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2010-04-29T16:09:00.001-04:00

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2010-04-11T16:19:00.002-04:00

Second Thoughts.

You think you’re writing poetry

and then you read one in a New Yorker,

about elephants,

tied together, heads down,

being traipsed in a line through the Queen’s midtown tunnel after midnight,

on their way to Ringling Brothers downtown,

forever away from their home and the wild,

and you just want to stop writing what,

for all these years,

you’ve been calling poetry.

Because someone asked for a poem for their wedding day...

2010-04-08T17:53:00.003-04:00

The Unspoken Vows.

For Jim and Becky on their Wedding Day.

You stand before one another today
Expectant, full of love,
And recite the traditional vows so many have before you,
And will after.
The simple, elegant vows of marriage, each word chosen with such care
To convey precise meaning, not one wasted,
Romantic, timeless,
Lovely.

But there is much they leave unsaid;
It may be the only limitation of the ceremony.
So much that the two of you will give to one another down through the years
In the name of love,
So much that you vow to each other, unknowingly, today.

Shall we speak of them now?
While we may?
Those nights when sleep won’t come and the other offers to make tea,
Dark days that weigh you down and the other gently lifts you up,
When your child needs guidance and the other finds the time,
The times she will see beauty in you when you see none in yourself.
How he’ll want others to see everything that you are, and can be.

It’s these unspoken vows that will see you through
day to day, year to year,
Side by side,
And speak volumes in their silence.

Tricia McCallum
April 8, 2010

2010-03-07T11:26:00.002-05:00

Entreaties

My gums are bleeding again.

There’s a stack of papers that need attention

But I can’t find my glasses.

My truck is making that funny noise.

I sleep too late,

There's no one here to wake me.

I don’t write,

Seems it's all been said.

Your point’s been made:

I am selfish and fickle,

Say what you like.

Come home.

2010-02-22T12:23:00.000-05:00

The Gift of Donovan.

A frigid November day in Barrie, Ontario, 1967,

Wednesday, I remember;

We had just come from Novena Devotions.

Mark led me downtown to the town’s one record store,

“For a surprise,” he said.

The proprietor was in on this, I soon realized,

watching him head

to the stacks of wooden slots on the wall

and retrieve a 45 disc in its small paper sleeve.

The needle on the vinyl

dispensed a melody through the small shop,

And then Donovan’s innocent accented voice,

Colour sky havana lake
Colour sky rose carmethene
Alizarian crimson...

Next, the bewitching refrain,

Lord, kiss me once more
Fill me with song
Allah, kiss me once more
That I may, that I may…

Wear my love like heaven…

Worlds, colours I had not yet heard of,

at the age of 15.

Yet, I sensed the magic of which he sang.

I went on to my life, Mark to his.

Not long after he died, still a young man,

never giving me the chance to thank him for his gifts that day,

for seeing me in a way I had never seen myself,

as a girl worthy of devotion,

for giving me,

in that dead-end town,

an impossibly beautiful song.

2010-02-11T10:50:00.002-05:00

Be quiet: You’re talking.

Tell me something I don’t know.

That there are insects that can fly through the rain

without getting wet,

That Bing Crosby had the first tape recorder in America,

And Esther Williams hated the water.

That astronauts have the highest divorce rate,

Redheads need more anaesthetic than others,

Emily Dickinson didn’t leave her room for 12 years,

And Chinese doctors examine a patient’s tongue first.

Enlighten me.

Fill me with awe.

Share things incandescent.

Or stop talking.

2010-02-03T23:14:00.001-05:00

To a friend on leaving Eleuthera.

You’ve come to know her secrets,

The quiet recesses of her,

Where she tucks away her sea glass,

How her oleander smells after the rain.

You know the particular colour of light

That ladles itself across Cupid’s Cay at dusk,

The creak and sway of her cargo ships,

Loaded, inching their way into the harbour.

You know her tides, her impetuousness, her fury,

Her hundred shades of blues and greens,

The open smiles of her children,

The unadulterated solace of her.

You know her expectant sunrises,

her bittersweet setting suns, too,

The content in returning, weary,

Time and again,

to her open embrace.

All of this,

You take with you today,

The moments, the years with her that helped shape you,

And she will rest deep within you,

Intact, a part of all that you are,

For the remainder of your days.

