NORTH
Closeness of Being
Imagine a magnifying glass held over the sun.
Imagine me standing in a circle of burning light,
radiant in your image. Scratch that.
Imagine light reflecting or two people
in a schoolyard tossing a ball
between them, a steady rhythm, and it goes on forever.
Scratch that. Imagine how glorious
it could be for us to burn together. Imagine
an apartment, clean, cluttered with the detritus
of my life and yours. Your coffee in the cupboard
beside mine, our legs tangled together in new sheets.
Orange juice in the morning. Music on the radio.
A grocery list with two sets of handwriting
duetting like a symphony. Silences heavy
with the echo of laughter. I can tear up at the thought
of laundry, envisioning your clothes dancing with mine,
rubbing threadbare against each other. Can you imagine that?
The closeness of it? Picture the kitchen,
soaked with light. The bedroom
with two sets of books, a table stacked high with papers.
Yours mine ours. The socks, flying in the dryer,
bouncing off the sides in a steady rhythm
and it goes on forever.
- Zoë Brewerton
Nehaa Bimal
Thora Asudeh
First Contact
Wicked green
on the horizon, neon and
strange. For once, a new feeling of quickening
closeness. Something coming. And us,
small in the universe,
no longer alone.
- Zoë Brewerton
Careful Considerations
Maybe I could love you
Maybe I could have loved you
In another time and place
Where the pressure doesn’t drown
Either of us, but it lifts us up
Maybe it works out between us
When there is only the two of us
But not with the social world outside
Or maybe I’m deluding myself with this story
Instead of what it may be
That one of us didn’t truly love the other
As the other would have wanted
Or maybe they are all stories
Alternative paths to explain the same endings
In which nothing works out in the end
In which we let go of each other’s hands
- Mariana Neyens
Early Pandemic Poems: Ottawa
I watch outside my opened window
To bare streets and lonely figures
In a city where the mechanical ticking has all but stopped
Where a common fear has touched all hearts
We all hold our breaths together
As the quietness of the storm hits with force
And we're stuck at windows and doors
Hoping that the worse will pass over our towns
And they say that our fate lies
In our ability to keep physically apart
To risk not a sigh, not a touch
From anyone that doesn't breath under the same house
So all I can do is watch
As anxieties rise and people fall
From my open window, to a silenced town
Waiting for this all to end
- Mariana Neyens
From the Summer (Rap)
To be truthful, don't clearly know
When the smoke clears
Where things stand at all
After these nights with heartbroken crowds
Protesting against a violence that builds
Reflecting after a thousand of tears
Collecting in jars for numerous years
Where do we fight when the crowds just go home
What do we do to stop coming at all?
And I hear, I listen to all that’s been said
As those demand justice again and again
But I fear time is all that we need
Conversations from the young to the unique
To go down where honesty lives, hears and breathes
To find where racism grows so deep
And to realize that for some men
It fights in between truth, shame, equality
So to tackle things that’ve been entrenched
Where should we start, the government or our head
The police or our thoughts, the school or our doubts
In explicit acts or implicit thoughts
Is this a step for something that’s fought
Under generations, spilling the same blood
Bringing some light as we continue on
Giving and growing new chances for some
Is this our culture, to clash and resist
Talk about diversity with hatred within
What should these statues come to represent
Should we confront our history again
All shall be built on blood, tears and sweat
Solving an unsolvable issue as of yet
As we sustain, some questions take shape
How do we move forward in this cityscape
- Mariana Neyens
lovesick, Émilie Mireault
rainy day kwe
a rainy day on lake superior:
we look out at the water
through the fogged glass window
shaped like a triangle
shaped like a home.
Giizhaagin – I tell
you I love you in my own
language. It is ok
that we don’t share all
of the same words, you will learn
quickly when I hold
your hand. have I
ever told you that you have
a heart of gold?
can I bring you to the lake
and show you where my ancestors walked?
