Rose finally gets a fish

 

1.

Her months of drawings, pressure                   ; reminders
to our whispered ears, to

plastering the fridge with several clones

of her single magnet-held artwork: “fish,” she writes, above
each sketch of same, “I want one.” I, for one,

hesitate to introduce a new character

into this household menagerie, with the increased risk
of cancelling the whole business. Richie’s brother Chuck

from Happy Days’ first season, or to simply

jump the shark.

 

2.

She wants a fish.                      Demands: a pet of her own,
to share with younger sister,

since I refuse to entertain a dog           ; our cat
would tarnish, and my difficulty with lack

of unaccompanied urban territory. A dog

requires an excess                    unavailable. I originated
from a farm                 , after all, where dogs

possess the amplitude
to roam.                       Preferring, also, not

a defecated yard. Rose              wants a fish, she
wants a fish, she wants a fish. In case

the message was unclear. She offers
promises of pet care and routine,

hoping someone will believe her.

 

3.

Bellwether, prep; to establish and assemble her aquarium

before any fish might land. Rose plucks

a castle, mermaid                     , small plastic greenery; harvests
two small bags of coloured gravel. Her bearing, shifts,

she vibrates, crosswise; strums                         PetSmart shelves.
Each step

a stop, a break                          in linearity. She laughs,

ahead of her own debate. With fresh tank sidelining
her seasonal e-learning retreat

of former dining room, she holds: the soon-keeper

of the sacred fish.

 

4.

This biological                         filter media. Her fishless
ten-gallon vessel, which will be,

soon enough. How water catches sound
in motion, motion. Apparently boundless. This approximation

of a single misstep, stanza,

verset, word. Once home, and set                    , she stares, across

this dimpled glow                    of light-emitting diode
into oxygenating water.

 

 

Thirteen ways of looking (in-progress,

 

, after Robert Kroetsch

 

1.

A blackbird, thus. A lemon. Glacier. A mass of scatter, heart. The scent of that, green. Christine fills the sunroom with tomatoes, garlic, sunflower seeds. She pulls at the lettuce. Is it the distance that separates. Rose, mutters. Underneath her breath. Christine’s potted lemon tree. A bale of straw in the trunk of the car. For the garlic, she says. To plant the garlic.

You hear the sun. When light is not your friend. This bite, is melancholy.

When they have senses. Another wheelbarrow of dirt. Another broken wheelbarrow. Rhythm: an elusive quality. What two are opposite. The children walk on sound.

The differences of small hands. The differences of hands, without which there is no poem.

I have an abiding interest. My father carried around such years. His father, before him.

 

2.

Whether, red. These green tomatoes: a double reference. Whenever speech an act.

As I continue to expand. What I could not, for the writing of it.

How this is not my book.

 

3.

This blackbird, lemon. As I wander, thoughts. A frame supports the language.

Christine prepares the garden. She separates out, what is familiar. I haul out a wheelbarrow of topsoil. I haul out a wheelbarrow of topsoil. I haul out a wheelbarrow of topsoil. A cubic yard. I empty the bag from our driveway.

To garden, which might be a form of translation. Aoife, her twice-weekly German class. She responds to her sister: nein.

Someone is chewing a bone in my rib cage. Aurora Borealis. What memory is.

Craig Santos Perez: It was summer all winter. What we know, for the writing of it. For the looking.

 

4.

A sheer of frost. The morning, withers. Children vacillate: breakfast, clothes.

Morning: the first and last daily capture during which I self-orient. A form, we lack. Scribble notes in my notebook, this notepad, this postcard. Even the dishwasher grumbles.

Forest school: Aoife names her newly-acquired stick “red crayon.” Once home, she markers the point black, not red. Is this not a pipe.

Let us skip across categories, the ideal situation. An ordinary day, persists. The love songs of Nancy Sinatra, Lizzo. Everyone on television has such good teeth.

I have lost my ability to count.

 

5.

If someone asked me: How are sketches shaped? How is a lemon? How might an hour?

The young ladies’ e-learnings present themselves in packets. One ninety-minute session. A wee break, there.

