourself, accustomed to the climate of air and light and smoke, patinas, conversation, utensils, sloping suns. You’re disappointed so-and-so didn’t come, but forget the next time you meet, in some dream, which you take as easily as the afternoon light, filled with weightless floating mites of dust that say, we are excited, dancing, happy, unsaved. Stefan Thompson Do What you... (Beeswax crayon on recycled paper) www.stefanthompson.deviantart.com 21 22 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Stefan Thompson watching over www.stefanthompson.deviantart.com Stefan Thompson Collaboration created by: Tina Trineer (Hatworks) Stefan Thompson (Faceworks) (mixed Media) www.stefanthompson.deviantart.com 23 24 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Gwendolyn Guth How Armando Became a Ladies Man How Armando Learned to Read He says, “I tell you story.” Shrugs off grammar-clotted papers to make space for memory and his hands’ motion. When he saw her It’s raining outside, and from under the tile floor a beach in Angola rises. Armando’s face softens, ingenuous. Who is breathing that air now, the air he wooed with innocence, a twenty year-old soldier on two weeks’ leave? for the first time, he was wrist-high in blood. Gore. The animal death of the shop enticed her, meat for sale. He knew how to move his knife. Her eyes flashed jet-dark, defiant. In a few days, the shining counter dissolved like an apprentice dream. He wiped his hands, turned from carcasses to caress warm perfumed hocks, pink moons. His young self fascinates him. Two years living off the avails of a breathtaking hooker. Imagine him then, pale ovo, thin asperagus, dressing his body in expensive suits, his hair in a pouffe. Afternoons sipping port, his whore-lover having slept off the night’s work. What kind of man, what kind of life, pleaded his mother. Two years of lacrimosa, invocations to the Madonna. Two heavy years. Hands move swiftly over his face to check an expression. He says, “I had to think future.” She was twice his age, meu Deus, ivory-legged and asking for a light. He looked up from sand, seduced by the sun’s corona, her South African drawl. She was bored with rank imperatives, general husbands, she was laughing over her shoulder at his mimed attempt to say he didn’t smoke in her language. But what kind of story would end there, transfixed by her perfume of copal and coffee? The next day, she returns, bends, swathed in turquoise, a wave resting on his narrow towel. She writes in the sand his first English words: Room 125. Hotel Tropico. Seven days, the Paris of Africa. She buys him leather sandals, shirts of watery silk. Her body slips over his enslaved horizon. He murmurs Luanda into her nameless ear. Monday morning not all his sprinting, barefoot, to the airport saves him. Not her image through the glass partition, boarding for Johannesburg. Not his pounded frantic shout, por favor! He is twice his young self, sighing in this vulnerable classroom, roving, vagabond eyes. 25 26 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 “Lavish, lavish promise”* crow in the mountain ash Your love is coughed up chocolate mousse Russian medals from a hungry Estonian with no mitts A Viking hat with horns you laughed at Words that crawl under the sheets and itch wasting my time with your succulent greed dessicated red heart sidewalk Champagne on the sidewalk to celebrate absence Cutlery dropped down the sewer grate Birthdays emtombed on the Baltic sea Mayday in Buchanwald, or any day *from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Ode to Beauty” 27 28 - ottawater: 6.0 Phil Hall four visual pieces ottawater: 6.0 - 29 30 - ottawater: 6.0 ottawater: 6.0 - 31 32 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Marilyn Irwin Dragonfly high noon Dragonfly on my back third time around hand-me-downs already ready for one more wash if I ever take them off; crimson sky burns low moss-covered fallen logs and boulders: a jungle gym of fallen heroes; sinking, slipping, sliding the muddy mounds of ploughed fields; lollygagging down creek ridden sandy paths of green and sepia scenes in white sandals strapped around socks; nibbling white, pink and purple petals: a flossy, afternoon snack; another quick moment of curiosity quelled; plucking Raspberries from fallopian branches amid Milkweed and Monarchs, birds chime in with the train, whistles on time, shimmying, reddening nettle tickled calves; freckles deepen, cluster faithful dog and cake pan of berries, pockets full of Quartz and Shale and Arrowhead armed with an era, and a dragonfly at peace with the darkening dusk. 33 34 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Robyn Jeffrey City Crow On Cleaning Take it off! he yells and I dim the lights, edge slowly toward the window. I’m in love with lemon polish, the knife-edge gleam of a bathroom mirror, linens stacked in uniform rows. I make a checklist every day and put each thing in its proper place because every Though it’s dark outside and I can’t tell where this voice is firing from, I know this is the guy who taunted me as I savoured a cigarette on my balcony: Hey bitch! Suck on this. And on Thursday night when I couldn’t sleep and ventured out to admire the moon I heard: Show me your tits! But when I peered across all I could see was an iron screen of balcony rails. Should I leave the curtains closed? Give up smoking? Stop staring at the sky? I decide to turn into a crow, soar through darkness, find out where he lives and as he opens his wide rude mouth, stick my beak in and rip his tongue out, fly off and let it drop under an ambulance, racing through the city. object has one: a coat has a hanger, not a chair a glass has a cupboard, not a counter, and dishes are never left to drown in a sink full of greasy water. Although I tried once to ignore a stain—the one we left on my carpet—I couldn’t resist scrubbing it out right away. I’m relentless as I hunt for dust that lurks in places where no one can see it, but I know it’s there because I can feel it. This is why I lift up furniture and clean with a vacuum so loud it makes my one-room apartment shake: every cropped picture rattles in its frame and threatens to jump from the walls. Until I finally shut the vacuum off and as the motor expels its final moan, I think: better this than sit at my desk, with its coffee cup stains and broken shelf, ailing lamp and piled-up mail, scattered books, poutine-crusted forks and scraps of stunted poems. 