In the Wee Small Hours: Relay for Life 2009.

2009-12-09T21:16:00.000-05:00

Sitting here with my tea, (mmm), drying out (?), casting my mind back over last evening (into morning) and the highlights of Relay 2009.

Here goes, in no particular order…

As Sally headed to her car for home, I yelled out, “Ya know, it was above and beyond - your coming at all.”

Sally’s answer:

“Oh, Shut Up!” (It might have been the pain talking.)

Leslie, stifling gales of laughter, telling me the hood of my stunning two piece rain suit (circa 1918) gave me an “interesting shaped head.” When I glimpsed myself after in the bathroom mirror (and regaled in horror) I can only ask that everyone who critiques me is as forgiving as she.

In the wee hours my asking the teammies assembled in the tent in the wee hours “Who would like a song?” This question was followed by, oh, roughly 14 minutes of unadulterated silence (in fact it’s the first time I’ve heard crickets in the pouring rain), only broken by the sound of Donna asking, uneasily, from under her Shetland wool parka, sounding a trifle less than thrilled, “Are you gonna sing?”

In my sleep-deprived stupor did I actually shout out “That’s bullshit” to the tent behind us when they complained about our making noise?

Just checking...

He had us at Sundown.

2009-12-05T13:16:00.001-05:00

Textbook weather for Gordon’s concert this evening: rain-slicked streets, brisk winds, typical moody November’s eve.

His band was minimalist, as is his wont. To wit, lead guitar, bass, drummer, keyboards, and himself. All in their 60’s, minimum. I’ve seen a couple of them before.

Gord struts out – on the stroke of 8, of course -- to thunderous applause, seeming still a little shy and embarrassed by it all, amazingly. (He even joked about the night before how, because of the city’s subway breakdown he’d had to start eight minutes later. Eight whole minutes. Oh the horror, he said. And we all knew he was only half kidding.

Opened with Did She Mention My Name? Closed with Blackberry Wine. In between, everything from If You Could Read My Mind to A Painter Passing Through.

The crowd was quiet (save for the one requisite (by now) shout of “We love you, Gord!”), very attentive (dare I say, Canadian?), reflective, appreciative, almost conspiratorial, you know that feeling Gord (and Gord alone) inspires in hometown crowds? It was so obvious everyone there was delighted to see him back onstage for another go.

Yes, he is frail, ravaged, bone thin, and easily looks his age (71). Actually, he looks like any of a dozen down on their luck guys who used to hang around (seemingly in rotation) outside the Wellington Hotel when I was a child living downtown above Robinson’s Hardware store. His voice wavers and falters from time to time and he whispers when he should shout, but no matter. His spirit is fully intact. His delivery is so evocative, so exquisite, he reminds you with each outing that he is the one who wrote the stuff – that no one gets it like he does -- and no one, of any age or stage, will ever do it better. Michael Buble, take a seat. And be quiet.

Yes, we did hear a few pins drop, especially during Song for a Winter’s Night. (He never does that and it was transcendent.) His rendition of Step Back (one of my top five of his) was rollicking, what a great tune that is, (but watch the southern Ontario males not move to it!) and then he headed into Early Morning Rain. Ahhhh.

Let it go,/ Let it happen like it happened once before… from the song Shadows. Another special moment. This one in particular brought to mind Dylan’s comment about him: “Whenever I hear a Gordon Lightfoot song, I hope it never ends.”

His banter with the crowd was so relaxed, so unscripted, he charmed the boots off all of us. (Maybe even those males?) Riffed about writing songs on airplanes, the perfect place he says, the juxtaposition of stars above, cities below... getting his “shoulders lowered” as a boy at the town barber shop in Orillia, and his joy at being “home” and playing for us again.

A gentleman, pure and simple. And a poet non pareil. By the end, he even makes you believe those lustrous words:

“Everything will be fine by and by.”

"The fire is dying now, my lamp is growing dim
The shades of night are liftin'
The morning light steals across my windowpane
Where webs of snow are driftin'
If I could only have you near
To breathe a sigh or two
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
Upon this winter night with you.”

Going Off the Grid.

