The Most Famous Canadian Poet

Being a famous artist in Canada is like being a civil servant. You are subsidized by the government through grants and other perks such as being asked to participate on committees, give speeches in front of important buildings, and generally to be available if the call for culture comes up. The private sector treats you like cement. If there is an article written in a magazine about anything relating to being Canadian, your opinion will be required. If you are famous enough you may even be asked to contribute a recipe to a woman’s journal. Or for magazines that need their Canadian fix your iconic image may even be displayed on the cover. All of this has nothing to do with what you produce. And your position is for life as long as you can manage to keep your image in the public eye. It’s a thankless job though. As soon as you fall from the podium due to ill health, scandal, or death, a new face will immediately be put in your place. And what has this go to do with anything. Nothing.

Hard of Reading

When I was very young my mother gave me an empty notebook. I filled it up with pictures that were supposed to tell a story. Sometimes I put words into the stories as I learned them. What intriques me is that story telling precedes language. Illiterate people were told stories through pictures. Look at the medieval church art. Look at comic books today. Silent films told stories with very limited use of language. Is it possible for other sentient beings to tell stories without having a language, an alphabet, a dictionary? Do whales tell stories?

The Woman Who Murdered Her Husband

A friend of mine was collecting poems for an anthology of Canadian verse that he was creating. One of the contributors was a beautiful blond girl. When he showed up at her door to collect her submissions, she answered the door wearing a bikini. My friends eyes lid up. She escorted him to the living room where he took a seat in front of a coffee table. He accepted her offer of a cup a tea and she left the room. He looked around. The place needed some air. There was the smell of cat everywhere. The girl returned and placed a cup of tea in front of him. She took a seat opposite him and then placed a revolver on the coffee table between them. The mood changed.

So Long Marianne

An crusty and more street wise Marianne. She was a sweet girl with a seed of pessimism in her soul. Or maybe that’s just the romantic in me.

Mrs. Upper

Mrs. Upper was my grade four teacher. She seemed old. Maybe she was forty. And she had a manly grandma feel about her. She was warm.

Hers was the first class in which I felt successful. Perhaps it was over so simple task like multiplication tables which were all the thing back then. Maybe I wrote a poem. One always retains good memories from people who patted you on the back.

This is one of the simpler collages that I have created. It is made up of 3 pics. Nothing else was done to it. This simple approach is why I like so many of Stezaker’s pieces. They are simple. He must be a very brave artist because his work is so close to failing when it succeeds.  http://www.theapproach.co.uk/artists/stezaker/2

Al Capone’s Lover

Say Al Capone and immediately you think – gangster. Was he anything more than a bully, a psychopath? He loved his kids. (Or so they say.) People are always suggesting that if gangsters of this stature had only applied their abilities to the legal world they would have become successful. I think that if he hadn’t been violent, he wouldn’t have amounted to anything. He would have been a bum. And he knew it.

Sister Rita

Sister Rita had a zest for life. She loved to torment kids. It was a delicious meal for her each day. And she always gave you a choice.

Daisy

I hate the name Daisy. And that dislike was reinforced when I read The Great Gatsby. Daisy, small, insignificant, almost a weed. As a character in Fitzgerald’s novel she is vacuous, silly, and docile. Would anyone name a daughter Daisy?

Paulette

I just renamed this ‘Paulette’ after a girl I knew who was incredibly plucky, brutally honest, and who gagged a lot. She was always choking on things. I don’t know how many strangers had to whack her on the back when something stuck in her throat. Strange to be having a romantic moment with a beautiful woman, wine, candles, soft music when suddenly her face turns red, her eyes begin to enlarge, she opens her mouth and not a sound comes out.

New Book of Poems

I have epublished a new book of poems, free to read. It is called Trash.

http://trashpoems.wordpress.com/