35 36 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Marc Adornato weebot Marc Adornato ferret-bot 37 38 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Anne Le Dressay Anxiety Dream Things to do in the pouring November rain It’s always about teaching, even though teaching hasn’t been my focus for ten years. Contemplate the quality of water so cold it is half a degree from ice. How it slides over skin, leaving the thinnest coating of itself. How it settles and seeps to the marrow. Last night, I couldn’t find my notes. I didn’t even know what course it was. I had nothing to give. Contemplate this from somewhere not in direct contact with the rain: exercise memory. I’d mislaid the anxiety too. Instead, I was intent on finding the classroom, taking nothing with me but the sense that I owed them this much: to show up, to stand before them naked of any purpose but to confess my poverty-just stand there, empty-handed, pretending nothing. Make sure it isn’t a work day. Put off all errands that take you outside. Light a fire in the fireplace (because of course you have a fireplace). Choose the kind of armchair that hugs you. Turn it so that you can watch the play of flames and coals and still see the rain glazing the outside of the window with liquid ice. Hug an afghan around you-some warm colour like a deep red or a chocolate brown. Settle in that chair with your hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate or aromatic tea or coffee with brandy. Savour the spread of warmth outward from core to skin. Consider the grayness of clouds and city as an aesthetic experience. Be glad. 39 40 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Rob Manery Antigone Variations 1 3 such as we aim we aim a clouded grasp or an else a shameful else or else reasons sometimes trouble anything senseless we aim we aim without anything less perhaps less lest we grasp nothing else if just nothing intentless yet why not disagree not as rules grace but as warning any warning graces any grace sought entreated 2 proven for meaning rejection amends though hastily unwritten sometimes I think if meaning lacks belief or disobeys or forgiveness 4 others understand error sometimes after each confused each shuddered intent oversteps nothing borrows inarticulate afterthought the unwritten trust others crave 5 who nowhere or near and indeed unwritten or aware will aim at least clutching upon each each end ends each further or 41 42 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Stefan Grambart Autoperambulator www.magicforestshop.etsy.com Stefan Grambart Subterranean Arachno-motive www.magicforestshop.etsy.com 43 44 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Karen Massey Light Focused Through Our Lens Drug Do you remember when I came down from the sky to live in you tangle mix of sky of sea of earth: my drug is a suave narcotic more alluring than opiates how there were bells calling faintly, tingling like the jangle of moored boats at the wharf, a faint sea air scent and taste distilled by exertion, breathe in that salt scent early musk innocent knight sometimes brave beastly bruised doux heat of barefoot boys young running over summer grass struggling organic garden and the pull of moonlight across waves as though everything had been poured out there for me, and I swooped down from the daylight dark daylight dark and how I came down with my memory of songs and stories and how I sailed through starlight and darkness and strategy and chose you, singing on the back porch and there were years to cross and danger before I found you and you breathed me in I remember how the night arched, a body stretching long limbs, shuddering, the tremendous exertion around me and silence-we moved through that night in our quiet and when I came through to this world, wet and caressed by that primordial friction do you remember the tune the stars were humming as lunar winds stitched up the rent I left there-Let’s not forget how I shouldered through so quickly and the midwives caught me and placed me before you and how we looked and looked and looked into each other in recognition and inquiry wide eyed and pulsing and silently looking until you reached for me; and how the midwives had never witnessed anything like it and then I made that cry that marked us all along the continuum-- sour-sweet heat under hats our sons my sons who race safe in summer’s arms when mine are distant are spent are not bending in the garden, but toil at the bench dispensing legal doses to kiss an infant’s head is pure touch, smooth cranium caressed by motherpalm is good luck but to breathe in that faint thrill of summer changed to scent-fragrant, heady corona, halo of light-is to reach through fire and draw back renewed 45 46 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Husha Your father is terminal with a rare cancer and you are thinking about dying All around the kitchen, food in different stages-alfalfa and sunflower seeds sprout in jars beside pears blsuhing on the window sill An orange blurs to teal mould in the amber bowl I’m sick of fruit, your father says, No more damn fruit- Still, today, you are thinking about dying; listen while it lives invisibly in each of us All day long you are busy living, resonant somehow with thinking it Rain pricks frozen barbs against the window quiet, sends a staccato voice to its surface versus you thinking of dying The refrigerator hum, the cheap kitchen clock, the ductwork creaking after the furnace shuts off You can’t help thinking it, you’re an expert now The world shifts its compass needle The next season arrives, now you’re busy packing; choosing a casket, the readings and songs, taking care of things Still, you go forward, remembering the moribund Days march on Pinned to the lapels of your carrying on are the soft white petals of your thinking this breath, and always now, those shadow world thoughts-- Pedro Isztin Above Canada, 2008 www.isztinfoto.com 47 48 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Marcus McCann Pale anonymous hetero, havoc comes I’ll be he, Mr. Member Renew, renew me. Member renew. I’d Sly Tom him in a washtub, in a hot chop testament to largess. Pale anonymous hetero, havoc comes. I ache, I even spun thunder. Oh we wet youth, aura, erections woof. Cause a hit. Youth, nude ace, abstinent twink who’d bug us to, I jet mucus, woken hot to daze them, camera sky to daze them, camera sky to daze them, camera sky, boy’s lips. Hothead pant, You earthmen, I hit a ___, I love our effigy. Twitch tube ink, itchy lava, doesn’t my condom, yawn, uhh, woo you? You’d woo you, eh? Oh woo woody, intrude, hook you. Orally yo-yo, orally blush. He’s internet hunky. Raucous yahoo CIA we’ll daze them camera to sky, daze them camera to sky, daze them camera to sky. Use milk jet. Pedro Isztin Above Peru, 2009 www.isztinfoto.com 49 50 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Heather McLeod Christian McPherson matter Magic because memory is an act of re-creation because the opposite of love is indifference because failure is an option because hurt isn’t always harm because of the weight of it because perception is everything because the reward was worth the risk because we all have scars I chugged down my last beer really fast turns out there was a genie in the bottle I burped up a wish when I went back to the fridge there was a six pack sitting there behind the expired mayonnaise. 