Название | Asbestos Heights |
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Автор произведения | David McGimpsey |
Жанр | Зарубежные стихи |
Серия | |
Издательство | Зарубежные стихи |
Год выпуска | 0 |
isbn | 9781770564152 |
just to make the best of despair?
Do you miss those bed-bound Sundays we had?
You’d read classic American novels
and when it was Henry James you would scream
at the heroine, ‘Oh, just bend over!’
Into the acacia you go, scowl mouth.
Into the acacia with you, whatever
Jonathan Franzen novel with the girl
who chews the cuffs of her new blue blouse.
Like heartfelt, canola is a made-up word.
It brings together Canada and oil.
It’s a tub of fun you’ll be glad to call
I Can’t Believe It’s Not More Meaningful.
Columbines
In the kingdom Plantae, in the ‘You stink,
Ophelia’ class, four of five columbines
mark the spot where I finally decided
to increase my social media profile.
O, Annie Facebook, Clarissa Twitter -
we’re going to the prom! I shed real tears
just because my poem for Beyoncé
was rejected by the Malahat Review.
Could the columbines be mashed into scent,
giving me a resilient mountain freshness?
The answer, after that long flight to Paris,
was a resounding absolutement pas.
Still, I knew I was going to pluck and pluck,
and I plucked until plucking became my life,
well beyond any interest in sowing
and its much-funner cousin reaping.
Tulips
Corduroy once ruled the kingdom of pants.
I was still writing poetry back then.
Or, whatever it was I did back then
that made people say, ‘That’s not poetry!’
The tulips my father planted back home
bloomed steady most Easter-times, sure as
the plans I sketched out to start feeling good
got crumpled alongside a map to Rome.
Casting ‘foul light upon neighbouring ponds’
was not my cup of Sprite, but I enjoyed
choking with anxiety whenever
the seasons made a definitive change.
Fall was all university khakis
and old Nantuckets braying, ‘Hey, Corduroy!
Your footgame burger garbage is garbage!’
until it was finally footgame season.
Nasturtium
I took careful notes on the nasturtiums,
ticking off each one I saw. Over the year –
year and a half? – I saw near six hundred.
The best and dumbest thing I ever did.
As long as it rains, nasturtiums will grow
and the cycle of life, from grassy spore
to Mars Incorporated’s decision
to make pina colada M&Ms, will go on.
Oh, through it all, nose after heady nose,
racking up scores, I started to lose heart;
it sounds fancy and fragrant, when, really,
I couldn’t be bothered with instant soup.
Bring primrose like tomato soup
and jasmine like a fresh oyster chowder;
O daffodilly-coloured chicken noodle,
O nasturtium with cloved pumpkin flower.
Johnson’s Blue Geranium
As late I returned to that corner café,
so favoured by Montreal hipsters;
I could not tell any of my old friends
what happened after that stinky summer.
It was spring and I spotted what I thought
were Instagrammable crocuses
but were, I was told, Siberian squills
or maybe Johnson’s blue geraniums.
Traditionally, blue geraniums
symbolize a gentle constancy,
where the Siberian squill represents
being murdered by Joseph Stalin.
I would have eaten them all, like a cow,
just to ease the pain of not knowing.
I returned to that corner cafe squinting,
having long run out of quelling lies.
(after Keats)
Lady’s Slipper
That poem was my career. It poured flop sweat
and begged grad students to stop hating me.
It punched at the famous and took cover
in weeks of Beyoncé-fed solitude.
That poem knew where it was and how much
it was worth compared to a blow job.
It knew the other poems by name: they
gave me panic attacks they struck so quick.
That poem was the great hope I wouldn’t work
for a living, the dream I could survive,
being admired as if an academic
John Stamos (or a telegenic Žižek).
That poem did what I told it to do.
Sort of. It snarled up on Asbestos Heights.
Now, of course, snarling is all it’s good for
as my hunchback moves to the left, to the left.
Saffron
When the Glooscap Trail in Nova Scotia
got too Glooscappy for me, I turned south.
All the buckeyes and all the baseball games
I’d need to score to prove I didn’t mind.
Not that I grew so blessed with freedom
I outlived personifying the wind
(it ‘murmured,’ it ‘howled,’ it even ‘bled’)
or outlived those who spoke for literature.
Wherever they were, every sentence began
‘Poetry is . . . ’ and zeroed in, like a hawk,
to how foolish it was I spent seven years
writing sonnets about orange soda pop.
My lungs were born to proof asbestos,
my teeth edged to tear open Doritos.
Poetry was bound to love Nova Scotia,
what with