I just want an old book,
warm blankets and to be
in your arms.
its cold but I know
I will feel so safe with you,
the lake will sing us to sleep
and you warm me up
like cedar tea.
- Shaylin Allison
for marjorie #2
I cannot promise
that I know anything more
than I did in the
winter. all I know
now is everything you
have not said to me
and the way you cut
your hair in February.
the only time I
have heard you speak in
years is in my dreams, you
come back and wish to
remember every
thing about me. I paint
over all of the
parts that remind me
how it hurt even in
my sleep to hold on
to someone who will
always be far away,
so I travel
everywhere even though I am scared of everything,
you travel further north to forget about me.
now every time I go home I drive north too,
towards the big lake.
I search for you in jack pine trees,
the ones you wanted to get tattooed when we were seventeen
you could be anywhere,
but mostly I wish you were searching for me.
- Shaylin Allison
Anastasia’s Hands
Anastasia’s hands are made of gold,
they wrap around my fingers and
make promises.
they sing gentle
hymns about my hips and
what it would be like to spend the morning
together, they share dresses and cardigans.
Anastasia’s hands are made
of silk, they wrap around
my hair and hold me
until I fall asleep.
Anastasia’s hands
are made of sunlight, they kiss
my forehead, they pinch
my cheeks until
they’re red; I’m almost crying.
Anastasia’s hands would never lie
to me, they write
me love letters and whisper
their favourite
songs and stories.
Anastasia’s hands
hum overgrown goodbyes, they leave
in the morning, but then they press together
tightly and pray
that morning never comes.
Anastasia’s hands tell me secrets,
they’re made of satin,
but they’re wrapped in plastic.
Anastasia said she’d leave him, she said that
I am too special and the way I see
the world proves that magic is real, but that doesn’t change
our city, or the looks on the faces
of our friends.
Anastasia said
she’d kiss me, she said she’d tell her mother
we’re more than friends.
- Shaylin Allison
Orange, Émilie Mireault
Thora Asudeh
Markham: An Acrostic Exploration
More time had passed than I thought. The streets and houses were empty, and it was not at all what I expected. It felt like I was looking at nothing, but at one time, this had been everything. A passer-by called in my direction, “Whatever you’re looking for, it isn’t here.” At least, not anymore. I walked until I saw what I needed to see: a child walking on the icy ground, holding on to a world that wanted to slip away. I was lost, but I was not afraid. This wasn’t my place anymore.
August was coming. A time of change and stagnation. Lia was turning thirteen, but she still felt twelve. Or eleven. What does it mean to get older, anyway? When she moved to Markham, it had been August for thirty days, which meant Lia had been eight years old for the same amount of time. She and August always aged together until, just as suddenly as August had come, it was over. August never knows what will happen in September, and maybe that’s for the better. When she was younger, Lia tried to celebrate August 30th, but it felt more like celebrating the death of a friend. This year, she decided to let the tide of August carry her wherever it wanted her to go.
“Rabbits have to be careful if we want to survive in this world.” That’s what my mother tells me. “Always keep your eyes and ears open for signs of danger.” I haven’t seen any danger yet, and Mom says I should always be prepared. But I’m more than ready — it sounds really exciting! We live under a huge piece of wood next to some yummy plants. Sometimes, we have to hide under the wood when we hear booming sounds above. I think they’re the giants, but Mom keeps saying the giants aren’t real. I know they’re real, and they don’t always want rabbits like us around. But we’re staying around.
Keeping time is harder than it seems. It slips out of your perfectly good pockets, floats away from your cupped hands. You can’t keep it in a cage or pack it away in a box. How long has it been since I’ve gotten here? When I try to remember, I always go back in time. Remembering one thing makes me remember what happened before, like living my life again in reverse. Things don’t seem real when they’re not happening anymore, so I try to reanimate them. I go back and forth between the events that have happened, while time slips further and further away. I know I need to move forward again. I think it’s time.
