Reading Sharon Olds

The Eye

My bad grandfather wouldn’t feed us.
He turned the lights out when we tried to read.
He sat alone in the invisible room
in front of the hearth, and drank. He died
when I was seven, and Grandma had never once
taken anyone’s side against him,
the firelight on his red cold face
reflecting extra on his glass eye.
Today I thought about that glass eye,
and how at night in the big double bed
he slept facing his wife, and how the limp
hole, where his eye had been, was open
towards her on the pillow, and how I am
one-fourth him, a brutal man with a
hole for an eye, and one-fourth her,
a woman who protected no one. I am their
sex, too, their son, their bed, and
under their bed the trap-door to the
cellar, with its barrels of fresh apples, and
somewhere in me too is the path
down to the creek gleaming in the dark, a
way out of there.

Sharon Olds, from The Dead and the Living

. . . . .

sunny, but wind

Now it’s sun on the face.
Now it’s wind in the ear.
Cold going, walking in the shade,
sweating by the time I get anywhere.
. . . . .

first spring rain

The first spring rain hangs in the air
grey as dog hair floating the hallway.
In the park, the ice is ruined,
like smashed honeydew rinds.
. . . . .

a few beers

A vernissage beer turned into
Two ‘let’s meet for a drink’ beers.
Which led to another beer with dinner.
And then I met up with some friends.
Big guys, buying round after round.
By the end of the night I was a full bottle behind.
In the morning I found a steak knife in my purse.
I guess we went to a restaurant after.
At least the knife was clean.
. . . . .

I dreamt of duels

I dreamt of gunfights. Not Wild Western ones.
More gentlemanly, more strategic. Duels.

I was a second in a fight to the death.
But I wandered off to shop for belts.

Not gentlemanly at all of me.
The belts were Western ones.
. . . . .

far off projects

I have been writing grant applications.
Descriptions of projects in far off countries.
Summer in the States, winter in Warsaw.
I wish those two were the other way around.
. . . . .

equally thin

Today I wore a wool blazer instead of a coat.
My coat is a hand-me-down, the ex of an ex.
The blazer is a hand-me-down too,
but it at least, was hand tailored.

I walked ten blocks in un-broken-in boots.
I wore jeans so new they dyed my legs blue.
My first pair of new jeans this millennium.
I bought my last pair of new boots in 1996.

It’s not like I came into money or anything.
I had to take a temp job so I could pay for it all.
And not because I was tired of the old stuff either.
All at once everything I owned wore equally thin.
. . . . .

first day of spring

The first day of spring,
and it looks like it too.
Fresh footprints in the backyard snow.
A bird or two in the bare branches.
The heater's turned down to medium.
The laundry's hanging out on the line.
. . . . .

cross-platform dreams

A morning of metaphoric dreams.
Saw people I hadn’t seen in ages.
They were themselves, but more so.
I helped a self-absorbed friend set up -
she was late for her own vernissage.
A nomadic friend and I forded a river -
she was living in a field. Next door:
A minimalist friend turned antique dealer.
Ray Charles bought a plate from her.
Her prices were high and I wondered:
Where had she been hiding all that stuff?
Then I reviewed the dream for usability,
cross-browser, cross-platform compatibility.
Disappointed with IE for Macintosh, I woke up.
. . . . .

sun at the door

The dog paces the apartment.
Toenails clicking he whines at the door.
He knows there’s no one there.
He wants the pool of sun in the landing.
. . . . .

one ticket bus tour

Took a one ticket bus tour:
Cote Sainte-Catherine
to Cote des Neiges,
Sainte-Catherine to Parc.
Met a surgeon, went to the library,
Bought two pairs of jeans,
three used books, soap,
dish soap, and cotton balls.
All my errands in on afternoon,
but did them round about,
because it’s sunny out.
. . . . .

spring-like

I went out yesterday, because everyone said it was spring-like.
The alleyways were full of slush but the dog shit hadn’t melted yet.
Wind wore through my thin spring-like scarf, and I forgot my gloves.
My hands turned raw-red carrying the too-heavy grocery bags home.
Maybe when everyone says summer-like it will really feel like spring.
. . . . .

Charlie's Angels Hair

The birthday girl had her breasts taped
into a brand new sky-blue backless number.
Everyone just wanted to be near her.
Two film-set fans blew across the dance floor:
a writhing wind tunnel of Charlie’s Angels hair.
I saw a guy I used to know, semi-Biblically,
(Psalms? Sticky palms. We were on our knees anyway).
The girls got good and sweaty, and stuck together.
The guys circled, watched, and got (almost) nothing.
And at the end of the night the birthday girl said:
Really, I couldn’t have asked for more.
. . . . .

