I always find that writing found poetry stirs up my creative side. Try collecting all the newspapers in the house, old love letters, recipes, grocery lists, old science textbooks and cut out the interesting words and sentences . . .
You will need:
1 large onion
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large sweet potato, peeled and cut into one-inch chunks (about 3 cups)
½ teaspoon turmeric and arsenic
1 can (14 ounce) coconut milk, sweetened
1 unfertilized human heart (if not in season, they are available by the dozen in your grocer’s freezer)
Coarse sea salt to taste
Gingered lime (for garnish)
Slice onions . . .
Tell us about yourself.
My name is Sandy Pool, and I am a poet and multi-disciplinary artist. Currently I divide my time between Calgary and Toronto, where I am working on my doctorate degree. My second book of poetry Undark, An Oratorio, was just released in the fall with Nightwood Editions . . .
In the summer, to escape the thick, muted heat of the evening, Sagey cycles around his neighbourhood on a broken bicycle, the front brake unattached like an umbilical cord snapped in two. He has no money to fix it, so he takes it slower around curves, or downhill from Laurier Park . . .
Tell us about yourself.
I was born in Edmonton, raised in Vancouver, and have lived in Toronto and Montreal since graduating from the University of Western Ontario with an honours degree in English and Comparative Literature . . .
She jerked up with a sharp pain in her neck, light hair matted to her sweat soaked face. Flashes of crunching metal and air bags popping to life haunt her even after she’s awoken. She touched the rear of her scalp, feeling the soft tuft of hair growing over her long white scar before calling out to Annie . . .
I used to think
glassy, effervescent stone,
dug up from the dirt
and spit-shined for song,
could message the moon
and undress its powers to control
from my pockets; that a
long, cylindrical whistle,
carved from soft wood
and painted in earth tones,
could call the birds from the south
and conduct their music;
left behind by my grandfather,
could turn the tides of
fortune into my waiting palms . . .
What is it that a blind man sees?
Without his sight, does it make him free?
After all how can he get hurt if he can’t witness pain,
How can he love if he can’t see what love contains?
Fingers upon curvatures, a choice to see what’s bad
Not knowing the difference between what he has and what he had
Because if he can’t see what’s come and what’s left him behind
Then he doesn’t know a piece is missing, not wishing to rewind
But if he can’t see the bad, how will he be secure?
Read a face with fingertips but someone’s heart he can’t be sure?
So what exactly does a blind man see?
Blots of colour, or a smudge spree?
Does he see any outlines, or nothing at all?
Discoloured pupils, running into walls . . .
Trees hunch over sky; skin
and hard-bone cliffs.
Come winter: beards of ice,
grunting stone. That day
I walked into surf, wore a shawl
of sea spray.
Still in her armchair, my grandmother wades
to open ocean where waves
wrestle and refract . . .
It began with fog
and headless homes.
We lose sight of star-markers;
streetlights burn out.
This is a world of crawlspaces,
children digging through mulch
or gravel. The steppe-streaming sun
uncoils, scalelight rasping stone.
We root into baked sand for bones,
pitch the worst of ourselves
into river . . .
This bar grew from stone and wood,
russet and cream.
Trees lean on the porch, nonchalant.
I’ll take what he’s having.
Hear: phrases sung from in-between.
microphones desirous of lips.
Buddy’s car was having trouble,
brakes like grinding teeth . . .
I have left my heart in so many places, and now I set it free
to be cascaded through the violent waves, and utter bleakness of a barren sea
it will float and wander to a far-away place
where it may live or die
it could be broken and shattered or perchance kept safe
it will nestle comfortably in the great heaves of a sigh
somewhere in a crowded city
my heart will wander back
fully restored and void of all pity
making up for all the enchantment I’ve lacked
until then, I shall let my heart grow
spread its branches to places unknown
bleed its colours and resonate an everlasting stain
where it remains will prove to be home
its infinite hue will stain sidewalks and sunsets
promising an eternal shine
the deep blues and greens, the fiery reds
perhaps destined to be a failure by design
. . .