51 52 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Soraya Peerbaye Night in Meldrum Bay (1) We pitch our tents on the skewed logic of a nature reserve, owned by a stone quarrying company. Crickets’ fitful auditory presence, as though zipping and unzipping their invisibility cloaks. After dinner, we play the recorded calls of owls on an old tape deck at the edge of the woods – great horned, saw-whet, screech. The deck chews the ribbon, a warped valentine. No owl answers. A katydid enmeshed in the tent canopy sends its strident chirp down, sparks showering our sleep. From below, the blast, rumble of rocks; pause; the peevish beep, beep, beep of the quarry trucks reversing. Roar and murmur like a snoring giant with obstructive sleep apnea. Reid McLachlan Heaven and Earth medium, oil on canvas www.redcanoes.ca/reid 53 54 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Night in Meldrum Bay (2) The amateur astronomer shows us the night sky through his telescope: sight barrelling to the front of the line like a kid with free movie passes. Jupiter and its Galilean moons; an old red star and a young blue star in the same view; the night sky like an arrested game of marbles. “Wanna see E.T.?” He turns the telescope to a star cluster, and it does, it really does look like E.T, arms outspread and eager for your embrace. I tell him about crossing over from Cuba to the United States at night, seeing the borderland from the air. Light as a measure of wealth; the view of stars as a measure of poverty. He tells me how he loves the sight of the city at night, from the air, because it reminds him of stars; how strange that, his feet on the ground, he looks up and the city obliterates its metaphor. Beaston Coureur des Bois: Centre Flip 20x24 acrylic on canvas www.beaston.deviantart.com | www.beastwrong.blogspot.com | www.them.ca 55 56 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Meldrum Bay (3) Great tablets of alvar beneath the blue-green glaze of lakewater like Moroccan ceramic the green tambourine shimmer of birch trees At the Native gift shop, the owner tells us of his son’s wedding, an Anishinabe and Thai ceremony – describes moose stir-fry, venison with chili and sweet basil All day, imagining that taste, gamey, fragrance calling to other fragrances, clove, anise, mouth watering Beaston Breakfast 18x24 acrylic on canvas www.beaston.deviantart.com | www.beastwrong.blogspot.com | www.them.ca 57 58 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Richard Rathwell Bektashi Breakdown (If spoken, then in Gek with goat stomach pipes.) 1. Dies the exile contrapuntally, in a state of homelessness, possessing nothing of the nation, holding the entire world through translation, without image to speak, in poisonous astonishment discovering that wherever here as forever home by the river, beliefs are possible that poetry exists to further one’s aspirations and is limited to reflections of the shallowest community sensibilities. I live in too high a register unreflected by those sparkling fragments. 2. 4. I saw suffering with mute neutral stoicism exclaimed as passion. Recessive drunken thought as penetrations. Lachrymose funereal honours paid by the smug refuters of yesterday’s, today’s buried beggars. I saw that just when a wonder is seen, and wanting to live forever, you discover your imminent mortality, you suffer some banal pain, and you feel that instant inconveniently immortal. Immortality is useless. That is exile. 5. For beauty is fattened by each generation of a world language. Sinking from the decorative to the human, from the sublime to the ugly. Stars to the sea. While the national word has no needs, as reality contrived by society. And it thins so in me. You white frozen, social historic, divine twin, at home, entirely fictional. You actual chameleon self trying to engage but intrusive realities get in the way. That murder is one. You stay black with colours. No comfort knowing that at least in language it is the flawed, incomplete and failed which is endless beauty. 2. 6. I can not engage you viva voce as I have not your language any more. I am hoaxed in terrorem. I write after. I thought there were soluble mysteries, murders, and divine ones, loves and then mystery of what that beauty was for; but a head on a stick is me; danced around by un ramassis de traitres ever elsewhere, never away, washing me in strongly felt words of no meaning. Floating about in purple logorrhoea. Whether by design or accident, language is seldom praised for the right things here and loved. That is why Poetry has a bad name where I come from. How many poets lost their jobs and were blanked from police at publishers? Bloodied in the streets hawking? Just enough to discourage the others. This was my country in a middle management technique not exclusive to poets but extended to the truthful in general. And why “splintered heart and wolfish hands were turned against the wolfish world” and Ishmael went to sea. And all that. 3. God forgive me, I wrote of the spiritual and moral dimensions of geometric optics in translation, a poetry holed through, me at the mirror facing it, so when withdrawn, reality was seen darkly and uncontrived. My bottega ridiculed me for that. I know now why death is good for poets. We are praised for having died recently but no one says what we were for in life. No one holds that mirror at the celebration. 6. Muse, t’estimo quan he begut! (I am forever as Catalan Xarnego and never quite Hausa Xala. I am a translation here, un ouvroir de littérature potentielle seulement.) 7. I have only valorisation of chaotic interiority and even that, with my constructed self in parallel, is episodic and fragmentary, ducking and weaving to avoid this era’s oppressive and reactionary concept, and it’s actualisation of personality. In a vocabulary to kill me. 59 60 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 8. 