June 11, 2020

YUSUF SAADI AT THE POETRY PARTY

Yusuf Saadi writes: I had just finished reading One Thousand and One Nights, where, famously, Shahrazad must narrate a story to the king in order to entertain him all night so he doesn’t kill her. I was thinking about the interaction of language and sensuality, the kinds of sensuality on the surfaces of language and beyond language, and how the body incites language and vice versa.


Pleasuring Shahrazad

In rosewater I rinse
my final words, dip
them into your body.
Your slow, saline drip
on my tongue. You eclipse
Medinan dates soaked
in honey, saffron rice
with diced pistachios,
a single pomegranate—
surah carved in Kufic
on each ruby seed.
Camphor recites its being
inside a kerosene lamp.

Don’t plead, simply ask
for pleasure pleated
upon pleasure past
tongue-winding rinds
around words.
Damascus musk settles
on damask pillows.
Iced watermelon wine
gushes in crystal glass.
Hebron peaches blush;
sea-coast lemons
            cleave in halves.
My nails moonrake
damp thighs;
again, I dine on
webbed-wet fingers.

Lips graze lashes, kohl.
On each closed eyelid
my tongue practises
its patient whorl
before I cherish
your perfect pearl.
I gave my day
dreaming of your
myrrh’s mystique.
Now my tongue
is to caress—
not to speak.


Pluviophile, Yusuf Saadi’s first collection, was published by Nightwood Editions in April, 2020 and is available through Harbour Publishing, Nightwood Editions, independent bookstores, and at https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/pluviophile/9780889713741-item.html. "Pleasuring Shahrazad" first appeared in The Malahat Review and in Pluviophile

June 2, 2020

MY NAME, BUT NOT MY PAPERS: SADIQA DE MEIJER


Sadiqa de Maijer photo by Cat London
Sadiqa de Meijer writes: This is the title poem from my new collection. I've always liked the riddle of how to get the fox, goose and grain across the river, when some will eat the other if left alone. Older versions of that quandary sometimes feature a wolf, a goat, and a cabbage. I wanted to ask, particularly from a multi-ethnic and diasporic perspective, what if we look at that cargo, and even the landscape of the river itself, as internal to the speaker?

Sadiqa de Meijer
THE OUTER WARDS

I saw that I would have to cross the river,
and that it was the Rijn.
I had a fox, a goose, a sack of grain.

I said, I love the gay men in kufiyas on the Rembrandtplein,
and the muted half of me, from a land of five converging waters,
with an upstream alphabet—
so what makes me yours
every night, slow current, floodplain
of drowning grass?

Then the goose was in the reeds. It had an egg.
Twigs and quills, the ruckus of two pulses.
The grain had blown into my field. Someone was claiming it.
And the fox was a vanishing streak.

I could take my name, but not my papers.
I could take the swept air, but not my breath,
or not in one load. My promises, but not the child
I’d made them to, unless I could bring something back—
but the weather, the barges, the clouds turning orange and rose.


 The Outer Wards, Sadiqa de Meijer's second collection, was published in April 2020 by Vehicule Press.

May 22, 2020

MARCUS WICKER IS TODAY'S POEM

Alexander Kokinidis/freeimages.com

Twice this poem, today's Poetry Daily feature, says "stay with me."

Don't worry, poem! I'm so there in your language I'm not sure I could leave if I wanted to.

Reparations Redefinition: Bond
Marcus Wicker

Noun: A uniting or binding element or force.

              The thing about facing your fears head on
is it only really works on TV. As an example, let’s say
              a clawfoot bathtub teeming with arachnids

is your garden variety anti-fantasy.
              Now, say the sitcom dad in you gets the itch
to do something experiential, something special

              for your 40th (stay with me), so you willingly
dive into a pool of 10,000 tarantulas, head-
              first. In the Fear Factor version

of this midlife episode, Ludacris is like
              Man, white people are crazy.
In reality, this sounds like a frightful fucking

              headache, six ibuprofen & stitches.

Read the whole poem here

I'm not sure there's a "sitcom dad" in me exactly but whatever is there gets "the itch / to do something experiential, something special" (there's an understatement, that "special").

