Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Western Canada Poetry Tour part 5: Vancouver and Victoria
Getting off the train, 24 hours or so after leaving Edmonton, was surreal and kind of magical. With all due respect to Edmonton, it was kind of like leaving black and white Kansas for the technicolour (Canadian spelling) of Oz. Snow to blue skies and cherry blossoms. Ah, those cherry blossoms, it was beautiful in Vancouver and Victoria I really couldn't take it. I don't know how people live surrounded by such beauty, seems it would lose its meaning after awhile.
and that mountain air.... honestly I would kill myself if surrounded by that all year round.
Looking back on my time now in Vancouver and Victoria, one thing that stands out is reading Dante's Inferno in Stanley Park, after having walked past ducks, geese, had my arms brushed by weeping willows and arriving at the sun setting over the pacific... the reading material made for an interesting contrast.
I felt fortunate to be hosted by my friend Chris and his girlfriend Rebecca - again, I've been blessed with hospitable hosts throughout. Same can be said for my Victoria host, Isa Millman - who truly does offer a poetry palace in what one of the most beautiful houses I have been inside, and I believe the 4th largest house I've ever been in.
3 biggest houses I've been inside:
1. Michelle Jean's "house" (aka Rideau Hall) (for my American readers, that's the Governor General. For my American readers the Governor General is... oh, nevermind)
2. The White House, then Bill Clinton's house (grade 8 field trip)
3. Allan Greg's House (long, long, long story and entirely unimpressive for my American readers)
One of my best reading experiences came at the pulp fiction bookstore in Vancouver... really good turnout, good audience (laughed at all the intentionally funny parts and bought books) and great co-reader - Sonnet L'Abbe. Also, through enjoyed the after reading party at the legion (I believe that's what the bar was called), oh and good to see Ray Hsu after all this time. (ah that poetry name dropping)
Also fought hard against a espresso machine (those espresso machines love poetry) in Victoria at the Planet Poetry reading there - hosted by the poetically astute and delightfully quirky Wendy Morton.
um, what else - I saw a heron and some turtles, and plethora of flowers. again, its sickening.
I feel that now that I've arrived at the end of the trip, I should have some profound insight on Canada and what it means to be Canadian, other than Canada's really big. I can only say that most people I met from a particular place, say if they were born in Saskatoon or Winnipeg, really 'felt' they were from that place in a way that made me envious, that made me realize that I can walk around much of Toronto with my eyes closed and still I have never felt entirely home there - its too big or too much wanting to be other places (i.e. New York) and I was raised by a New Yorker and maybe I've just lost too much there (maybe it used to feel like home and I forget - am I getting too heavy for a blog?)... I don't know. The trip was wonderful - but it made me feel like I come from nowhere, which I suppose, however challenging, is also liberating. and here I am back in the bankrupt land of liberty, not really knowing where I'm going, what I'm doing here...
Anyway, for those who bothered to read these blog entries, I really appreciate it - and might not even begrudge those who pressured me into doing it in the first place.
I might even continuing blogging, once and while... maybe.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Western Canada Poetry Tour, part 4: Edmonton Poetry Festival
I like the readings and the free shampoo, but my favourite thing about the festival was meeting the other poets. There were a lot so I won't list them all. Instead I am going to more or less steal from another blog" - http://www.twoonachoochoo.blogspot.com/ ... and do some unorthodox name dropping - staying at the hotel were: Elizabeth Dodds, Matthew O'Meara Bachinksy and David Tierney. When the names are arranged correctly - all really fine poets - and an honor to read (albeit at different places from each other in the city), and more importantly, drink with them.
I confess I had just read Bachinsky's Home of Sudden Service and loved it, and may have made a gushing ass out of myself upon meeting her.
On thursday night I read at a Turkish restaurant, which gave me a chance to practice the 3 words I still remember from when I lived in Istanbul seven years ago. I also read my istanbul poems - including a new one. I felt kind of bad that two of the poems mention the brib-ability of turkish officials, but its a metaphor for my love life at that time... so that's makes it okay, right?
I also did what's called a master class with several poets where we critique each other's work in front of an audience. fortunately I know how to hyper ventilate silently.