“Hello, rabbit!” That’s what I say to the rabbit, but I don’t think it hears me. If it could hear me, it might just run away. There are a lot of cute rabbits in Markham, like the one in my backyard and the one in my classroom. The rabbit in my backyard is nibbling on our garden plants. My parents wouldn’t like that, but how could they not like something so adorable? The rabbit in my classroom nibbles on newspaper and carrot tops and sometimes we have to clean up after him. I like my Grade Four class. I haven’t been able to take home the rabbit yet, but now I have one in my backyard! I hope it likes our plants.
August was the longest month. That’s what it felt like to break the pattern of the months, to have 31 days after 31 days of July. Longer still was the time it waited every year for its moment of glory. When it came, people found all kinds of reasons to dislike August: the heat, the end of summer, the way it seemed to drag on forever. August didn’t know about Aurelia, the girl named for the golden rays of the sun. August didn’t know it reminded her of where she had been and where she would go. She had moved to a new city, but August was always the same. The only thing that ever changed was the people in it, year after year.
Memories have a way of letting the past bleed into the present. I remember everyone who has been here, lived in my houses, and walked on my streets. Sometimes they come back searching for a lost connection, but there’s nothing I can offer them. A wanderer passes by who cannot see me. You left me when you were a child, like so many of your friends. Do you still know them? I should ask Markham how you’ve been these past ten years. But for now, you should leave and return home, to the place where you can see clearly.
- Austina Yu
Pop Art Juice Fridge, Claire French
The Moon
The Moon shines, I stare up
Letting her white light onto my face.
She stands alone in the sky, alone like me,
yet crowded by stars.
From the ground, snowflakes mix with stars,
but the Moon only sees stars
because snow does not fall on her rocky surface.
I wonder what it must be like to know such clarity.
Me and the Moon stick together on this cold night.
I could send a beam of light to the Moon
knowing she will never notice it, but I try nonetheless.
And I am right, she might never (truly) see it.
Never know how hard it was to find a light that bright,
or to track the weather so the clouds didn’t get in my way.
If she sees anything in the end,
it will only be a small sparkle,
no bigger than the millions of stars she sees around her every night
or the countless lights emanating out from here.
Only a twinkle in her eye
as I struggle under the weight of effort and understanding
that this is the truth.
The Moon is always there.
Well,
always existent but not (always) present.
I like to think that she thinks of me
While she blesses Earth with her blue craters
that overflow with an imaginary glow
and mythologies from her beloved fans.
She is the muse of poets, religions, artists,
and people like me
who miss their friends.
People like me
who can’t stop thinking about someone
(who is not made of rugged rock and craters).
- Sadie Badour
me+the moon, Sadie Badour
An Outline of Love
When starting out you’ll choose a spot that’s neither high or low;
You’re aiming for the middle where there’s room for you to grow.
You put your pen to paper and predict what lies ahead,
But lines are tricky, changing fate is harder done than said.
The parabolic curve will reach its peak and start to turn,
The hyperbolic feelings that had led you there will learn
To leave the point of origin and end up somewhere new,
Then start again, connect the ends, and flip the path you drew.
It might not be a function mathematically defined,
And nothing is symmetrical however hard we try,
But just two points will form a shape with lines allowed to bend,
Two mirrored question marks without the dots that mark their ends.
What started out so simply has become a work of art;
The path for love is now complete – that’s how you draw a heart.
- Austina Yu
Sketches, Emilie Mireault
Cottage Ghost Stories
A night breeze blows.
I wasn't alone, but I am now.
My feet dangle in the water above the catfish,
floating beneath me
as my consciousness floats away
into the dark night of crickets and mosquitos, of
cows wandering the fields across the river,
of a weightless pressure on my back
telling me to look back at the wolf,
to stare into her yellow eyes.
the same feeling I get at night here
under a warm quilt
when suddenly it's too quiet,
everyone has fallen asleep.
the desire to open my eyes,
though I know nothing will be there
except the warm glow of the hallway light.
but sometimes there's a shadow on the wall that
I hadn't noticed before,
or the clatter of forks
from the dark kitchen at 2 am.