13. I cannot now construct my character by association with shared canon, divinity or myth. My country’s poetry is all social. I can only revile being what I wish to seem. So I cannot manipulate illusion to contrive an idol of myself as advised. I am pretty fucking near situationally aspergers here, my love. But to form a society when society is the reduction and reinvention of the world in ever more confined circumstances reflected ever more darkly mixed of middle class dreams and fake documentaries and this is your life in complicated syntax self parody and fascination with unexpected thought because to a man without a penis everything looks like a hole. 9. I know painfully through decapitation that individualities are fashioned from collectives gone through by ciphers and boiled in the stereotype so I can only want the patterns of what falls without. I cannot live in representation. In those reflections of that mirror. 10. I would like to disable society of that false world contrived with decisive transgressive innovation to offset spiritual death. I know I will fail at that. I would like to do this by acts of detached attention. I can’t, as I mourn. I should like in all this to not be prey to the living; that would be good for me. And cure the never ending hangover from sensibilities intoxicated from the cheap punch ups in drunken boats going home. 11. Dichter not Schrifftsteller ! Bin ich ein Besserer, ein erzieher ? Nein, ich bin ein dichter! You have neither of those there in your sad broken language. Your smug avocations of your own attitudes projected as promotion. 12. Who would have the role of a man in competition blood winning sustenance when contrary shaping society, serving and suffering, could be so much better and die avoiding the state of other female animals, those that have power to choose a partner by plumage, and ever associated with inspiring art by Eros and Thanatos in the egg, when there is an end to endless male forms evolving and being evolved each more ugly and inconsequential than the last. 14. As at home in exile fear is transmitted culturally. Love. Sense and stupidity too. Lion cubs do here to the spot where mother was shot, those new social architect mommas who forget the gun next year. You refuse to develop into anything more mature than your younger self in exile. 15. I know every notable book is collaboration with language. It is a negotiation of image. From a person in need of improvement to a separate inhuman genius. From rational characterisation and thought into complications mimicking the real. Fusion of the incongruous. Anxious atmospheres of the moral. Cultural room and space to imagine near infinite possibilities away from the stereotypes. Outbursts of assimilation. Creative intolerance. Refusal of complicity in the banal . Disembodiment of entrenched elites. 16. Have you written exile only of your pre occupations projected? Analysed that way? Over whelmed with self awe? In sadistic playfulness? Has your excess of common and playful intellect revealed too little understanding? Are you seeking bourgeois neutering? 17. Community breakdowns are simply regressive molecular social and psychological conditions. They toss protons like me to live contrapuntally 61 62 - ottawater: 6.0 Danny Hussey Bad Bad Saw Blade Screen Print on Lorraine Gilbert Photo, 2009 Documentation: David Barbour http://www.dannyhussey.ca ottawater: 6.0 - 63 64 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Peter Richardson Echo For the second time this morning a tow-truck sounds its warning alarm and sparrows dart in the courtyard. Somewhere my mother stands alone and promises herself that as an adult she will never again be made fool of. *** A banker’s wife in a black silk dress tips cigarette ash into an ice bucket. You realize whose kitchen you’re in? Thought you were just going to dust? Fold a few towels? Iron some linen? This isn’t a cruise down to Memphis. You’re paid to keep a move on here and mind you don’t spill the grease when you set that roast on a platter. *** I have come to understand junctures where cars about to be towed away coexist with spit-curled farm girls. Montreal and Dubuque join hands. Sparrows fly through their streets. A two-noted alarm sounds again. She Was His Angel of Palliative Care ripping up newspaper into flammable ribbons, plumping up pillows in rooms that had to be emptied of draughts. He gave up little bits of breath in an Ebenezer Scrooge voice, claiming he’d never missed a day’s work and now this: skidoos in the west pasture, a caravan still roaring by after midnight, headlights sweeping her side of the bed. Let one of those hooligans veer an inch from the easement they bucketed down and he’d be out there, breathless or not– “–with what?” she wondered, “That old 12-gauge shotgun with a busted stock?” She vetoed worry, doling out bits of cash to the god of warm rooms. Consoling him, she shuttled between bedroom and kitchen, closing latched doors, fussing with dampers, stewing pots of prunes flavoured with lemons. 65 66 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 In a Belgrade Hotel Lift With thanks to the author of the first four lines, who taped his directions to the elevator wall. To move the cabin, push the button for the wishing floor. If the cabin should enter more persons, each person should press the number of wishing floor. Driving is then going by national order. If you are from Bulgaria you will be driving soon. Leave complaining to the Americans. They are far down the list after Rarotonga. Anyway, entering people with cabin requires additional control panels not available. Foot traffic creaks in an adjacent stairway accessible through the staff lounge. Passes may be secured at the front desk. Please give the phonetic equivalent to the words Roman marsh in Estonian written in non-Cyrillic letters behind the bar. Distances will be called out in meters. Weights and counterweights obey old gears. Each may eventually attain his or her wishing floor. Test-Flight of a Fast-Morphing Craft I bought a lightweight glider on a whim and wound the ten-pound rubber band that strummed with unregulated torque along its curtain-rod-reinforced length. Did I say it was a glider? It had its own propulsion in the pitted zinc propeller which I ducked to one side of as it sped on lawnmower wheels down our field. But where to? Down our property line. I dashed into Tenney’s parts pasture– our neighbour’s pocked, lube-oil mug glared at me from a scavenged Ford. Before