One of my 'favourite' experiences was walking down Jasper Avenue, which should be a tom waits song. on the aforementioned blog there is a shot of a store I am pretty sure we definitely did not go into. (the words "peep" and "25 cents" may have appeared on a sign - what a bargain).
I took the train to Vancouver with Jeramy Matthews and Dodd Tierney. it's a 24 or so train ride - and absolutely stunning, as the train swerves through the mountain and the rockies surround - and whatever I can't do it justice (what am I a writer?... poets present, don't describe, right?). but I really recommend it - i had a lot of ideas and lines for poems throughout the trip. I think Dodds wrote his next book... the landscape is poetically palpable is what I'm getting at.
I arrived in Vancouver yesterday morning. everything is in bloom. the weather is so perfect here it makes me sick. wonderfully sick.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Western Canada Poetry Tour part 3(b): Hermitage outside Muenster, Saskatchewan
On the first night after the sun went down I read the second half of Whitman's Song of Myself, having been reading it in small bits for awhile beforehand. I read this (long) poem about six or so years ago - and while I liked it then, I felt it was naive or something. Re-reading I realize that it was my own lack of experience - of simply not having probed those depths of human experience that made me think that - and now I feel that I have at least skimmed the surface of some of where Walt has been. But reading the poem out there, in all that isolation I felt really inside that poem - or at least parts of it - especially his engagement with time itself, like "My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs,/On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps/All below duly traveled–and still I mount and mount." I woke the next day with my usual worries and anxieties and wondered how much of Walt's life was spent living in the sheer enlightenment of that poem. It was interesting also being in this religious - that is Christian environment and contrasting that with the Whitman's spirituality, what you could call an atheist spirituality (I won't say agnostic - since he 'knows' what he believes in) and a spirituality made from and out of the self.
The second night was perhaps the perfect contrast - I went into the bar (yes, there's only one) in Muenster. No one was in there but the owner Ken. I had a couple of Canadians, and watched the second half of canucks game with him. I think that's the first hockey game I've watched since I was in high school. I stumbled back (I had had some jamison with my friend the sinking prairie sun before that) to the hermitage - only getting a little lost - with my flashlight beneath a star filled sky. It was beautiful, but I admit a little scary since there were tons of animals sounds- only birds, I think. And at one point the branches above shook and I could heard a bird, perhaps an owl, was really close to me, but couldn't see him/her.
So that was my hermit experience. I imagine there's a poem in there, a nature poem... a prairie poem.
Hey, I've caught up in the blogs. Next entry will be about Edmonton, and will probably contain several mentions of the fact it has snowed twice here now.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Western Canada Poetry Tour part 3: Saskatoon
I enjoyed meeting John Livinstone Clark, but have to say I was a bit intimidated, especially since I'm about half his age, when he was said, "So you're the GG guy," and then persisted that I read him a poem. I could faintly hear gunslinger music in the background. I think I passed - he seemed to genuinely like the poem. I also met there Taylor Leedhal who organizes and hosts the weekly reading series "Tonight's It's Poetry" at the Flint bar in downtown Saskatoon where I read on sunday - to a slightly larger audience than the at Mcnally - (the place was packed).
Taylor and her partner Megan also took me to a concert of a vancouver indie band - Mother, Mother, which I enjoyed. I even bought their CD, which is probably the first CD I have bought in five years.
as I said the Flint bar reading was great. there were about sixty or so people there and many of them weren't even poets it seemed. they just liked poetry - imagine. I read with several other really strong local poets - and in particular enjoyed Bruce Rice's reading.
So, I should probably get ready for this reading (I'm a bit nervous, I have to admit... kids + poetry + 9 am +?.) I will be blogging next about my experience staying in a hermitage in nothern (I think northern) Sasketchewan....
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
How about a readable version of that poem?