Across the river the forest stands in black clumps, no
lights except a dim glow from very far away. Closer to
my damp dock
where I sit tethered to the bank,
a wolf howls.
- Sadie Badour
Barron Canyon Canoe Trip, Erin Wai
sylph (or, three nights of wanting all and none of you)
I.
upon the wing of a bird called desire
the wand’ring mind does flutter here and there.
When intellect and sense is called a liar,
the honest Want reveals itself in stare.
The gaze is quickly veiled when in daylight
A lover seeks to silently entice,
but when the silver star glistens at night
the brush of lips on skin burns hot as ice.
Opulence on the right, and to the left
lay promises of naught, and empty truths.
Yet I care not if my heart’s left bereft!
Moonlight reveals the tragedy of youth.
The featherlight embrace of secret touch
prevents the fretful mind of thought too much.
II.
Why is it that alone, within my head,
your eyes shine brighter than they ought to do.
Explain how when I’m with you I’m not lead
to believe words you say are at all true.
By day you are someone I do not know,
and yet at night I crave only your touch.
Your kiss brings weakness which I cannot show,
your friendship I don’t think is more than such.
A memory, a photograph, is sure
to riddle me with heartsickness and stain
of blood into my cheeks; So, I concur
that wanting you at all brings only pain.
And yet I lie and wait for that caress,
in petulance – or spite – of all the mess.
III.
As light as the sylph’s wing, and as discreet
as silence is the feel of your sweet lips
upon that place where neck and shoulder meet.
By moonlight, we drift near as if two ships
together on the sea – but never close
until the moment fate does do us in.
And but for Fate I think my sense does know
It’s not like me to let you touch this skin.
And yet each morn I long that you were near
e’er since that one in which you held my gaze
for hours which, like moments, disappeared,
when laid bare, silent, in moontinted haze.
O lover, where art thou? Why not with me?
(because, my dear, what fun would this then be?)
- Maeve McMahon
Jennie, Kathleen Gant
18/10/20
The turning, turning of the twisted core.
Eyes do not lie vacant for wanting;
Hands grab for matter to mold.
O you who knock -
The beating of the thumb,
the crashing on the cliff -
Who do you cry out to?
Who is the lemon lover with the chaff-soft skin?
Who is the heart that heaves and roves and retches?
Who finds the magpie - with her sparkling eye,
Her glinting slick, her chasing force -
And holds the sky
For her to grace,
For her to roam,
For her to paint with the fullness of her song?
- Victoria Welland
Early Morning Hike by Erin Wai
17/10/20
Carpet of leaves
The tears of being set free
From the heat of the sun’s delay.
It clung to you,
River of wood
Memory of earth,
That pigment so forced.
We all carry within us
The pull of the short embrace,
Seeds and roots of quiet knowing.
And the season meets us all
To release,
To fall silently to the floor of our making.
The light bursts on still
Though the threads weave bare.
And alone,
The guitar man is playing for free.
- Victoria Welland
melancholy, Kathleen Gant
Things that haunt me
i. sleep is a monster seeking to devour me,
it is easier to breathe with the night, eyes wide open, as I watch the moon grows in my palm,
and I forget about the war, the ghosts of my past selves claiming my body as inheritance
ii. i am talking about the sun again, sinking my teeth in the light ‘till I drown.
