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Afterwards
Over black coffee he smiles
slightly off-centre bottom lip pulled in
eye lashes flicking from his hands
to her face watching his adam’s apple
pulse as he says:
… holding your hand I was so afraid
She understands the same fear
a steady pressure at the back
of her mouth crushing
behind her ears
but maybe that’s because she
keeps the music—country warnings
of crumbling into fragments—on high
in her car when she’s all alone
Rolling down the windows
to let the wind erase the cautionary voices
she bites her tongue, tastes the grooves of her teeth
The pressure starts throbbing
moves passed her nose and settles
in the corners of her eyes
She stares at the taillights ahead
uneven flakes obscuring the tracks
The night must smell like something
maybe car exhaust and smoke from buildings
but all she notices is the air and snow
almost like rain pricking the side of her face
and trickling down her neck
Fingertips on her exposed wrist
draped out the window cold
but he didn’t
He held her hand in both of his warm
without his fingers intruding
the spaces between hers
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UPDATE!
Project Postcard has been relocated to the University of Calgary under the Prairie Chicken for this Friday, April 12. The City decided I needed to fill out more paperwork that would take a month to process and that I would have to choose a location other than Prince's Island Bridge. Although the Prairie Chicken is not a bridge, I will still be attaching postcards to it in hopes of making connections with others. I've got some awesome people coming out to play music and have a good time, so I hope you find time to join me. I'll be on the hill from 1-6 on April 12!
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Qualifications
1013pm: wisdom which enables you to help
steady clicking over tile
she falls into the couch
beside you smiles
(lipstick smudged on her front tooth)
why are you here?
1014pm: will directs your wisdom
boots on the table
your pen tapping her paper
everyone needs to be
somewhere there are
no coincidences
1016pm:
words in hand
she finds an empty couch
1028pm: love inspires your will
folded paper you intrude
why was I there?
you caught me as I read
the last line
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Hooray! Officially submitted the event form for Project Postcard with the City-- looks like things are coming together. Project Postcard is happening in Prince's Island Park (near the Prince's Island Bridge) on April 12 (Friday) from 10am-6pm. Hope to see everyone there!
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messages
tv pulses, blue screen whirring
taut, uncoiled side-by-side
“I hope you’ll forgive me”
his hand in her hair, knotting
she can’t here
windshield flashes oncoming streetlamps
jacket cinched at her chin
hands buried between her knees
“you looked upset”
his eyes on the white lines
she can’t here
white wine in the nice crystal
fresh painted toes resting beside
vvvv-vvvv-vvvv
turns her phone face down
she can’t hear
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Critiquing "Stale"
As mentioned, "Stale" was critiqued last Tuesday. My prof's comment: "I asked you to submit a poem. This isn't a poem." was agreed upon as an accurate assessment. The group decided "Stale" sounded more like a preamble to a poem, something that needed to be continued with what happens after waiting, or else to strengthen the middle with ruminations on how a conversation would go (who dominates conversation, is the conversation worth waiting for?). That said, people did enjoy the voice I captured (because it resembles my own voice). I'm going to do a rewrite because I do enjoy "Stale" as a poem and I'm going to use parentheses in my new poems as well to carry my voice through more.
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White (words only)
Dim, flickering light
breathing over our knees
a hare apart.
Hands grasping, stumbling,
but not quite fitting
as expected.
Lullabies sung in low tones,
strung through nights
spent on my own imaginings.
Teeth and tongues and nails
scraping, seizing, leaving
punctures along my pelvis.
But no one ever touched me,
and I stay here, bent into myself
gauging my orifices.
With bows of my own design,
curled, wicked bark
peeling back sunburnt skin.
Can you be so cruel to laugh
at me, mangled by rejections
and hope for someone’s touch?
For someone else to claw
my spine, my thighs
and lap my blood.
I no longer suffice.
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Here's another poem submitted for this week. Again, not entirely based on an actual exchange. The first two stanzas are based on an encounter with a stranger. I'm sure most people can relate to the awkward first-time hand holding on a first or second date, which is what the first bit of this poem is about. Not even I'm sure what happened in the rest of the poem. I think I was going for someone who isn't sure about any type of physical contact, besides the desire for contact (bridging out from my connecting with strangers on the surface to a little deeper). Yeah, I'm grasping at straws. I had my wisdom teeth pulled and was on a combination of serious painkillers and that is my only explanation for this poem.
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Also on Wednesday night, we encountered a couple of girls who looked like they were practicing for careers as pole-dancers (not that either were particularly good at pole-dancing, but they were sure trying). The two girls were dancing on raised columns, grinding against each other and making sure to flash the entire dance floor (only one of them had underwear on). I decided to see what the girls would do if I jumped on the column with them and continued with my spazzy, jumpy dancing. Another girl at my friend's bday (but who I only met that night) decided to jump up with me. We pulled stupid faces and made sure to obscure the wanna-be pole-dancers as much as possible. The two girls left quite quickly, got another drink, then found another column (higher up and harder to get on) across the dance floor. They obviously wanted the attention more than me, so I got down to dance on the floor. After my group and I went back to our table, the girls got off the columns to dance with the guy (featured in picture one ogling the underneath of their skirts). The same girl who initially helped me annoy the pole-dancers and I jumped up to attempt to dance in between the girls and the guy. We were quite happy to find another girl in a white tee-shirt following our example. We had a fun time dancing with her.
