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GENERAL POEMS

FREETHINKER OUR LADY OF DEMONS SISTERHOOD RADICAL FEMINIST MALLWORLD
STORM 1973 BARREN CRESCENT VIRGINITY MOLLUSK ANOREXIC


QUEBEC POEMS

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE THE KEWL FROM ANCIENNE-LORETTE AFTER THE REFERENDUM RALLY
FULL CIRCLE FRANCOIS PARIZEAU LES FAUSSES CHALEURS DE MARS
TO QUEBEC CITY DANIEL JOHNSON, FILS OVERLOOKED I REMEMBER



freethinker

svelt blond and eighteen she dons her beret
wears her heresy on her sleeve
to insult, annoy, tease
anyone with the nerve to believe

her trademark blasphemy is her
effort to save society from outdated
notions of propriety, eradicate angst-filled
guilt-ridden anxiety in the name of
secular piety performing sins both mortal and venial

don't get me wrong she is quite congenial
especially with the poor and lowly. in fact:
the closest to feeling pure and holy that she
has ever felt was in the performance of
the most menial tasks for them; and she
claims with pride that she's never knelt since
her first communion except to wash the floor
of the everywymyn's health food store

Christmas soon and
she wonders at the cosmos and the
the little children making
angels in the snow

our lady of demons

you squish him like an old cigarette butt
with your foot dainty as the white wax falling
which is all my heart
can apprehend

a pool of wax
a sea of bitterness
fragile droplets
and the flame's hiss

our lady of demons
pray for me
another man has come and gone
and i am too weak
to put my foot down

sisterhood

the angry horned moon
about to bite
the Morning Star who
dogs her light

with her purity

radical feminist

she clasps the podium with manicured hands
to rally her sisters
to the cause

she raises her voice over the multitudes
and like a thunderbolt
it falls

mallworld

where the glass roof sunshine gleams
against the purple metal beams
where our eyes inhaled the hazy light
as in a cathedral

where we could smoke without a care
anchored to our food court seats
and no one asked us nothing
except to leave

when alone i'd find the chapel
located in a distant wing
the homily lasted a minute
and no one asked for an offering

when expelled at 9 pm
my friends and I would roam because
the buses didn't come at our convenience
we had to find our own way home

storm

the jasper beach smiles her shark teeth
and bewitches the flaccid tide
who rolls in a sash of sea shells while
the seaweed underneath
sways slow and heavy
like wedding bells

the jasper beach soaks in the shower
almost as if trying to devour the ambitious river
as he moves back and forth
looking up, she notices the clouds part
in the tempest, all her heart can apprehend
is Polaris throbbing
and other foreign stars mobbing
around her head like a dance of joy

as the wind dies down,
and the tides recede
all the fish notice
is the calm seaweed

1973 barron crescent

the wife invites you
to sit on the sofa,
covered in plastic
asking that you

not mind the dust

as she spends her free time
knitting petitions
in defence of
the jolly surgeon,
who performed her abortion,
in order to lull the sorrow
of this year's miscarriage

the husband confesses
his sense of priorities
it's his new business

they are fervent believers
in this new neighbourhood
the yard is barren, but they
hope to landscape it
to reflect their iconoclastic
spiritual lifestyle
rooted in the Earth

virginity


bedroom door

...........................slowly whines

............................................................hallway light

mollusk

your hand surfs
the mollusk shell
with the lower lip
that hangs in anticipation

i say: listen
let yourself be immersed
in the thick ocean silence
of the mollusk's birthplace
and be still

anorexic

kneeling to the toilet
she offers a cornucopia

prays to be

desirable...... but untouchable
looked at ..... but ignored

that she'll finally be able
to wear her rosaries
with padded cleavage

and tricks her hunger

QUEBEC POEMS

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

I grew up in Quebec City as a fluently bilingual Anglo-Quebecker. I studied at Laval University, and in my university days, I was involved in the youth wing of the federalist Quebec Liberal Party. I graduated with a B.A. in History in 1998. I then moved to Ontario with my husband, another Anglo, so that he could do a Master's Degree.

It has occurred to me that some people may wonder why a federalist Anglo from Quebec City would ever want to write poems about Quebec. Only Quebec-born Anglos would wonder that. If you grew up anywhere else, you would assume that it's only natural to harbour some affection for your hometown, and that would be an obvious subject to write about. This is not a natural instinct for Anglo-Quebeckers, especially those who grew up outside areas of major Anglo concentration like Montreal and Hull. I spent most of my youth daydreaming about living anywhere else except Quebec City, and so did just about every other Anglo my age. That's very, very sad. Quebec City was considered a nice place, but it was never a place where you could "make it" in life. I think that's why there are so few Quebec-born Anglo artists, again, especially outside of Montreal and Hull.

Neil Bissoondah once wrote a story (I forget the title) about a Canadian immigrant who returns to his native Carribean island to find that the people he grew up with felt "defeated". One of the characters wrote a history of the island, a competent work, but no one would publish it, because no one cared about this little island.