People call me the sun sometimes, I smile and clutch my pocketful of shadow,
and pray it doesn’t leak on the pavement
iii. my bedroom is half-refuge, half-cage
iv. some days, I wish to pack the air out my lungs in a suitcase and wander the earth, lifeless and free, where nothing is expected of me
- Dominique Gené
Never my name
I’ve seen love in many forms -
Of hands, weathered with age and care, brushing away a strand of hair
Of folded sheets, crisp laundry, and clean pressed clothing
Of food placed in chipped glass plates and mismatched chopsticks
I’ve seen love-
As kisses stolen in a washroom stall
As hands intertwined, hidden from disgust filled eyes
As an oversized sweater, fitting just right
I’ve seen love -
With passed notes and messy doodles
With a challenging smirk and a reassuring pat
With small trinkets, handmade gifts, and knowing just what’s the right fit
I’ve heard love in many forms -
Of pride in a single, simple statement that reassures so much
Of stories unravelled with a creaking voice but never ending patience
Of disciplining words, paired with an unconditionally caring tune
I’ve heard love -
As flippant and teasing remarks, ones that can change any colour to a blushing red
As worried inquiries, absent-minded gaze, and a furious bout of google searching symptoms
As clear professions, whispered confessions, and tear filled rejections
I’ve heard love -
With a groan; two parts annoyance and one part good humour
With a scolding tone to take better care and stop making reckless choices
With laughter, laughter, and more belly-aching laughter until doubled over and turning purple
I’ve felt love in many forms -
Of a hand, the most stable and strong, placed over a feverish brow
Of a broad back and steady shoulders, where even the smallest feels like they can challenge the mountains
Of secure arms wrapped around that even the strongest hurricane cannot tear down
I’ve felt love -
As a tensed knee, shyly brushing against another
As sweaty fingers clasped tightly together, embarrassed and awkward
As featherlight lips, a timid step into a vast and unknown exploration
I’ve felt love -
With the tight hugs, enough promise to meet again
With jokingly thrown punches and jesting shoves
With a birthday cake bought with leftover pieces of change
I am in love with the concept of love.
Of its promises, its dreams, and all of its false means
Of its idea of a gold filled fairy tale ending.
But I’ve also seen the destruction Love leaves in its wake
It’s a cruel lover, taking and choosing whatever catches its eye and fancy, disappearing when karma comes knocking to collect its payment
I’ve seen love broken in many forms -
Of anger hazed eyes, full of disappointment
As fidgeting fingers and an inability to meet the gaze
With a broken promise and venomous words exchanged over a screen
I’ve heard love broken in many forms -
Of shouting, screaming, arguments like wildfire burning the remains of a broken household
As apologies, im sorrys, and regrets that leave a chasm carving so deep it’s left feeling empty
With inadequacies laid bare, the darkest secrets spilling out as weapons to maim
I’ve felt love broken in many forms -
Of a harsh slap leaving a stinging imprint and much more that can’t be seen
As slammed doors and a hole in the wall
With the pain of being ignored, sharper than any physical harm can do at all
I am in love with the concept of love.
Of its promises, its dreams, and all of its false means
But I am also afraid, oh so deathly afraid -
As Love is only for the strong and the brave
The lion-hearted warriors, the ones with faith, the ones who will never stray.
But the temptations, the fruit, the wayward paths will befall me -
A dreamer, a hope-er, a wisher for all things beautiful,
A weakling, a miser, and quite simply just -
A coward.
Love is only for the strong and the brave -
Both of which are never, may never, be my name.
- Anonymous
The Uptrack
The Rocky Mountain sky was a beautiful azure blue—a ‘bluebird’ day the locals called it. Billions upon billions of new-fallen snow crystals were resting on the deep snowpack of Nub Peak. They were glistening like diamonds on its pristine slopes, and called out to us: “come play!” Nub Peak, approximately 4 kilometres from our basecamp, was our objective for the day. The morning air was crisp and breath-taking—vice breathtaking 😋—as we prepared for our departure: food—check; water—check; avalanche rescue equipment—check; attitude—check. You could feel the nervous excitement and sense the energy emanating from the team. Along with some residual fatigue. Our Outward Bound for Veterans team had been backcountry skiing Mount Assiniboine Provincial Park in British Columbia’s Rocky Mountains for two full days, and as exhilarating as it was, it was also exhausting. We were operating at mountain elevations, and our collective and individual physical conditioning had noticeably deteriorated since our military days. Some of us were physically injured at war: all of us were suffering mental injuries (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)) from the same inhuman experience. It had become my/our new culture, our ‘new’ identity. Fortunately, something happened to me that ‘bluebird’ day on Nub Peak that changed my perverse perspective on my injury; and it happened on the uptrack.