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Last Wednesday I went to the Back Alley for my friend's birthday (my first time going there). At the beginning of the night, no one was dancing except two girls, so I decided to join them with my spazzy, jumpy dancing. They accepted me right away, and I was soon followed by the rest of my table. After my table was up and dancing, other tables also got up. A few hours later, my group of friends and I were conversing in the bathroom with another group of girls who decided we were the most energetic group and that when we took a break from dancing, so did the rest of the dance floor. Interesting how many people are affected by the actions of strangers, even while most people there were not-quite sober.
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"Anderson" (the rewrite of "Anderson Station") was critiqued two weeks ago. People generally liked the visual aspect, though reading the actual poem was made difficult. The white paint made the words looked like they were scratched or burned into existence, so people wanted fear to be described more with burning sensations. "Clump" should be moved up a line, and the entire last stanza was declared a let down. But overall the reception of this poem went over quite well.
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Another Poem!
stale
a clock ticking. ticking.
collecting dust.
two chairs.
one coffee:
our conversation
stay anywhere long enough and you end up waiting.
waiting.
waiting.
for Godot?
(not that Godot sparks conversation)
Gatsby on the other hand
(not that I’ve read it)
keep waiting.
ticking. ticking. dust settling in my mug.
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I handed in this poem to be critiqued this coming Tuesday. I departed a bit from relaying conversations with strangers exactly as they occurred. The bit about Gatsby is the only piece preserved from my actual conversation (and that was about the upcoming movie, not the book). The part about waiting was a note I jotted on my phone while waiting for the stranger I had ice cream with. The part about coffee is completely made up because I felt I hadn't written about coffee in quite a while. Basically, I was trying to capture a moment where connection was not made based on a moment I was anticipating connection.
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Paperwork? I'm sorry, I think I hear a distraction calling me...
The city finally got back to me about my (official) Project Postcard bridge proposal. I'm being shuffled to a new department now (Parks, not Public Art or Public Transportation who I was originally put in contact with). And I have to fill out a form requesting for a day event at the bridge, so fingers crossed that I don't get too big of a headache and all goes smoothly!
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I know, I know, I didn't immediately post the critiques of last week's poem "Of Magic", so here they are now:
1) the title (along with "of confessions") was deemed awful and misleading-- it led people to believe the poem's tone was more nostalgic than intended
2) the first stanza was seen as deserving to be a poem on its own
3) the middle stanza was the worst.
4) the last stanza was debated over. About half my group hated the list and found it dispassionate, while others enjoyed the list technique (and even suggested it too be a poem on its own)
5) people liked the picture and handwriting
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And here's another revision of "Anderson". I handed this in for workshop tonight, so we'll see how it goes!
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As promised, here's the rewrite for "Anderson Station"
Anderson
Bells growl, their clamour quiet,
snarling teeth choking on the melee.
People as pebbles:
scattered at the station; scuffed
along the tracks; dust ground
by the grooves of workday shoes.
Outside air cold enough
to explain my trembling,
my eyes prickling.
Cold has nothing
to do with my throat
palpitating around the empty
clump lodged behind my collarbone.
“Hello” doesn’t leave my mind,
much less pursue my jaw
and move.
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Continuing, continuing
Yes, I know I promised a rewrite for yesterday, but it's taking longer than I anticipated. When it is ready, I will post it.
In other news, I spent almost four hours at Chinook Mall this afternoon talking to strangers. Strangers who were also alone (which effectively meant guys because every time I approached a girl, one of her friends would join her-- girls apparently don't go to the mall by themselves on Saturdays). Also, people who I talk to for more than 5 minutes I have started giving my number to/ getting their's so I can send them information about Project Postcard.
I started by walking up to random people waiting by themselves outside of stores (people leaning against railings/ pillars). This was ineffective. I genuinely tried to start a conversation about why they were waiting outside the store and not inside, who they were waiting for (Godot?), and why they got dragged to the mall in the first place. People were quite reluctant to give me anything more than "yeah, I'm waiting". One guy actually slowly edged away from me while I talked to him and fled as soon as his wife/girlfriend came out of the store.
As sidling up to people wasn't working, I decided to sit next to people on the conveniently located cushioned benches. This was much more effective. I talked to some guys who claimed they worked in the oil fields (but looked like high-schoolers) and invited me to a party; someone who opened their own business (but wouldn't tell me what for); a man waiting for teenage daughters while they shopped at LaSenza (he looked quite awkward and like next time he would make them take the bus-- this was a very short conversation).
The last person I sat next to I had the most effective conversation with. When I sat down he initiated the conversation and we talked for half an hour (until he went for a hair cut). As I had a long conversation, we exchanged numbers, and after his haircut he text me asking for another conversation. We met over ice cream and continued to talk for another hour and a half. We discussed cars, music, German-engineered vacuums, Les Mis, Leonardo DiCaprio, disparities in income between men/women and management/workers, tennis and snowboarding mishaps, the benefit of meaningful relationships with sales people and the appropriate length of shoelaces. Finally my project is working! I have found people willing to talk for the sake of talking; willing to connect simply because they are alone and want connection (or at least that's what I think it is).
Now, the only thing I need to work on is my terrible habit of lying to the people I talk to. By lying, I find talking to strangers easier than telling the truth, but by lying I know I undermine the crucial point of my project-- connection. Connections based on lies are still connections, but there will always be something missing (like my poetry). Connections built on lies will lead to my poetry continuing to skate over the shiny surface of emotion without delving deeper. This afternoon's conversations have helped me appreciate how truly difficult talking to strangers as myself is, and also why doing so is so crucial. Even if the people I talk to lie to me (which I suspect some do), my side of the connections must be genuine, or else my poetry will never push further, never challenge me.
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