One moves beyond the iron element.

Christine left the house today at 9am. She will return around dinnertime. One thought leading directly and immediately into another. With a clean edge.

My flippant response to a Twitter question: What prompts you to write?

I answered: Fear of death.

(October 2021-

Parallel investigation

 

1.

Does the appearance of               emerging author
suggest the alternate                    , of retreat?

 

2.

I rarely daydream                        in rhyme.
Degrees, experience,

a polished stream of alternates, floating down
the spring excess

of the floodplain               at Riverside.

I respond better to syntax

than to philosophies.                              I respond
to kindness.

 

3.

Scientists determine                    that bananas           cause anxiety
in male mice. What

might this prompt in them. Anxiety,

and fear. Hot vax summer, hot girl summer, hot
hot

hot. One might ask           the moon,
after so many poems, what

has it done for me  in return.    
Absolutely nothing.

 

4.

I am behind on further tasks                  than can be dreamt of
in your philosophy.

 

A manifesto on the poetics of Asphodel Twp.

Sad to hear, via the Canadian Bookbinders and Book Artists Guild (through a facebook post) that Canadian bookbinder Michael Wilcox has died. Back out in 2011 (July, I think) we drove out to Big Cedar so Christine could interview him for the CBBAG magazine, and she brought me along for the sake of the three-plus hour drive, as well as for the fact that the Wilcox was well-known for his gruffness. Wilcox was a Master Bookbinder, and had been decades been repairing books for the University of Toronto Rare Books Library, driving up to pick up books to take home for repair (I suspect he was the only one allowed to leave that building with any of their materials).

We dropped into his studio, and apparently the fact that I tagged-along allowed for some stories he might not have told. Before the interview officially began, he showed us his studio workshop, including the incredible array of tools he’d hand-made. Given I’m unaware of most printing and book-repair tools (especially then), I kept asking him what various items and equipment were and were for, which would prompt him to tell a small story for each (stories he might not have told, Christine says, as she would have known what all that equipment was). It was an interesting visit, and his wife Suzanne was delightful, and she said we could come back and visit at any time (he didn’t seem against the idea, but also not the sort of thing he might have offered). I’m wishing we would have taken her up on that (although he and Christine did correspond quite a bit after our visit).

Here's a poem I wrote them, after we landed back home (and yes, they did live in Asphodel Township):

A manifesto on the poetics of Asphodel Twp.

for Michael & Suzanne Wilcox,

            I have forgot
                            and yet I see clearly enough
                                            something
            central to the sky
                            which ranges round it.

            William Carlos Williams, “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower”

1.

 

If Heaven, river. What greeny something. Shine, Kawartha Highlands. Lake, and early hum. Once, in the shadows. Glowing outwards, temperate. Ontario syntax. Reassuring this, and self. A revelation, you. I see the world. Claw, in architecture. Bipolar lift, a tongue. A peace the mind can breathe. Although the dark remains, small lights in favour. Celebration, soar.

 

2.

 

The mouth, at Cameron's Point. An acid-free layer. Craft: a promise, fold. Is this all nothing? Repair, a situation. Sorrow, and a cock-eyed grin. In this room, this other room. A complicated, binding. This morning, Highway 7. Double-binding, surface of a still. Lovesick Lake, meeting hip to shape to shore to night. A glacier, made. Such frozen light.

 

 

3.

 

Asphodel, greeny flower. Surveyed in 1820, Richard Birdsal. To warm up, bottles under covers. All the uphill way. If it is, repeated. Notes, and highway. Hummingbird feeders, to keep from ants, from black bears. An empty bench, among. Back and forth, snow-scribbling. Some other star. The metaphor: cast iron, photo-legal. Walking. John Becket and his wife, five children.

 

 

4.

 

You left your mark. Combination of industry. Vaguely seen, but can't cross. Waterskin. Go, central-eastern. The shores of Rice Lake, frequent. Burned away. Big Cedar, smoke. Yours, truly. Tell, no other story. Picked up, by useless clouds. Such well-bred manner, brush. Such lovely liquid. A leather casing, isolation. Those that have the will.