COMPASS



COMPASS

acrylic/fluted sbs
28"x 32"

aSide from




aside from tht post abvout Miram waddington i've arrested Canadian poetry on it s potty funny spotty thing it is not tist but what tho thinkest fool !

say foool?

 saith fool!


 what voice which is greate without us! without  us the US border order/ ordure

   cant bang wings
        so touch wings
           match big things
        work your heart then steel your nerves but no ones got 'steel' nerves you might have stellar ones,
     but o.e.d. baby nobodby but nobody has steel nerves, it's a contradiction in terms




Miss Lisa R Miss Liar called Not Miss lyre as I am she he who is Lyrie f nm  Oprheus squire 


2 list, List! O ghost!







 followed quickly by the worst critics but are not all critics worst? worst stockings blue stockings 
   blue pencillers bookstore sellers pilloried printes and publishers? roaring overweigh crickets
     poucning on each term and blessing of a  poet's comma a doma of dooma? which word
           is the rite word? the wurd bird? the burde word accent on the open outside A?
         Ay? or is it Aye? hay?
            im don with your coveting coeval covering cherub Mista boombumBloomMrs Theory Madame cricket an Mista Frye
                   bye bye  bye bye bye bye bi by by goodbye goodbye






_______

a list, listing


.





 A listing of Canada's worst poets  ...


 A listing of Canada's worst poets  ...



 A listing of Canada's worst poets  ...


 A listing of Canada's worst poets  ...

      
 & most negligent  libraries 
digital dummmies n jerks 
losing sight of their priority
    confusing the shadow for the substance
___
“Without you”

Where can I be without you
The familiar bits echo phoney
Little me lost inside
Dragged along, an old shoe,
Wondering if we’ll meet again
Then I forget you’re absence
And remember your laughter
My heart floats in the sky above
I sing songs of the once upon joy
Till I’m in that timeless place
Floating up through the clouds above.
HARD TIMES

Once a flapper did a dance with the law
Had a lover in the business of booze
She dances and sings jazz bird dreams
Oh my
Smuggler's gun shots led to the hangman's noose

The hemp rope dance made her swoon to the floor
Brought him, as he saved her from anything more,
Down, as the gavel pounded the verdict, she fell
He crashed with her in shock, down pell-mell.

The dream of living where the spirit is free
He said go live it all forget about me
The trap door dropped for the desperado
Cause no mouthpiece would work for free

Poor men must from the scaffold dangle 
Guilty pockets are empty, innocently,
The man with the gavel works for a fee
For nothing but the spirit can be free.

She does the tango and the Charleston
Drinks the cure for bar room lovers
And winds up on her knees, alone
Where demon rum cures her hangovers.
Flapper Frolics

He’s my sheik,
Making off with my heart,
A rebel but for me a sheik
I mean he strolled into my shade,
At the orphanage, the bar and grill,
The hotel, my heart soothed

By the slick music he played
On the ivory keys he swung me
I mean the chandelier could
I mean could not compete
No feat as when he swung me.

Ah he’s my sheik, a rebel
Making off with my heart,
Into life and out again Oh my,
Oh my, he wooed me on ivory keys
And left me with a taste for sad songs
I drink longing to hear
Those songs of happy days.
        “Guilty”

Up against the machine with flesh and bone
Under the boot heels of time and grind,
One wrong choice and the domino effect
Once born the soul yearns as the plant grows

As the hound races after the hare
Up against the machine flesh and bone
Under the boot heels of armies,
The dominoes fall unaffected by choice,

Dice thrown in my way in your way.
Not me! Says the  tyrant or the leader
I am free to cast your liberty
Under the boot heels of time 
Oh woe betides the little child and other
Innocents, as the judge pounds his gavel
We are one with the suffering of men.
Get Outta Here

No choice but to get outta here
Sell the packard for dough to go,
Take a fast train to Chicago
Transfer trains to Kansas City

Take a fast train outta here
To sing our songs in other parts
Where cash won’t grow on trees
Sell the car so they can’t trace us

Clickety clack’s the beat
The fast train keeps
Show time in the bar car
Dinner in the saloon
Feeling safe in our berth
Clickety clack’s that beat
A train keeps on the get go.


We’ll be like any other couple
We’ll be together on the go
Backing each other against all trouble
Take a fast train, change the show.

Clickety clack’s the beat
The fast train keeps
Show time in the bar car
Dinner in the saloon
Feeling safe in our berth
Clickety clack’s that beat
A train keeps on the get go.

We’ll be like any other couple
We’ll be together on the go
Backing each other against all trouble
Take a fast train, change the show.