The Bus Ride that Became a Horror Movie
It’s 98 km to where, more or less, the incident occurred. You
probably read about it for weeks. Remember that first day
when it was a tragedy, before it unraveled into punch line?:
a man walks onto a bus and saws another man’s head off
for (drum roll) no reason. My American friends sent me emails like:
“I hear they’re beheading people in Canada now.” You get it? –
we’re one of those countries. Ad it to the list
of what Americans know about us: everyone
plays hockey, they have socialized medicine, and
once and while slice each other’s heads off, because
it’s really fucking cold there, I guess. And here I am
taking that route and thinking about the Saturday
Globe last summer where the reporter rode from Edmonton
to Winnipeg as though the landscape could reveal
or explain anything, as though this highway was haunted
now (as though it wasn’t before). Thinking
this is how we approach trauma in this country – with headlines
like The Bus Ride that became a Horror Movie
or A Quiet Ride then Carnage. And I watch
the passengers. Mostly young guys, sitting alone,
like me. The man across is the one
whose head I might just chop off, then eat his face.
Isn’t that what happened.? The murderer spitting his victim’s
teeth out like watermelon seeds. Who remembers
the details now, as we depart, driving through the prairie-scape,
driving into Spring, ice patches melting all around,
barren shrubs half submerged in water, the tall grass still
a dull yellow, its colour sucked out like blood. A deer
half flattened by the side of the road, bloodied ass
mooning us. Quickly approaching Portage, passengers
hooked into ipods and dreams, anywhere but here
and a sign reading “Various Positions Available” and everything
on sale. Right here, approximately, just hacking and hacking,
how many times till a head pops off? Watching
the parking lot fill, the line up growing inside the Tim Hortons
like they were selling indulgences in there, translates,
into an argument for various acts of violence. But doesn’t
mean anything, really. That’s what causes us,
maybe, to play so much goddam hockey and forget
every route in this endless country
is a passage through death,
as we arrive in Winnipeg. Sunlight a golden sludge, thick
as blood, oozing off the warehouse facades, glorious
and utterly unnewsworthy.
Western Canada Poetry Tour, Part 2: Winnipeg
Western Canada Poetry Tour part 2: Winnipeg
The Bus Ride that Became a Horror Movie
It’s 98 km to where, more or less, the incident occurred. You
probably read about it for weeks. Remember that first day
when it was a tragedy, before it unraveled into punch line?:
a man walks onto a bus and saws another man’s head off
for (drum roll) no reason. My American friends sent me emails like:
“I hear they’re beheading people in Canada now.” You get it? –
we’re one of those countries. Ad it to the list
of what Americans know about us: everyone
plays hockey, they have socialized medicine, and
once and while slice each other’s heads off, because
it’s really fucking cold there, I guess. And here I am
taking that route and thinking about the Saturday
Globe last summer where the reporter rode from Edmonton
to Winnipeg as though the landscape could reveal
or explain anything, as though this highway was haunted
now (as though it wasn’t before). Thinking
this is how we approach trauma in this country – with headlines
like The Bus Ride that became a Horror Movie
or A Quiet Ride then Carnage. And I watch
the passengers. Mostly young guys, sitting alone,
like me. The man across is the one
whose head I might just chop off, then eat his face.
Isn’t that what happened.? The murderer spitting his victim’s
teeth out like watermelon seeds. Who remembers
the details now, as we depart, driving through the prairie-scape,
driving into Spring, ice patches melting all around,
barren shrubs half submerged in water, the tall grass still
a dull yellow, its colour sucked out like blood. A deer
half flattened by the side of the road, bloodied ass
mooning us. Quickly approaching Portage, passengers
hooked into ipods and dreams, anywhere but here
and a sign reading “Various Positions Available” and everything
on sale. Right here, approximately, just hacking and hacking,
how many times till a head pops off? Watching
the parking lot fill, the line up growing inside the Tim Hortons
like they were selling indulgences in there, translates,
into an argument for various acts of violence. But doesn’t
mean anything, really. That’s what causes us,
maybe, to play so much goddam hockey and forget
every route in this endless country
is a passage through death,
as we arrive in Winnipeg. Sunlight a golden sludge, thick
as blood, oozing off the warehouse facades, glorious and utterly unnewsworthy.
...
So, next entry will be about Saskatchewan, where I did a couple of readings in Saskatoon, stayed with Mari-Lou Rowley, the world's best poet handler and spent a couple of nights in a hermitage. I would write now about some of that, but the monks are serving lunch now - yes, monks. That's my cliffhanger.
I probably won't write again till I get to Edmonton (I leave tomorrow). I am hoping to eventually catch up in my blogging so I am not writing about places after I leave them. This is probably a metaphor for something.