he could yell, the air ignited, singeing the hair bunched in his ears and strewing bits of prop and balsa over his assemblage of wrecked cars. Afraid it would torch his bony cows, I raced past burning marigolds to find Holsteins like gangling chorus girls, teary-eyed with praise for all I’d done. 67 68 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Aeroflot Service and Groom, Mirabel Airport, 1982 And you board the flight with garbage bags and roller mops because you don’t have an adaptor tonight for the vacuum which, in any case, bangs against each metal seat anchor on days when you sled its bulk up the passenger stairs. Provided you’ve wiped up the baby vomit in first class and buffed the galley floor with a monogrammed towel, who’s to say you’re not the deposed Prince of Carpathia soon to re-establish his credentials with those who count? Waiter-Confidant Ken Considers Pam’s Imaginary Shawl 1. Good for her to have woven it from sand and loon calls, to wear it draped around shoulders that bear up under catch-as-catch-can hugs in a squeaky motel bed that will fade now that she’s sewn this crown of alder leaves into a backing of cedar and rock slope as she scans the chalked menu in Al’s Pub, pleased that a vixen is approaching through sumac to drink at the inlet above her left wrist where the cloth, Pam says, is napped with bits of bark and she can put off having to decide whether to end this most recent of baffling engagements, or let the man she slept with end it himself. 2. I’ve heard it claimed by a chatterbox bartender, Pam had an archetypal dream where the shawl was lowered out of the air onto her shoulders in a bet. She couldn’t see who’d made the wager or who’d accepted. Shadowy figures stood bickering above a lake and she was below them, wading an inlet−their test candidate for carrying woven shadow, bird calls, marten tracks and moss past drinking sceptics. 69 70 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Rebecca Mason Blue Trees, 2009 34" x 12" Watercolour on paper [email protected] www.redcanoes.ca Rebecca Mason Rock Power, 2009 23" x 22", Watercolour on paper [email protected] www.redcanoes.ca 71 72 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Janice Tokar nine lines for L. Cohen velvet twist lovers peacock feathered sabotage decoration’s hard weight a second glanced by your pen a cadence of fragrance, of seaweed and heat measured our shots by fingers held in the end came up short of excuses and breath your off-menu entrée undressed on the side the pluck in your voice rubs an ache wired to flare what’s held back splits the final check in two a rain falls twice without the pull of words 73 74 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Paul Tyler Pigeon Feather A twist of city air, a scoop of wind, fallen in the parkade mud-dip, the asphalt ecosystem of oiled-up tobacco pools. Tip of bliss, preened from a grey-matter roost, a deep-winter huddle in concrete acoustics. Weak-footed, wide-eyed, hydraulic-necked Pollocks. One feather a single shot from a drum-kit clap off high-rise rooftops, ovations too easily given. Hillbilly peacocks, brokenbeaked with blues, twanging a singlestringed call of pain. Your little barbed hand in my hand, a ragged tickle, an oar to the universe, modest as a shy note mummed from a sheet of hymns. Placed in my book of books, it carries me. Midge Slim second of living juice. Loose thread of life. Pin puncture in the air’s fabric, which is joy. Succinct buzz of all that is. Indelible legs. Antenna made of speck. Vibrant throb of dust on my wrist’s bristle, which is the reverberated hum of the beginning, which is all that ever was. 75 76 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Silverfish The List of What Will Last A silver lick along the crevice filth, exploits the tile’s wealth. Vulgar lunge of tongue. Thin peel of celestial refuse. A flat note fallen off a sloppy angel’s lute. Flute-bug. Staccato e e e (up a sleeve) xylophoning bone. Or a dangled gala jewel. Regal worm. Such a bitty itch-fish, tubcrabbed in a drain. Embedded peek-a-boo lining a grout-crack. Scurried impropriety, gulped into a squirm-hole. Co-evolved wiggler. Dusty mirrored shimmer-shadow in the house flesh, nibbling excess. Nothing but a few hairs. And a pebble you always kept in your coat pocket. Your memory, changing, of love. The green of woods at night, and the gravel road that took you there. Something about a ship in a song you heard just once. A book given to you by your grandfather left unread in the rain. Thirst. This will always matter. And pennies— their irretrievable faces. The sand dollar loose in your desk, unbroken, despite all your leaving. The blink of chance that brought us here from tiny life in ocean pools. The body, so frail, outliving the mind, its million parts, reborn and reborn. Gravediggers. Skulls of jesters and hummingbirds. The patience of crows. A glance from someone you love who doesn’t love you. A photograph thought incinerated in the Blitz. But not the stars (you hopeless romantic). Nothing locked, or floated in a bottle on the sea (you are lost now, admit it). Not your first memory or your last, and certainly not the list, though someone might recognize a colour, a rhythm, a scent, and it will continue a little longer before it stops. 77 78 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Priscila Uppal A Referral The dentist stole my teeth. The optician burned my eyes. The nutritionist emptied my fridge. The gynecologist kidnapped my thighs. The reflexologist misaligned my chakras. The dermatologist boycotted my skin. The psychologist sliced my childhood. The oral surgeon punched my chin. The oncologist gave me cancer. The anaestitician misread my chart. The frenologist shrunk my left brain. The cardiologist attacked my heart. Now I am but a case study. My file is up for review. Today we rearrange the suffering. Tomorrow I’ll be healing you. My Computer is Developing Autism and Other Disorders Having spent too much time with humans, unbalancing the decades-old relationship between computer and human user, my computer has started to exhibit symptoms contrary to its physiological structures. It no longer responds to physical contact— becoming increasingly self-involved—has started to disengage from elaborate networks, for hours on end repeats the same commands. Worse, it’s destroying its own memory, refuses to sleep, and sputters unintelligible noise. I have real trouble getting it to recognize who I am. An expert advised me to lobotomize the hard drive. If it’s condition doesn’t improve, I’ll