There's also not that same kind of oak tree (read on, if you haven't yet), but the "aerial vantage" I'm getting all the way through is definite.

I'm saying "I understand what steers our national / stasis, our fossilized political animals, & I / forgive us" persuades me.

Stay with me? As if I could not.

As if this poem didn't keep talking, even after the last word.

May 7, 2020

CONYER CLAYTON: WE SHED OUR SKIN LIKE DYNAMITE


Conyer Clayton photo by Grant Savage
Conyer Clayton writes: This is one of my favourite poems to read aloud in my entire book, and I was looking forward to sharing it orally with folks during readings. I encourage you to read it out loud. I feel that is where it shines the most.

This poem is a reflection on the thinness of the line between worlds, the ways we attempt to thicken that veil, dissolve it, reach through, and retreat.

I had several readings cancelled, including Versefest on March 26th, two Guernica launches in Toronto and Ottawa, and likely more to be cancelled this summer. My Ottawa launch with Riverbed Reading Series has moved to Zoom, on May 20th. Check out their website, riverbedreads.ca for details on how to register!

The Screen Comes Off Easily

You text me to say
you crawled out the window
to the balcony
of your hotel room
on the 26th floor,
the wind around the sides
of buildings tearing
your hair out, tearing you off
like the beetle you released
to starlight and concrete.

How efficiently we grieve

depends not on the body itself,
the colour coding,
the spice drawers.
Put it back
where you found it.
Put it back quickly
before I notice the gap,
the continuing nights spent alone,
the ones I asked for,

the steps heavy and shuffling regardless.

            *

She left the long list of her leaving out plain:
            her body
            cigarette burned
            blanket
            long list
            groups of letters
            tattered sweaters
            turquoise nightgown
            moles sun-spotted (palm backs and cheeks)

The tapestry behind her weighted down with
the smallest flower repeated,
the smallest flower, small and blooming widely.

            *

We sit with our food
groups grouped
in thick bricks of colour
on our plates.
No need
to supplement this existence
with the slow release
of how much we know
once our toes are off the edge.

How little we know.

And the lightness with which
you come back inside.

Conyer Clayton is an Ottawa-based writer, musician and gymnastics coach. She has 6 chapbooks, 2 albums, and won The Capilano Review's 2019 Robin Blaser Poetry Prize. Her debut full-length collection is We Shed Our Skin Like Dynamite (2020,Guernica Editions). Stay updated on her endeavours at conyerclayton.com.





April 30, 2020

ANNICK MACASKILL'S BANFF

Annick MacAskill writes: “Banff” is a poem from my latest collection, Murumurations, which just came out with Gaspereau Press. The book is a collection of queer love poetry that also explores the limits and intersections of sound, language, meaning, communication, noise, and song.

I’ve long been fascinated with love poetry. As I wrote this book, I was conscious of how I did (and did not) fit in with many of the (male, straight) models that have defined this tradition. I’m grateful for writers like Carol Ann Duffy, Audre Lorde, Anne Carson, Arleen Paré, and others who have given us their own takes on the established mode of the love lyric.

I had planned to launch Murmurations in Halifax on Thursday, May 14, at Café Lara. I had asked fellow Halifax poets Jaime Forsythe, Nanci Lee, and Sam Sternberg to read with me. I hope to re-schedule this event at some point in the future.

Annick MacAskill
BANFF

Clouds trip over mountains, lend
shadows to our hands, ungloved—
four small blessings for November,
yours larger than mine, though
not greater, you say, skirting
the path, pointing the way back
to the gallery. I say brother
but that’s not what I mean. I say
friend—though more than oil painting
or sculpture, I’d like to know
the weight of you, hold it
between my teeth or under
my tongue, a secret
like the white ermine in the snow.


Annick MacAskill’s poems have appeared in journals and anthologies across Canada and abroad. Her debut collection, No Meeting Without Body (Gaspereau Press, 2018), was nominated for the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award and shortlisted for the J.M. Abraham Award. Her second full-length collection, Murmurations, was published by Gaspereau this spring. Originally from Southwestern Ontario, she now lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, on the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi’kmaq People. Visit her website at annickmacaskill.com. Murmurations can be ordered on the author’s website, from independent bookstores, and directly from Gaspereau Press.