all i can think about

the downbeat
negative space
trees beyond
the outfield fence
at shear park
your mouth
with crumbs of honey toast
in the corners
there are so many things
i haven’t shown you
my blue my red my
orange bluster
this song reminds me
of old lovers
rediscovering the creases
in each other’s skin
and here’s a newsflash:
that beggar’s moon never did take me
where i needed to go
and right now i would like to be
pondering brush strokes
harmonic convergence
and string theory
but all i can think about
is the heartbreakingly sweet
corners of your lovely
honeyed mouth

 

20 minutes

Geneviève Bergeron, Hélène Colgan, Nathalie Croteau, Barbara Daigneault, Anne-Marie Edward, Maud Haviernick, Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz, Maryse Laganière, Maryse Leclair, Anne-Marie Lemay, Sonia Pelletier, Michèle Richard, Annie St-Arneault, Annie Turcotte.

Killed in a 20-minute war on ‘feminists.’

Lest we forget.

 

visitation

your spirit showed up
in my kitchen today
reminding me of summer
that glorious
first week of freedom
reserved for the cottage,
the canoe
timid skin on burning sand,
georgian bay always too cold
for swimming
even in mid-june
sunburned feet limping down hot, gravel roads
to the concession for pop red & licorice black
cashews & cheese curds
& dipped cones that always melted
before we got back to our towels
i longed for you to rub oil on my back
but was too shy to ask

your laugh slipped under my ball cap today
flying our bikes past the shanty bay station
sandwiches wrapped & knapsacks stuffed
tearing up the asphalt on our wicked purple 10-speeds
& didn’t we just own that road, you and me

your face smiled back from my mirror today
reminding me of pyjama parties & midnight radio
up all night on jenny’s birthday
sneaking canadian club into our seven-up
telling deep, dark secrets, telling grade eleven lies
lighting séance candles and trying not to giggle
holding hands and asking the ouija board
if any of us would ever marry teddy coulson
when all i ever wanted
was to run away with you

your blue shirt slipped off a hanger in my closet today
chased me into the wilsons’ backyard, flashlight tag
bushes dark, shadows mysterious
scaring each other silly & screaming
when bats appeared in the friday night sky
& after, smoking under the maple trees
with garry and reg
truth, dare or consequences
hoping the dare might involve a kiss;
the consequence, a clandestine grope
and me desperately praying no one ever guessed at the truth:
that whenever i kissed one of those boys
i pretended i was kissing you

your dog-eared rubyfruit jungle fell from my bookshelf today
landed right where you passed me that sexy note in english class
almost intercepted by ol’ mister harris
double detention ’cause we wouldn’t give it up
couldn’t risk him cracking our private code
& what was the big deal, we’d both already finished our assignments
& why do you always have booze on your breath sir?
is what we shoulda said

your spirit danced into my heart today
leading me back to 501’s and ralph lauren cologne
sneaking beers in your aunt’s basement
and wearing out the rewind button on her tape deck
carole pope and the parachute club
the soundtrack for our burgeoning yearnings
you know, those ones we never talked about
the kind two girls aren’t supposed to feel
for each other

your warm breath filled my lungs today
reminding me of how, when no one was looking,
we created excuses to touch
play-fighting in mock anger
inventing games that required wrestling, invited contact
exploring each other’s skin with tentative hands
pretending it was accidental, the friction, the heat
your body on mine on yours on mine
gangly limbs entwined

pressed together soft on loud rec-room shag
holding, holding tight
gripping, bold & shy & soft electric
wanting not to ever have to let go
wanting not to ever have to give it a name

your scent spilled into my bed today
‘love’s fresh lemon’ luring me back
to all those things we never allowed ourselves to feel
or say out loud

sweet friend

 

diversity 2009

the summer solstice is just around the corner, and that means that Diversity, the annual visual arts alberta (vaa) exhibition, is about to kick off.

Rotorua, 16x20, acrylic on canvas, laurie macfayden, 2009

the juried show and sale, held in conjunction with The Works art & design festival,
is a fund-raising event so many of the pieces will be available for purchase, including this fairly new piece of mine, titled Rotorua.

the show opens this thursday, june 18 with a reception from 6 to 9:30 p.m.
at harcourt house, 3rd floor,
10215 – 112 street, edmonton.
the exhibit continues through july 18.

gallery hours are from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., monday through friday and saturdays noon to 4 p.m. (closed july 1).

also, my art webpage has just been updated with 18 new images added. most of them are available for purchase.
check them out at www.lauriemacfayden.com

 

rangitoto island

 

inside the drawer from hell

unable as i am to throw anything away,
i came across in the junk drawer the other day:

bits of string
expired pizza coupons
chinese takeaway menus
three hundred and sixteen twist ties
seven golf tees
recipes for chicken wings (i’ve been vegetarian
for twelve years)
screws of various lengths
fridge magnets
yellowed dilbert comics clipped from the newspaper
dental floss
the joker from a pack of playing cards
seed packets for wildflowers
a dead chapstick
a guitar pick
nine ketchup packets
dad’s swiss army knife
an eaton’s charge card
five dead batteries
shoelaces
folk fest wristbands from three different summers
several brittle elastics
two broken pencils
nine dried-out felt pens
thirteen business cards
joe’s wedding invitation
lorne’s funeral notice
a radio shack tape recorder
four “special” beer caps
a postcard from new york city
a plastic skull ring
ribbon
a bic lighter
eyepiece caps from a pair of binoculars
visa receipts from 2002
warranty cards for kettle and microwave (both of which
are long gone to kitchen appliance heaven)
film negatives clipped to photo reprint orders
popsicle sticks
a piece of petrified double bubble 
a black and white photo of dad playing the harmonica
with jamie on his knee
a red crayon
fourteen ETS bus schedules, twelve of them out of date
a mix tape of songs from 1986
half of a very linty chocolate bar
an oilers key chain
picture hanging wire
three pairs of one-armed sunglasses
nineteen paper clips
candle ends
a kazoo

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

below the line:

and this is just the stuff that i KEPT …

 

The power of ten

White Shirt is in the house … Frontenac House!