I use ‘blessed’ as an apt retrospective descriptor of my injury; however, it wasn’t always so. As you know, for 34+ years I was a Canadian soldier proudly serving my country with my countrymen/women around the world. But that identity, that culture that I had lived, breathed and proudly wore was gone, destroyed by my war in Afghanistan. I had traded my uniform for an existential emptiness, and I was living a life of failure, guilt and shame that I continually breathed. I was the living embodiment of PTSD: PTSD was ME! It was my new cultural identity. As it was with my comrades around me on that expedition.
With sealskins attached to the bases of our skis and our bindings set for Nordic trekking, we departed base camp. Over the next three hours we trudgingly traversed Alpine fields and forests of Lodgepole Pine, winding our way ever upward through valleys and over ridgelines. Inquisitive ravens and chattery gray jays tracked us as we moved through their territory. We experienced the stillness of our winterland, and the beating of our hearts. In this moment we suddenly broke through the protective forest onto the barren treeless slopes we had admired hours earlier. As we commenced our uptrack, the view was breathtaking.
Ahhh…the uptrack: some consider it to be the necessary pain before the pleasure. In our case, that pleasure was skiing the deep powder-snow bowls that radiated outward from the summit. It certainly was physically challenging; however, on this day our zig-zag single track upward felt easy to me. It was impossible not to gaze in amazement at the natural majesty that enveloped us. 3618 metre Mount Assiniboine, sacred to the Blackfoot/Niitsitapi tribes whose lands we were on, stood loftily to our south, dwarfing the other mountains.
And so, in this idyllic natural environment I resumed a conversation with Lenka, one of our backcountry guides, that we had in front of a fire the night before. The conversation was about one of our favourite poets and authors, Irishman John O’Donohue (if you haven’t experienced John O’Donohue, please consider looking at his book To Bless the Space Between Us and his other brilliant writings, or listen to his On Being interview with Krista Tippett). What better time and setting for such ethereal discourse, which centred upon O’Donohue’s Anam Cara (1996), and the concept of ‘soul friend’ within Celtic spirituality. As I internalized the discussion it struck me that O’Donohue’s ‘soul friend,’ his ‘anam cara,’ was not of this world: he was not referring to another person. To me, O’Donohue’s ‘anam cara’ was the Divine—God! Our/my soul friend was God. Instantly, I felt an expansive cosmic connectedness that I had never experienced before. In that moment, I was immersed in the Divine! No: the Divine was within me, it was me, I was it. It was to be. What an epiphany.
We eventually completed our uptrack onto Nub Peak. After catching my breath, I stripped off my skins, adjusted my binding and boot settings, and launched down the elevator shaft that is deep, deep powder-snow skiing, floating in space as my enlightened body swayed left and right to the rhythm within me. It was magnificent, far exceeding any experience I had had before in my life. It was spiritual connectedness. Mount Assiniboine, and her nurturing nature over the land, had offered up her blessing to me and Ireceived it with open arms. In Gaia’s magical embrace, I was different, I had grown; and it was good. My PTSD-cultural identity had shifted positively from negative to positive. Oh that uptrack!
- Rob Martin
Claire French
I Hope You Find Love for the Earth
If the sunflower bowed her head to the moon
Would you turn yours to her?
If she bloomed in winter and her petals fell alongside snowflakes
Would you catch them with your tongue?
If she could sing as delicately as she surrendered her seeds
Would you listen to her tune?
If she could dance beyond the wind’s puppeteering
Would you sway along with her?
If you understood all her complexities
Could you love her?
