The Mosquito

While I munch 

my sensible snack

of carrot sticks 

and cheese,

the ambassador of hunger

sucks what he craves

from my hot blood.

An Emotional Bake-off

On The Menu At The Witch's House

Cigarette Break

He leans against the trunk of the winter tree,

holds his cigarette like a Tibetan horn,

and trumpets his breath into the frozen air.

His old life burns, becomes ash,

becomes the snow at his feet.

He is readying himself to return

to the world of buildings and cars

and, most of all, to the world of people,

with their red faces and their smiling eyes.

Haute Cuisine

Folding The Twilight

Hands circling,

gathering the ancient air,

my mother folds the twilight

into night.

Village Rain

There is no rain,

my grandpa said,

like the rain in my village.

It made diamonds out of cobblestones

and turned the rooftops silver.

Reinvented As Bedouin

My Grandfather

She Will Be A River

The father drives,

distant as a mountain, 

silent as a mountain is silent,

rich with the secrets 

that sit beside him.

The daughter asks:

Where were you born? 

What’s your favourite food? 

He answers with facts, 

each word a lie.

She hears whispers 

from the empty seats:

He was born 

on the outskirts of death.

His heart longs 

for honeycake at midnight.

She has decided: 

she will be a river, 

will rush along 

through the open fields 

like an oracle, 

telling everyone her secrets. 

They will look 

into her clear waters 

and see the pebbles 

and the stones, 

the piles of ash 

and the mounds of gold.

The Inspired Canadian Novelist

Origin

Blackout Poetry

One of my favourite new forms, which I am returning to again and again, is Blackout Poetry, also known as Erasure Poetry. I was inspired by the work of poet and cartoonist Austin Kleon and devoured his book Newspaper Blackout in almost one sitting. The idea is to take a newspaper article and to create a poem by choosing the words you want to keep, blacking out the rest with a marker. It sounds relatively simple. In fact, it almost feels like cheating! After all, the words are already there, aren't they?

I was amazed to discover how challenging it can be to work within such limitations: a selection of words in a fixed position on the page. But this sense of constriction also allows for a great feeling of surprise when something unusual emerges. It's also refreshing to come to the writing of a poem with no idea of what the poem will be. I feel less like a poet and more like an archaeologist approaching a dig, using a marker instead of a spade to unearth the fragments that I hope will make up some sort of whole. But what will it be? A king's burial chamber? Some ancient coins? A bottle of diet coke? The results can be silly and absurd or deep and profound. Often it is all those things at the same time. Why not grab a newspaper and try one yourself?

For more blackout poems, click here.

In Which The Poet Attempts To Say Goodbye To Poetry

When we part ways

the world will be

straightforward once again. 

A cup will be a cup. 

A shoe will be a shoe

not a soup ladle 

not a megaphone

not a submarine.

Mornings will not awaken 

as if they were creatures 

stirring after long sleep. 

Yesterday’s eye exam

should have been routine

but I saw the optician’s legs curl

round each other like snakes. 

I saw the back of my own retina 

as the cracked surface of a clay planet. 

This will not do. 

My eyeball is not a planet

for if it were then I would be

my own solar system

perhaps even a galaxy.

Just thinking about it

makes me dizzy.

When I am in your company

the whole world can shift in a moment. 

There is no solid ground.

When you and I part ways

the women will wear quite ordinary hats. 

Their heads will not sprout flowers, 

will not become bird nests. 

Trees will not grow arms or claws. 

I will be able to go 

for an ordinary stroll 

on an ordinary day 

in the ordinary woods. 

The green will just be green,

not a leprechaun’s shirt or dragon’s eye.

You were wonderful. 

You sang me songs 

when the train chugged out of the station. 

The tunnel was the night, 

was a route to the underworld, 

was the inside of my own mind. 

Now everything will go back to normal. 

I won’t cry. 

Only poems make me cry. 

They produce tears like jewels 

tumbling out of a treasure chest.

I am trying to say goodbye

but I can’t do it.

You see,

I think

I may 

have

fallen

in love,

with 

you.

Last Night My Heart