have no choice but to send it to another home. 79 80 - ottawater: 6.0 ottawater: 6.0 - Now That All My Friends Are Having Babies: A Thirties Lament I must, I suppose, resign myself to the fact that we will never again be able to throw what used to be called “an adult party” (though, of course, no one actually acted like adults). Now I must prepare for diaper changes, breast feedings, time-outs in the middle of martini-making, discussions of diaper changes, breast feedings, time-outs in the middle of dinner, dessert, after-dinner liqueurs, and the only sex chat each pregnant woman outdoing the other with how horny being blown up like a balloon makes her feel, premature labour always the result of taboo, non-recommended eight-month fucking. Now that all my friends are having babies, I should be more connected, I would think, to my own womanhood, and how amazing bodies are that can hold, sustain, shoot out life right there, onto my floor in all its strange handness and footness and foreheads red with sweat mouths wide with yawn, glee, or being. I thought I might even return to religion, apprehend some sense of a holy order, harmony, even hierarchy. (I’m sure you can already tell this didn’t happen. So, what did?) Now that all my friends are having babies, I am beset by a most curious fear during the day, in the wee hours of morning, when I am brushing my teeth or cleaning a CD. It can happen anywhere, I tell you, anywhere. My breath stops, my ears tingle, the backs of my knees go cold as ice. I know now, more pointedly, that I am going to die—these children are going to kill, not only me, but my friends, my colleagues, my neighbour with the glorious rows of gardenias and impatiens, my GP, my beloved cats and their neutered siblings. We are nothing to these babies, rolling on the floor making Play-Do pies or building forts out of Lego, pushed around in strollers with ribboned hair or Velcro shoes, drinking juice from sippy-cups and crying, kicking at the concrete, cat walling a daffodil, demanding a video, tying a skipping rope to a chair, beating a piñata, or kissing my cheeks. Holy, perhaps, but irreversibly deadly. And their lips know not what they will say. And nobody cares that I am taking a stand and remaining childless—you couldn’t pay me enough to take one on, not on this planet where we let our nonbiological children die, and keep dying, as long as they die quietly. And they might be holy too. And the clouds waltz by and keep coupling as if nothing has happened. 81 82 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Picnic Lobby At the picnic the ants ignored the cucumber sandwiches & bumbleberry pie; marched straight up your jean skirt & into your halter top, stenciling a _ around your heart. The plants in the lobby are organizing a revolt. For the last three months I’ve been monitoring them—they don’t think I know, but oh I do—how the beasts have been stashing fertilizer and bottled water and packets of NutraSweet. Twiggy feet clung to your flesh. You cried as red spittle dripped from your bottom lip & I continued to hold your hand. ‘I never wear badges,’ you said, & for a moment the ants ceased their marching; a few toppled over the tower of your breasts & into the jug of lemonade. Then they went back to work with renewed vigour. By the time the first clouds perched over our heads half your heart had been smuggled past the oak trees. ‘Next will be my brain,’ you said. ‘Then my cunt,’ & you smiled. ‘It’s better this way. Dying for an enemy. Dying for a cause.’ ‘Better a symbol than a body,’ you added. You were red now & growing antennae. I packed everything I could into tin can and Ziploc ruins, and ran. Other picnickers laughed. A boy eating an entire watermelon tripped me. Within minutes the ants formed an ▲ around my symbol. I would never see you again. Melinda’s Nicorette patches are missing. Tearing through her drawers, she rants and raves about abortions and double-parking and why the hell won’t vending machines take nickels or dimes. I swear the plants are smirking in their tidy pots. Everything’s a game. My uncle told me never to trust anyone— only as far as you can throw them. He’d beat the shit out of these vegetations, with their perfect camouflage. He’d find their one-upmanship maddening. I’m just a receptionist. I’m not cut out for politics. No guerrilla soul here. No dreams of coup d’etat. I’m just a witness. Someone who knows but remains at a distance. Content in the neutral space of the lobby—alive and smug and untrusting, just like the plants. 83 84 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 On Suffering Some days I sit on my suffering slowly rolling it back and forth as on an Exerball. My sides tense and twitch. Sometimes I maintain my balance, sometimes I fall over. Some nights I pack my suffering into a pillowcase, then a large luggage bag. I heave it into taxis, ride shotgun with it on escalators, until the destination tags I’ve attached tear off. Some seasons suffering is fashionable. I wrap it around my shoulders—a long scarf with matching gloves— a plunging neckline and pumps. Banquet halls and conference rooms provide my runway. Some years I bake my suffering into holiday turkeys & hams; pick it with satisfaction out of my teeth though nine times out of ten I nurse a bellyache. Suffering digests poorly. Some worlds have erased suffering as a matter of progress and course. Others build temples to it, brand it on skin. I think eventually I will give birth to mine in a faraway cave and teach it to hunt. Reid McLachlan Subsurface medium, oil on canvas www.redcanoes.ca/reid 85 86 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 Catriona Wright MATURITY These days the clown’s balloon animals all resemble our exlovers. A fraught arousal in the squeaks. We massage our wonder, trying to keep it supple. Bottles gulp us down in tantrums, burp us up in board meetings. Drowsy, we analyze warping floorboards, abrupt geysers of vermouth and gin. Olives landing in wet plops. Between our naps and popsicle stick cabins, we grow a taste for martinis with crunching celery sticks, peanut butter. Painkillers the only sweets in this grave womb. Found Art Packaging in Aubrey's Meat Market photo by: Tanya Sprowl 87 88 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 RE: WORRIED POTENTIAL Dear so and so, I appreciated your e-mail, but there’s no need to worry. I’m fine. Regular bowel movements, a soulful ring tone. My face still looks young in certain lights and delight still flashes through me when I receive kindness unexpected: two chocolate