- Rhea Chopra
Until You
i never wanted to be a love poet
never saw the appeal of writing about love
when it could change in an instant
leaving you as strangers who knew each other in another time
i never wanted to be a love poet
hurt by love too many times to think i knew what love was
never wanting to go through that pain again
i never wanted to be a love poet
until i met you
i had a hard time believing in love
until i met you
to think
we just missed each other time and time before
leaving in a rush after a game
switched out of class at summer school only to end up in a class with your friends
and still had no idea who you were
just missing each other each time
i never really believed in love before you
it was hard to believe that there was someone
somewhere out there
meant just for me
seemed impossible
it still seems surreal
i never wanted to be a love poet
until i saw my new favourite colour in your eyes
until i heard you laugh and i knew joy
until i saw your smile and prayed it never faded
until i held your hand and knew mine was made for yours
until you held me and my pain began healing
i never wanted to be a love poet
until you
you made it so easy
so easy to understand love
so easy to know love
so easy to fall in love
more and more each day
i’ve never wanted to be a love poet
until we kissed and the world faded away
and i knew love for the first time
and i know it more each day
with you
- Olivia Barrett
Angel Xing
I want a love like fire
One that hurts and cuts deep
Burning so hot and bright you cannot
Look directly at it.
I want a love that feels like rain after a drought
One I can soak up after the thirst and pain and dark
Letting it feed me,
Keep me safe and warm and filled.
I want a love that is whole.
Not scraps from the table
To be settled for, scavenged
Left as conciliations and compromises
To quiet the hunger.
I want a love that is big
Beautiful,
Sustaining,
And complete
-- AA
Laura Blanchette
Laura Blanchette
As We Part
May you remember what power a poet can sow,
May your heart never ache, your mind continue to grow,
May your feet bear the weight so you can stride on,
May your lungs sing the mightiest songs.
May you earn all you yearn for,
find the love in all truth,
May you know as we part here,
that I am rooting for you.
Although we move onward
and find new places to roam,
I am glad to have known you,
and to have called this place home.
- Charlotte Rahme
Victoria Welland
Paintings and Portraits
In the museum, the queen turned and gasped,
A horrid portrait! With such lines and mass,
“I demand it burned!”
But bright red she turned,
For it was no painting but looking glass.
Know it All
Richard hushed Mary as he gripped the spoon,
He claimed all that she said, he already knew.
He took a gulp from the pot,
And he died on the spot!
Mary sighed, “there was hemlock in the stew.”
Red
The king mocked the lonely soldier with red hair,
And he boasted his new wife was by far the most fair.
Yet she was forlorn,
Soon a baby was born!
But had fiery locks that the king did not share!
- Charlotte Rahme
Skylight, Victoria Welland
The Spot
There is a spot of sky.
You have to turn and lean and face
the brick wall,
but just behind the scorched corner,
there is a spot.
I know because I searched the clouds
I looked past the wires and vines and rust.
My yellowed fingers -
no, the purple nails held the smooth
and I found the spot.
And I, my buzzing eyes, held the blue
And the cold wind held my arm
And said,
“The earth will turn, and you, small spot, will move with it.”
- Victoria Welland
Sling
You are a sling
One that carries a baby or a broken arm,
that pulls in close what it holds dearest.
The light would fade; the darkness would descend
And we let it envelop us
Like the orchid that blooms in the night
Like the jewel thief,
searching for a precious gem
Which lay at the heart of the guarded dwelling.
A hum has always called me
A slow sound from my core has always called me
It rings out like church bells; like battle trumpets.
The eve is always nigh, the day always forgotten.
I know what it is to be untethered
To float through the air and watch,
as the birds and leaves swirl around
as the people walking about disappear
before I can see their face.
I became deaf,
Drowned in the sounds of broken strings
that tied me to the earth.
I never wanted to be bound, only held
in one’s eyes.
Behind that pale blue door
You walked on water
Your voice pierced through the veil
It beckoned me out of the boat
And I had no fear, for I knew my steps
would mirror yours.
