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Archive for April 9th, 2009

Guelph, Ontario

Dog Days

On the hill this frail parish leans.lbarkchurch1

Four lanes of weary houses

Clutching vacant slices

Of fractured, parched soil

Disappointed thistles

Ants dusting sun-scoured silence

Weed corpses praying

To the cracked frame church

Clawed white paint

Windows bleak

As empty sky.

Erupting from the church

Crowds of oblivious, jovial tourists

Ablaze in fuschia, orange and magenta

Agitate and dance around the priest

With vacation merriment.

Stirring dust storms

Of exuberance.

The dog day drought

Does not affect

The resorts on the bay.

Dusty cars ingest the crowds

As one by one they leave

And head toward

The fresh cool waters

Of the bay

Leaving behind fragile shelters

Of stalwart natives

Who were amused

By

The Play.

Burning purifies the village

Paving the way for

The next Traveling Theatre

Presenting:

Shameless October

Lonely November

Bitter February

Forgiving May.

Seducing sturdy souls

To stay.

Josephine Stone

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Legend 14


Ever, you are a mother
born of damp earth
and bush.

I come to you,
your ache and season.
Your disease.

But I am history,
a broken buffalo
felled and given.

I dream of weight
and the hair coat
of the bison
its mouth
a bowl of rain.

Come, Mother
gather your child
in your wrap and pelt.

My soul moans
like a truck
drunk on gasoline.

Its tires high
on tobacco
and the sweet grass
of women.

Moan for the listen:
the voice of Ma,
her tongue a sick medicine.

My man is locked down,
a warrior who bleeds.
Her magic is a pouch
torn at the seam.

He is open like a girl,
a poor purse,
a memory.
Or food for fox,
his wild teeth.

History, History, History



April Bulmer has published six books and four chapbooks. Her most recent book is The Goddess Psalms (Serengeti Press). Her work has appeared in more than 50 Canadian and international journals. It has been published in Hong Kong, Israel, India, England, Argentina and the U.S. The poem that appears here is from an upcoming book called Rouge. Contact her at: aprilb@golden.net.

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Thorold, Ontario

Why We Write

Earth, water, light,

things that are green –

themes of infinity

‘A Tree of Life’ rooted

in the rich hummus

of time

branched upward

into moist

morning sky, yet

these leaves have tasted

the drought-dust of winds

sighing, sand

blasting, stones arranged

on it’s rocky plain.

But there are signs

of rain’s velvet touch,

of a voice

in the echo

of a drip, of torrent-

drawing shapes

in the mud, rivulets

written in sand

as if someone

needed to show

they were there

a small thing

skimming the surface

memory deep

in earth.

Keith is a former factory worker who lives and writes in Thorold, Ontario, beside the Welland Canal, where they say ships climb the mountain (but it’s really only a big hill).

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