bars falling from one coin. Enough sleep every night. Ten hours, more. Sometimes more like twenty. Some days I don’t get up. My husband and I don’t fight much anymore. Or I fight and he laughs. Or I fight and he shuts his office door. More exercise than before. I signed up for yoga, pilates, cardio pole-dancing. I’ve taken up running to the corner store, cramming my head in the freezer. Getting advice from the cold. But if you were so worried, why didn’t you call? Drop by? Say anything at all this morning while I poured hot coffee down your back? Methanol coarseness of cough syrup hooked to tongue, still diving. Frantic to exit the unsteady taste of a body between sickness and health, between tactic and action. Becoming. Last night confidence rolled over me like children down a mottled green hill. I lowered baits into my breath. Shiny pouts, a bare shoulder. Lures to contradict me when I said I don’t think the knees are done yet. Kidneys aren’t symmetrical as couplets. Need to revise. Dull blood type. All wrong. Instead, you said potential: bound body to chair, threw me in the lake. Watch to see if either will escape. 89 90 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 CORE Instead of going to work, I sit in a café until the streetlights come on. The obscure chocolate heart of a croissant, excised from its buttery flakes, lies despondent in the middle of my outrageously white plate. that could happen at any moment, could blister the world, change the way you falter through it. But never arrives. The hurricane There are twenty missed calls on my phone. Mailbox, full. All from the office, but delivered in different genres: from battle cry to elegy. My right that comes close enough to twirl the oliveencumbered swizzle stick in your martini, to blow out the squat candles on your daughter’s birthday cake. Close enough to prod your wife’s earrings awake as divining rods. Close contact lens wobbles into the outer corner of my eye. With a long pinky fingernail, I rake it across the gelatinous periphery onto green, then pupil. Blink towards ragged vision. I need a new prescription, a new ambition. I have left all that behind today and feel as though I have gotten to the core of it. The awful molten core of it. The lonely core of everything. The eruption enough to say we run in the same circles, same friends, same parties, same favourite low-season vacation spots, but not close enough to say disaster and expect an answer, to say disaster is a friend of mine, disaster chose me. 91 92 - ottawater: 6.0 - ottawater: 6.0 KATRINA I must evacuate from the hurricane who shares my name and throws salt-garlanded limbs across swamp. Yanks sequins from dresses, stillness from air. Different spelling, same root. A pale hand hauling dense earth to bury itself calm. Love surges restless over warm ocean currents. Last girl at the party whirling layered lace skirts, flayed skin. Grinding crawfish husks between molars, spluttering out glass and wind. Keening as I button up my shirt, clink my keys. Pivot for a last glance at the banshee limp hair of live oaks rising and curling between dampening thighs. Found Art Tree stump on Dominion patio photo by: Tanya Sprowl 93 94 - ottawater: 6.0 ottawater: 6.0 - author biographies: Sylvia Adams is a poet, novelist, book reviewer and writing instructor. Her poetry collection, Sleeping on the Moon, was runner-up for the 2007 ScottLampman Award. John Barton has published eight books of poetry and five chapbooks, including West of Darkness: Emily Carr, a Self-Portrait (Penumbra 1987; republished by Beach Holme, 1999, and BuschekBooks, 2006), Great Men (Quarry, 1990), Notes toward a Family Tree (Quarry, 1993), Designs from the Interior (Anansi, 1994) Sweet Ellipsis (ECW, 1998), and Hypothesis (Anansi, 2001). Born in Edmonton and raised in Calgary, he has won a Patricia Hackett Prize (University of Western Australia), three Archibald Lampman Awards, an Ottawa Book Award, a CBC Literary Award, and a National Magazine Award. In 2008-2009, he was writer in residence at the Saskatoon Public Library. He lives in Victoria, where he edits The Malahat Review. Brick Books published Hymn, his ninth collection of poetry, in the fall of 2009. Sara Cassidy was born at Ottawa General in 1968, a happening for which her mother was given a fur coat by her father. Fond memories of growing up along the canal, hiding in the trees above the heads of NCC groundskeepers. Returned in her twenties, sleeping several nights in a tunnel under the Chateau Laurier. Also had an excellent - memorable! - bowl of goulash at a Bank Street restaurant. She’s had poems and fiction published in two chapbooks, Ultrasound of My Heart (Reference West) and Sardines (greenboathouse press) and in various publications, including Prairie Fire, The Malahat Review, Grain, The Fiddlehead, The Antigonish Review, and Geist. She now lives in Victoria BC. Michael Dennis is an Ottawa poet with several books to his credit, most recently Coming Ashore On Fire from Burnt Wine Press. Andrew Faulkner attended the University of Ottawa, where he co-founded Ottawa Arts Review. He now lives with Leigh Nash in Toronto where they run The Emergency Response Unit, a chapbook press. His most recent chapbook, Useful Knots and How to Tie Them, was shortlisted for the 2009 bpNichol Chapbook Award. Spencer Gordon lives in Toronto. His writing has appeared (or will appear) in publications like Joyland, echolocation, Broken Pencil, The Danforth Review, Bywords Quarterly Journal, The Frequent and Vigorous Quarterly, zaum, The Puritan, The Mansfield Revue, and in anthologies like Gulch: An Assemblage of Poetry and Prose (Tightrope Books 2009), Departures (above/ground 2008), experiment-o (AngelHousePress 2008), For Crying Out Loud: An Anthology of Poetry & Fiction (Ferno House 2009), and Dinosaur Porn (Emergency Response Unit/Ferno House 2010). He is one of the editors/founders of the new and improved The Puritan (www.puritan-magazine.com) and of the micro-press Ferno House (www.fernohouse. com). He blogs at http://dangerousliterature.blogspot.com. Gwendolyn Guth is an Ottawa writer, academic, college English professor and mother of three active sons. She has a Ph.D. from the University of Ottawa in nineteenth-century Canadian women’s writing. Her poetry has been published as broadsides by above/ground press and Rideau Review Press, and in Bywords, ottawater and yawp; her chapbook, The Flash of Longing (2000), can be viewed at www.fridaycircle.uottawa.ca Phil Hall was born in 1953 & raised on farms in the Kawarthas region of Ontario. Among his titles are: Homes (1979), Old Enemy Juice (1988), The Unsaid (1992), Hearthedral—A Folk-Hermetic (1996), An Oak Hunch (2005), & White Porcupine (2007). Trouble Sleeping (2000) was nominated for the Governor General’s Award for poetry, and An Oak Hunch was nominated for the Griffin Poetry Prize in 2006. In 2009, above/ground press produced his chapbook, Veralum. Over the years, Hall has collected two full decks of random playing cards from the streets, numerous albums of found photographs, & too many boxes of paper ephemera. He calls all this junk “The Pedestrian Archives.” He is learning to play clawhammer banjo. 