              Curly Jones 

Curly wore a smock behind the fence wire grill
The bottles of half full bottles of beer
Crash on the grill and she smell like suds
After a shift at the bar and grill
False teeth or the real things float
In the bucket of blood, gold fillings
After a fall or a fight sink to the bottom,
There’s  drunk and there’s drunker
The fights are maudlin, the bouncer
Separates the wheat from the chaff
Curly wore wooden shoes on the night
When a bear bottle crashed on the grill
Snuffed out her half smoked dincher
She threw them at two likely fourflushers
And scampered back behind the bar
Lo and behold they boomeranged back
Passing  her mug on a pond of beer suds,
Floating with lit candles inside
A smile and compliment to her candor.
             JAZZ BIRD

Oh the tree tops nearly touch
The westward scudding clouds
Flocking birds shelter and sing
Sharing in sweet song,
Thoughts of the day

Joyfully ‘neath the moon
Oh the button bright moon
On the blue black sky
Just an electron racing round
Our Positive, negative and neutrally charged
Protonic world, just like the atom
Swirlin to form the galaxy flower

Oh woe is me how to be free
Like my fine feathered friends
To dance happily in the breeze
Singing jazz bird melodies
Underneath the cloud drawn sky.

            The Decoy

A shell game begs the switch
A distracting slight of hand
The con man’s game of sham
“Why you dancing” says the copper
Hah, ‘cause you want us, man
Want us all to have cold feet
But I dance for fun to switch
Shoot the line, when I must
It’s part of the game of trust
The smuggling dollar’s the topper
You need to know when to run
When to play and when to
Distract.  The game’s a foot,

 “You can’t win less you bet”
That’s the pitch, oh bother
Some buy, they can’t resist
Mostly, it’s their meaning in life
Some don’t buy the con,
Even that is their meaning, oh bother
Cause you can’t quit the game
They say it’s fixed
You draw them in,
Blow them off
Along with the others
Then it’s the waiting game
When I dance
Even though
My feet are not cold
Dancing between certainty
And chance
Waiting for the fish
Pitching, looting
Mostly the dance
It’s where we live
Between eternities
"On election day flappers came round
Victorian ladies threw in the towel
And together we made men stand down,
Look out for the new gal in town?
She's a woman with spunk in her fizz
Watch her sashay, the hard boil banter
Champagne glass in hand, eye flirting,
Rubbing shoulders with our betters
They don't marry so don't come round
Unless you're up for fun and sound
Of kick heel dancing, oh jazz bird heart
We're equal now and dress the part,
Our pleasure is deciding how to be
You see it's not floozy to be free
Taking the arm of whomever we please
So hike your skirts, roll the hosiery down
We create style, dance bare knees
Bob our hair and loosen our gowns,
Burn corsets, wear our crowns
Strut and swing hips, come down
And dance to the count of one two three
Come on, do the panty kick with me."
( This poem was recited like a rap at the outset of the play "On The Line"

Epic drama of weather





Sunsets like this one turn into imaginary landscapes that inspire hopes and aspirations, says author Christopher Dewdney. (Joonas Lyytinen Creative Commons Attribution 2.0)



If you shrunk the Earth to the size of a basketball, then our atmosphere would be equivalent to two layers of food wrap on the outside. 
With that in mind, it is very common to hear those fortunate few who have had the opportunity to look back on our planet from space, comment on both the beauty and the fragility of Earth. The beauty comes from seeing oceans and continents in their entirety; the fragility comes from seeing just how narrow that blue ring of atmosphere around the planet really is.
Yet within this thin band is where it all happens. It's where much of our planet's life exists, but it's also the most dynamic part of our planet, thanks to the weather.