Now I know what it is to float and stand firm
To be slung across your chest
To be still
And to feel another’s heart beat.
- Victoria Welland
Spiderman, Kathleen Gant
The New Normal
In common with everyone in Canada and around the globe, my life came to a screeching halt on March 12, 2020. The COVID-19 Pandemic was ramping up its bitter onslaught, and I chose not to go into the University for classes the following day. Indeed, I was in such a panic that I forgot to remove my belongings from my locker as I simply rushed home as quickly as possible. For me, it was a simple decision. I had no compelling reason to mingle with hundreds of students on a tightly-packed campus. I was attending University solely for my enjoyment with no undue sense of loss of a potential career if I failed all my classes for 2020. As it turned out, I missed only one day as the campus was formally closed for the rest of the academic year from the following Monday. Our classes continued on-line, with many of the end-of-year examinations in the “take-home” open-book format, meaning there was only a final due date for their completion. Our Music Professor did an admirable job of continuing our lectures and we all took advantage of the opportunity she gave us to receive bonus marks if we gave a presentation to the entire class. Once at home, my attention remained focused on my studies, using on-line resources and the dozen or so library books that I had borrowed, until I could breathe a huge sigh of relief as I completed my last end-of-year examination for my third-year courses on April 25.
During those six weeks, my life at home was fraught with anxiety. Fortunately, I have delightful neighbours who did my shopping for me, and I had many wonderful Zoom conversations with friends and family. All my regularly scheduled group meetings are now conducted online, giving an added sense of companionship in a secure environment.
As summer approached, I had a welcome bonus. On each side of me, there is a family with young children so there has been a constant stream of high-pitched chatter and laughter. My house is located directly on the bank of the Rideau River and this summer the number of small craft of all shapes and sizes has increased exponentially. The water is a veritable hive of activity, with a multitude of human-powered craft that has never come into this area in the previous twenty years, and I join them most days at a discrete distance. Long-distance swimmers with flotation devices attached to their waists come through in the early morning. There are stand-up paddleboards, plastic canoes and kayaks, and an assortment of inflatable dinghies in all manner of shapes including pink flamingoes and white swans. Later in the afternoon and on weekends, anchors are thrown from small motorboats, and hordes of water enthusiasts are hollering, and their sun-screened glistening bodies come tumbling out to splash and play in the water. One advantage of all this activity is that the Captains of the Sea-doo Personal Watercraft who usually like to do wheelies are more sedate, for fear of harming someone.
In my self-imposed isolation, I can look out of my windows and observe this feverish activity as though I am constantly participating in it. It is comforting to know that humanity can continue to find enjoyment safely even in these harrowing times. In the back of my mind, though, is the knowledge that, in a few short weeks, the weather will subtly change. That inviting, free-flowing water will inexorably turn to a bleak, snow-covered mass of ice. I am confident, however, that residents will find other leisure activities as they return to work and school.
I welcome the decision that the University has stipulated that all lectures and discussions for the 2020-2021 school year will be held on-line, and I have already registered for my classes in each of the Fall and Winter semesters. I am truly saddened to know that I won’t be participating in the usual hustle and bustle and bright smiles as we students jostled to find our places in the lecture halls. Nor will there be those impromptu brief discussions with the lecturers, seeing their eyes light up as their students plied them with questions. However, I take comfort in knowing that I will keep myself occupied by turning inward, to my mind, to my studies, to my home, to my computer, and to the on-line voices and faces of my fellow students and friends. For me, this will blunt somewhat the stark reality of, once again, seeing and hearing no-one outside my windows.
But I am resilient. I will find my way into the new normal and whatever it brings.
- Jenny Murphy
Craft Arts
Quilts by Jenny Murphy
Pine Trees, Georgia Callahan
Cherry Blossoms, Georgia Callahan
The New Death Mask of Agamemnon, Ben Skene