95 96 - ottawater: 6.0 Marilyn Irwin wrote her first story when she was 6: “The Butyful Buterflys”. In 2007, Marilyn completed an on-line course with Algonquin College on the subject of Creative Writing. She attempts to illustrate perspective through poetry, song and, less feverishly, short fiction. A newish resident of Ottawa and appreciative member of many audiences of the multi-faceted poetry scene there, she has yet to see her own name in print.. A long-time Ottawa resident, Robyn Jeffrey now lives in Wakefield, Quebec. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The New Quarterly, Bywords and The Dalhousie Review. Her poetry has also appeared on CBC Radio’s Bandwidth. Anne Le Dressay has published two poetry collections, Old Winter (2007) and Sleep Is a Country (1997). She lives in Ottawa. In 1988, Louis Cabri and Rob Manery formed EWG and began organizing readings, talks, and performances at Gallery 101, SAW Gallery and ArtsCourt. In 1990, they launched hole magazine, which they continued to publish until 1996. Rob currently lives in Vancouver where he is pursuing a doctorate in education at Simon Fraser University. He is the author of It’s Not As If It Hasn’t Been Said Before (Tsunami Editions 2001). Karen Massey’s poetry has appeared in various Canadian literary publications and in anthologies including Shadowy Technicians: New Ottawa Poets (Broken Jaw Press, 2000), Decalogue: ten Ottawa poets (Chaudiere Books, 2006), and in her 2000 above/ ground press chapbook, Bullet. She received an MA in English Literature (Creative Writing) from Concordia University and her work has won national and local prizes including the Joker is Wild and Jane Jordan Poetry Competition. She and her partner live in Ottawa, where they work as artisans while busily parenting their two dynamic young sons, who were born at home on Thursdays, 21 months apart. ottawater: 6.0 - Marcus McCann is the author of Soft Where (Chaudiere Books, 2009) and seven chapbooks. He’s a winner of the John Newlove Award, the Rubicon Midwinter Chapbook contest and he was longlisted for the Robert Kroetsch Award for Innovative Poetry. After eight years in Ottawa, Marcus now lives in Toronto. Heather McLeod is an Ottawa writer who honed her craft in rob mclennan’s workshops. She has been published in Bywords Quarterly Journal and other chapbooks. She doesn’t get out much. Christian McPherson is the author of Six Ways to Sunday (Nightwood 2007) and Poems That Swim From My Brain Like Rats Leaving a Sinking Ship (Bayeux Arts 2008). He lives in Ottawa with his wife and two kids. Soraya Peerbaye is a poet living in Toronto. Her first collection, Poems for the Advisory Committee on Antarctic Names, was published by Goose Lane Editions. Richard Rathwell was born in Ottawa and raised first in Innisville and then on Hopewell Avenue. He schooled in Toronto and Vancouver. Richard’s day jobs were: anarchist, Stalinist, teacher and then development worker for two decades mainly in Africa. Richard presently lives most of the time in Southern France where there are many exiles. He sneaks back to Ottawa from time to time. Richard has been published in Ireland, the U.K., The U.S., Canada and Albania. He usually writes imagist poetry but lately has disagreed with everything. Peter Richardson was born in Norwalk, Connecticut, emmigrated to Canada in 1969, and for 25 years, ran around underneath airplanes at Mirabel and Trudeau airports. His most recent book is Sympathy For the Couriers, Véhicule Press. He lives in Gatineau. Janice Tokar lives in Ottawa, and has been a guest reader at The A B Series, Sasquatch, the Muses and, most recently, a reading hosted by above/ground press. She has been published in the Peter F. Yacht Club, in the Bywords Quarterly Journal and at Bywords.ca. 97 98 - ottawater: 6.0 Paul Tyler’s book A Short History of Forgetting will be appear in the Spring of 2010 with Gaspereau press. His poems recently appeared in Grain, Prism International, The Fiddlehead and The Minnesota Review. He works as a library reference assistant in Ottawa, and was on the editorial board of Arc Poetry Magazine from 2004-2008. Priscila Uppal is a Toronto poet, fiction and non-fiction writer, and academic born in Ottawa in 1974. Among her publications are five collections of poetry: How to Draw Blood From a Stone (1998), Confessions of a Fertility Expert (1999) Pretending to Die (2001) Live Coverage (2003) and Ontological Necessities (2006); all with Exile Editions; the critically-acclaimed novels The Divine Economy of Salvation (2002) and To Whom It May Concern (2009); both with Doubleday Canada; and the academic study, We Are What We Mourn: The Contemporary English-Canadian Elegy (2009) with McGill-Queen’s University Press. Her work has been published internationally and has been translated into Croatian, Dutch, Greek, Korean, Latvian, and Italian. Ontological Necessities was short-listed for the prestigious $50,000 Griffin Prize for Excellence in Poetry. She has an MA (University of Toronto) and a PhD in English Literature (York University) and is a professor of English at York University in Toronto. Forthcoming in 2009, as editor, are the books The Exile Book of Poetry in Translation: Twenty Canadian Poets Take On the World, and The Exile Book of Sports Stories. Forthcoming in 2010 are a selected poetry collection, Successful Tragedies, from Bloodaxe Books (U.K.), and a new poetry collection, Traumatology, from Exile Editions. She is an active participant in several arts committees and organizations, and is on the Board of Directors at the Toronto Arts Council. For more information please visit priscilauppal.ca Catriona Wright is a graduate student at the University of Toronto. Her work has appeared in various publications, such as Contemporary Verse 2, echolocation and The Ottawa Arts Review. She can be reached at [email protected] ottawater: 6.0 - 99
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