ECW Press, Toronto, Canada
In his new book 18 Miles - The Epic Drama of Our Atmosphere and Its Weather, poet, author and teacher Christopher Dewdney takes us on a journey - often personal - from the unlikely birth of our atmosphere to the impact we have on it today - and all the wind and rain and storms in between.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Bob McDonald: Everyone talks about the weather, nobody does anything about it, but very few people write books about it. Why did you do it?
Christopher Dewdney: Well there's two reasons. First of all I've always been fascinated by weather. Ever since I was a kid in fact.  I detail in the book my first weather station and putting an anemometer and wind vane on top of my parents house; and getting my first instruments when I was 11 and trying to duplicate or at least second guess the forecasters of that evening. I was also totally fascinated as young boys often are by storms and tornadoes and those those kinds of things, violent weather. As I grew older and became a writer I realized there weren't any books, it seemed, about whether. There's lots of books about climate and lots of books that specialize in certain aspects of the atmosphere but no sort of general book about weather so I thought I'd address that with this book.
Bob McDonald: Well why do you feel that our atmosphere and its weather is an 'epic drama'.
Christopher Dewdney: My own experience with it. In Hurricane Katrina, I was inside the storm actually twice. Once in the Bahamas and then in Toronto when it has just had decelerated to a tropical low. I mean weather is something that's terrifying and capricious and sometimes very unexpected no matter what we forecast. And so it is very dramatic. It's a theatre really, I sort of look at the atmosphere as a theater in which these amazing dramas unfold.
Bob McDonald: Now just to clarify the title of your book '18 Miles' what are you referring to there?
Christopher Dewdney: Well basically ninety nine percent of the atmosphere lies within 18 miles of the surface. So it's not an arbitrary limit really. Primarily that's most of the atmosphere. So it gives it a very defined value, but also 18 miles, I find, is  surprisingly close to the surface.
Bob McDonald: We often think of weather events historically as bad events terrible things happen in wars or whatever. But you talk about a relatively good event that happened in 1967 the Summer of Love.
Christopher Dewdney: That's right. Well that was an interesting summer because a series of high pressure areas parked themselves during the summer over California in the early part of that summer, in May and June. They had unusually warm weather which is the very time the first love-ins and the Monterey Pop Festival was held,  which changed really the history of pop culture at that time. And then that 'summer of love' there was just an amazing temperature in which the outdoors kind of became a living room for the hippies that were hitchhiking all across North America and through Europe and England at the time. England had a very unusually warm August. So the weather had an incredibly supportive effect on a revolution I guess, a cultural revolution that might not have had such gravity or such size, so many people taking part in it, if it hadn't been so supportive.
Bob McDonald: You said at the beginning you were terrifically interested in weather. Does it still capture your imagination?
Christopher Dewdney: Chimpanzees apparently will gather in an evening to look at sunsets, and this has been seen by primatologists. It is something that all creatures share I think, well at least primates and we certainly do. And sunsets I think have extraordinary vistas and they turn into these imaginary landscapes. I think that a lot of our imaginings, a lot of our aspirations and a lot of our hopes are projected onto cloud landscapes and horizons and sunsets and the colours and the fantastic landscapes we see there.

as If,


As if

_______


   As if my poems were in your mouth
            like a sandwich we made
       

                   if the water wine
                            and your hips were songs

                                                    
                      How could I forget the love we made   
                                  asking how you could forget 


____________


  Short poems and Chapped Lips


(in the night a refrain for a song: 'in the night/ the night
                                                        your hips were   songs )




_______

it all happens to make your head happy

(Lights frame my head.)
You could look down, you could see it, but only from high up: it looked like
God was angry at something.
What moves us forward, what moves.
You say, “We use telescopes for prophecy. People are scared of how things’ll
turn out.” So they don’t want to look, you tell me.
Now what can I do.
They sit around and don’t talk, just throw curses down the lightshaft to Hell.
I’m so glad I found you.
Is there somewhere we can talk? My feet are tired. Someone’s been following
me all day.
I’m so glad I found you.
They were fixing to strike him dead, so he waited around all afternoon. But
still had his own head. Later, when he got into the Masonic Lodge, he said, “This is
a good thing.”
“Your body knows what it needs,” said the doctor. “Little failures.” He shows
me out, sends me down the hall to Accounts Payable.
You come to a team like this where every day, we’re going out to win.
Engendered endangered, outmanned manifold, bearded.
“You only eat thoughts in the house.”
My distribution system’s tongue is frozen to a metal pole.
Now what can I do to get? Nothing like styles.
“I wrote it in my mind” and the ink froze on paper.
I don’t have no control the red banded snake held in my palms, clapping its
jaws together, buds snapped pollen falls out to the wood floor I don’t have no
control.
I’m not looking for the joke I’m looking for the sequence.
I stack the spice boxes deliberately in patterns that’ll indicate their
importance to my family’s local cuisine, truly their own.
He Laughs at Ancient Comedy My Greek teacher in California used to say
that anyone who laughs at a piece of ancient comedy must be nuts— there’s nothing
funny in it.
“Satisfy my wishbone.” He prophesies.
“Give me something to eat.” Prophecy is a full head.
Prophecy is a noisy stomach.
Prophecy prophecy.
“it all happens for a reason” I don’t believe that, I truly don’t think it all
happens for a reason.
but it does, there’s still some chain of rational progression tied to my ankle
under the pants leg, when I walk down the street by the elm stump, the tree that
used to rise up in front of our house; when I drive to impossible work each
morning—it all happens for a reason.
but no one ever knows what or how they can profit by it.

Victoria,


________

    Dear Victoria, my sweet old end of the continent city visiting with you and Patrick(the crazy author) ,  Glenn and Veronica. and that's the lake where I lost my glasses,

             & found them after diving in the lake to get them found them,



     why this side of  it, makes me think of East Broadway and the sloop down there in Vancouver,

        not far from Commerical Drive,


                                     where i lived for 10 yrs  wondering what happened to the future

                                           it was there with the crazy we that we got rid of the commas the periods

                                                   the breaths