This is the story about my little island that no one cares about. These poems are an attempt to convey my experience as an Anglo living in Quebec. That may sound obvious to any non-Anglo Quebecker, but it's not to those who never had local Anglo role models except for teachers. If you know nothing about the linguistic and political situation in Quebec, these poems may not make sense to you. But any Canadian who has the slightest idea about Quebec politics can read and understand these.


the kewl

they descend like seagulls upon carre d'youville
infested-- plagued-- with suburban overkill

girls whose chests are illustrated with cannabis
spraypaint "fuck chretien" on the royal bank edifice
boys drink the latest from the microbrewery
sporting impudent nose and eyebrow jewelry

a man with an earring nods to "heart-shaped box"
as his partner curses televangelist flocks
i try to shut out the tabarnaks
watch the crosslight avoid the bike racks condemn them

for being so crass and lewd...... forget
that it's only smug certitude...... try to

.......................drown out

.........................................................silence

.....................................................................................the public mood

.......................drown out

.........................................................silence

.........................................................................................in solitude

From Ancienne-Lorette

From the hills
where i stand
Quebec City
you look
unconquerable
tonight
you look like a dark lake of golden stars
a mirror of our aspirations

Pont Pierre-Laporte on my right
the bridge to our dreams on the Trans-Canada
past the miles of repitive brush and farmland
crawling out from under the April snow,
leaving me behind;
past the sad and silvery puddles
lining the route
glistening in the sun

From the hills
where i stand
Quebec City
you look
unconquerable
tonight
you look like a dark lake of golden stars
a mirror of our aspirations

Pont Pierre Laporte on my right
its suspension cords like the iron bars
of a great gate to the Promised Land
on the Trans-Canada, past the bastions
of separatism, the towns for whom
i am no one they know, the towns
that will never miss
the fact that i am gone

From the hills
where i stand
Quebec City
you look
unconquerable
tonight
you look like a dark lake of golden stars
a mirror of our aspirations

everyone's
except mine

From the hills
where i stand
Quebec City
you look
unconquerable
tonight
you look like

a crown of shark's teeth
or a lake of tears

after the referendum rally

(to my boyfriend)

to our separate beds
we went reaching
for a cold pillow
in hollow covers

full circle

(to Laval University)

Laval, Laval
you gave me memory
you gave me history
but it's only half mine
whenever you can remember
the other,
you remind me not to forget

that I'm a nameless Anglo with a misty face
out of time and out of place
who lives and dies without a trace
among stock characters
like Durham and Molson

But I do not take offense
ever waiting to hear
"Anglos come home"
there, there is
no litterature
no history
no pride and
no one wonders why

Francois

Francois, fifteen lanky and zit-faced
waits for his flight at Dorval, alone
listening to the echo of his own foot tapping

without strings or safety nets he will fly
to the storybook land of
cowboy rednecks
hardcovers bibles
and country twang
to leave his tongue behind
and take on another
in his self-imposed silence
he clasps in his heart a silly dream
of becoming some maiden's
chevalier

he inhales the dream of the west
his mouth waters
as he envisions
the expanse of the
Okanagan orchards
and all the bushels he'll fill

and his stomach whines
longing
for the crack of apples
between his teeth

Parizeau

strolls
on the Plains
and still smokes
despite appearances
where the cannons
left off

returning home
the rue des Braves
makes him recall

the last battle
and he vows that
we'll soon stand tall

but he forgets
a last stand is useless
when you lose Montreal

les fausses chaleurs de mars

her skirt carelessly recedes and reveals
pathetic patches of yellow grass
seducing the Canadian with
les fausses chaleurs de mars

her bosom bobbles up and down
molested by the fish
and inspires the sap to rise
in the maple bush

her smirk resounds in the icicles
the Canadian on his knees
begs and says the time is right
but she ignores his pleas

To Quebec City

love letter from an Anglo

tonight i want to lick you up you
lovely lake of stars, come to you
find your heartbeat, in the parks
and in the bars; kiss your wounds
of poverty and make you glow
i want to be yours forever!

you don't know me though.

Daniel Johnson, fils

on the occasion of his resignation

i hope you're not taking too hard
that fact you weren't able to one-up Bouchard

you were handed a platform
that weighed you down
like a cross

and followed the script
instead of recreating a masterpiece
out of the decalogue

and as the script dictated
you proposed
the same catalogue of rational choices
that spoke to the pocketbooks
the only other options
your audience would allow you to present
it was precisely for this reason
you ran unopposed
for the PLQ leadership

They did not pay heed to your logic
and the surrealism wouldn't have caused you grief
if only they had found enough inspiration
in your bright blue eyes or strong white teeth
a little too predictable and correct
for that rebel edge in a people too
lost and stiff-necked to want things simple
so it goes

Quebec reaps what it sows.

overlooked

she remains like an unknown planet
living her quiet revolution

waiting for some astrologer
to uncover her

i remember

bosses with
english gardens
in townside,
st-joachim

white picket fences
next to farmers' fields
and the paper mill
imposing
like a feudal castle

the english gardens
reconquered
a few remain
who can say
"i remember"

when they do

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