After three weeks of agonizing secrecy, I am relieved to finally be able to scream it from the rooftops:

My poetry manuscript White Shirt will be published next spring by Frontenac House as part of its 10th anniversary Dektet 2010 collection.

The esteemed Calgary publishing house has been printing four poetry titles a year — the landmark Quartet series — since 2001. (“Frontenac House’s annual competition must offer four of the most sought-after slots in the poetry biz in Canada.” — Richard Stevenson, The Danforth Review.) In celebration of its 10th year, 10 titles will be released in 2010. 

The other Dektet authors are Jocko Benoit, Lori Cayer, Adebe DeRango-Adem, Jannie Edwards, Keith Garebian, S. McDonald, William Nichols, Nikki Reimer and Douglas Burnet Smith.   

From the Frontenac website:

“The titles have been chosen using a blind selection process by a jury of leading Canadian writers: bill bissett, George Elliot Clarke and Alice Major. The jurors and publishers were impressed by both the number and quality of the submissions.”

What the jury said about White Shirt:

“This is the ‘classic’ hard-drinking, hard-living, gravelly poet’s voice — only it comes from a woman. It’s a bust-out-of-the-closet voice where occasional touchstone rhymes and furious lists score the page. The poems are stripped down, poignant, exact, and as heartily playful as any serious blues. Here is Sappho crossed with the Supremes.”

Er… Sappho crossed with the Supremes?

Bonga Swetso!
(i.e., awesome, for those of you who haven’t read Kate De Goldi’s The 10 p.m. Question)

Meanwhile, the Edmonton launch of Quartet 2009, showcasing poets Nancy Jo Cullen, Anna Marie Sewell, Bob Stallworthy and Pierrette Requier, goes tonight at the Artery, 9535 Jasper Ave., beginning at 7 p.m. Feel free to drop in for an evening of poetry, performance and music.

And btw, that gorgeous photo of me on the website was taken by my good friend and photographer extraordinaire Randall Edwards. Nobody shoots writers & artists like Master Eds. And all the best people know it.

 

haiku after monet at te papa

claude your eight red blobs
placed in meadow with poplars
take my breath away

the poet who falls
from atop a long white cloud
grins and says thank you

 

the last night

this doesn’t smell like my room anymore.
why did you paint the walls brown?
what was wrong with the clipper blue
underneath my photos and psychedelic posters?
brown is so … unclear.

this is the last night before we bury you.
i would sleep across the hall in cam’s old room
but that is where you camped in the weeks before you
died.
your nightgowns, towels, socks are still on the floor.
joyce carol oates on the nightstand. you never
gave up on her.

this is the last night before we bury you and dad
hasn’t changed the sheets, swept the floors,
turned on the news or
fed himself. the man
needs a wife and now you have
gone.

it’s the last night
before we bury you
and we are numb
exhausted, pale and
disbelieving. how could you be so
absent?

it’s the last night
before we bury you
and we try to make small talk. the weather
the economy
the damn hockey team
still can’t find the net.

mother, tomorrow we will bury you
and i am bewildered.
why have you picked this time to go,
did you get bored or
just need a change of scenery?
did it hurt too much to stay?
i wonder if you are missing us yet

it’s the last night before we bury you
and the cork is out of the bottle of the good stuff
courvoisier in your honour,
the boys won’t call it a night until the last drop is on
somebody’s tongue
we tried to eat, the neighbors brought food
dad spilled a lot on his shirt while telling us he never
stopped loving you

in the morning we the mourning
will bury you.
dad will drop his car keys into the garbage
and we will tear the house apart looking for them.
tommy will cry on my shoulder, then i on his.
i will soak the collar of his suit jacket with my tears.
the hospital chaplain, who never met you,
will attempt to tell people about your life
based on stories dad told him.
he will call us recipients of kindness, say he can tell
you were kind by the looks our eyes, we your children, we the grieving.
he will try to paint a picture
and he will fail miserably.
he will try to sneak in references to god
and we will wince, knowing you didn’t want that.
people will hug us and light candles and promise to call

but for now, tonight,
tonight is the last night before we bury you
and we are wondering what to do, what to say
we are lost, we are so small,
we are out of words.

mother, if you find your way back to this place
– in a dream, on a prayer or as a creak on the stair –
you should probably let dad know where to find
the spare set of keys, the chequebook
show him how to boil an egg, scour the stove,
whisper in his ear that you are safe
and in a good place.
he is looking a little worse for wear tonight
and doesn’t know how to ask  for help.
he never had to with you around.

 

colour me mute

“the search for colour i do not owe
to my having studied painting;
rather it is based on an external influence
– namely that of light in nature.”

henri matisse, 1952

what is my vocabulary?

what am i trying to communicate with my art?

what am i trying to say?

how can i say it most effectively?

do i have anything to say?

what colour is it?