Reading Anne-Marie MacDonald

“If you move around all your life, you can’t find where you come from on a map. All those places where you lived are just that: places. You don’t come from any of them; you come from a series of events. And those are mapped in memory. Contingent, precarious events, without the counterpane of place to muffle the knowledge of how unlikely we are. Almost not born at every turn. Without a place, events slow-tumbling through time become your roots. Stories shading into one another. You come from a plane crash. From a war that brought your parents together.”
Anne-Marie MacDonald, As The Crow Flies, Toronto: Knopf, 2003. page 36.
. . . . .

Back Alley Barking

A back alley dog is barking.
One bark every two seconds.
What is he barking at?
A flashing sign?
A pendulum?
. . . . .

Not Enough

Spring is near, but not enough
to breathe warmth down our necks.
The days are getting longer, but
there is still only winter in them.
. . . . .

Still Reading Rilke

Rilke says:
"Do not let yourself be misled by outward appearances; in the depths everything becomes law."
From "Letters to a Young Poet" July 16th 1903.
. . . . .

How to Win the Raffle

Even in blowing snow.
Go out anyway.
Don’t stay in.

Take a chance.
Think: It’s a good cause.
Buy the last ticket.

Cross fingers, arms and legs.
Allow for hope to enter.
Let it sink in.
. . . . .

March Snow

Frozen snow falls diagonally,
an off the shoulder gown
whiter then my winter skin
brighter than the sky.

The back balcony sets sail,
a ship’s prow jutting out
over a swirl of deep-sea nothing,
bad weather to make decisions in.
. . . . .

Reading Rilke

Rilke writes:
"Nobody can advise and help you, nobody."
The best advice I've had in ages.
But hey, don't listen to me.
. . . . .

Only in Montréal

The 5 á 7 started at 6PM.
At half past nine
the guest of honour
raided the host’s fridge.
By eleven we had
sit-down dinner for ten.
Home by one.
. . . . .

The Scenic Route

An old friend came in from out of town.
We walked down the wind-licked esplanade.
I left the ice-free side of sidewalk to him.
“You’re a good walker,” he said.
Dogs passed, pulling their owners toward the park.
“This is the scenic route,” I explained.
Noon caught in the teeth of grey high trees.
Each in our own clip-on sunglasses,
We squinted at different tints of bright.
. . . . .

a cotton ball night

Woolly gusts out there.
We sleep in a heap.
A regular woodpile.
Snore-sawing logs.
. . . . .

New Snow

Big new flakes fall all over themselves.
Flowerboxes grow white moustaches.
Clotheslines sag, fat as sausages.
Tonight, the forecast turns mean.
. . . . .

Still reading Ovid

Ovid turns many men to birds and beasts.
But mostly women, it seems, make like trees and leave.

Daphne, fleeing Phoebus, wind flowing in her dress,
“Called ‘Father, if your waters still hold charms
to save your daughter, cover with green earth
This body I wear too well,” and as she spoke
A soaring drowsiness possessed her; growing
In earth she stood, which thighs embraced by climbing
Bark, her white arms branches, her fair head swaying
In a cloud of leaves; all that was Daphne bowed
In the stirring of the wind, the glittering green
Leaf twined within her hair and she was laurel.”

Dryope did not ask for her tree-grown prison.
She picked a bright lotus at the stilled edges of a lake.
A cursed flower, the body of another chased woman,
Lotis, who turned to plant to escape naughty Priapus.
Dryope turned to run, but “her feet were caught,
Held into earth and grass, and as she swayed,
Only her arms and shoulders were swung free.
Rough bark crept up her legs, her thighs,
And as she felt it creep, she tore her hair,
Only to find her fingers full of leaves.”
A lotus tree her last fair disguise, she pleads:
“Let neither steel nor tooth break though these boughs,
nor senseless cattle eat away my leaves.”

After Orpheus lost Eurydice the second time,
he turned to singing and preferred the love of boys.
“The songs that Orpheus sang brought creatures round him,
All beast, all birds, all stones held in their spell.
But look! There on a hill that overlooked the plain,
A crowd of raging women stood, their naked breasts
Scarce covered by strips of fur. They gazed at Orpheus
Still singing, his frail lyre in one hand.
Her wild hair in the wind, one naked demon cried,
‘Look at the pretty boy who will not have us!’
And shouting tossed a spear aimed at his mouth.”
“The screams of women, clapping of hands on breasts and thighs,
The clattering tympanum soon won their way
Above the poet’s music; spears found their aim,
And stones turned red, streaked by the singer’s blood.”

Guess the punishment for the murder of Orpheus:
Lyaeus captured the Thracian madwomen
“Who saw him die, trussed them with roots,
And thrust their feet, toes downward, into earth.
As birds are trapped by clever fowlers in a net,
Then flutter to get free, drawing the net still tighter
Round wings and claws, so each woman fought,
Held by quick roots entangling feet and fingers,
Toenails in earth, she felt bark creeping up her legs,
And when she tried to slap her thighs, her hands struck oak;
Her neck, her shoulders, breasts were oak-wood carving;
You’d think her arms were branches – you’re not wrong.”
. . . . .