2009-12-03T00:13:00.001-05:00

I was asked the other day if I had ever considered “going off the grid.”

I am still laughing. Granted, it’s a hysterical laugh because the mere thought of moving off the grid leaves me shaken.

The person asking me this is what the current culture would term a survivor – ie. a survivor in the outdoor, who needs pesky running water, I can start a fire inside a sleeping bag in a rainstorm kind of a person. And indeed she has been completely off the grid for longer than I have been wearing nail tips.

Propane factors heavily in her life as do multiple layers of clothing in winter and hypothermia. I told her that not only had I never considered going off the grid but that I may even be considered married to the grid in some cultures. I know it’s a close call as to which I value more, my husband’s affection or an indoor toilet. Just don’t make me choose.

She said there were two types of people and when she said this I knew it wasn’t going to be flattering to me. Don’t ask how I knew that: I just did. She said the first type could be dropped off naked in the forest and feel comfortable. The other type, well, the other type wouldn’t. Feel comfortable, I mean.

I clarified for her that not only would I feel uncomfortable but that even entertaining the concept was causing me to take short, gasping breaths. I told her that I didn’t feel comfortable naked in my own shower at home, but I don’t think she believed me.

She said we have too many possessions and that we are plastic people. I had several reactions to that, all unspoken. The expression plastic people is so 1979 I can’t even begin. And yes, of course we have too many possessions. Blah, blah. Just stay away from my itemized, alphabetized shoe closet.

She said I had to be prepared to do without, that the time is coming when we’ll all be forced to live by our wits and eat berries and wash our hair with lichen.

I asked her what lichen was and then assured her that if we go apocalyptic, she’d be the first person I’d call.

2009-11-23T20:31:00.003-05:00

Thirst.

The sun was hotter:
You can tell.
Look at the people squinting against it in photos then.
Everything washed out by glare: Faces, thoughts,
All detail surrendered.
We could be anybody.

The gardens are parched,
Look at them.
It hurt to walk on the grass.
Everyone burned raw.
We lay in barren backyards
slathering butter on our chests,
Chain-smoking and eating fluorescent cheesies,
Swilling scarlet soda.

Nothing could go wrong.
Caution was ahead of us.
Men were above us,
Landing on the moon.

There's Always the Guy.

2009-04-18T21:19:00.003-04:00

There’s always the guy
At pub closing time
Mall food courts
Wedding dinners.

He wants to sit you down
Straighten you out.
Tell you how things work.
You have it all wrong, you see.
He laughs in your face.

You listen
Because it’s late, or it’s early,
You have nowhere to go
And no one waiting.

His oldest kid is 27, hasn’t seen him in years,
but good riddance.
And three exes,
somewhere.
Hey, where do you think you’re going?
He’s yelling at your back.
Wait. Honey.
Let me tell you about love.

Aloha!

2009-03-28T16:35:00.002-04:00

Looks like it is going to come to pass. Off to Hawaii on Tuesday. The poet Goethe was right when he said: “Be brave and mighty forces will come to your aid.”

Or as a childhood friend mispronounced it, HeeWee.

It should be a balm for the four of us. Bring on the champers and the hula girls, the latter not politically correct anymore – alas, because although some of that old (other) world stuff was horrendous, granted, but some of it which has been lost was just plain fun. I always enjoyed having a door opened for me, not that I expected it. But I enjoyed it when it happened. Nowadays at the shopping mall I consider myself lucky if I am not kicked through it.

HeeWee hee wee come.

Relay for Life.

2009-03-22T13:14:00.000-04:00

I have been committed emotionally to the Cancer Society's Relay for Life since losing my mother far too many years ago to stomach cancer. My lovely Scottish mother was my touchstone and I miss her every day of my life. As a poet I pour much of my grief into my work - just as I did when I lost my father the year following. I think my poetry helped save my life (yet again) in those dark days after both were taken from me too young. If you'd like to read some of these poems I wrote about their lives visit my website at http://www.triciamccallum.com Once on my homepage choose the heading entitled "Time Was"on the left hand side menu bar. I would love you to come and visit. Some day when you find some quiet time. And bring a cup of hot tea.

Sadly, my commitment to helping stop this modern day scourge was forged even deeper this past year when I learned my younger brother had been diagnosed with Stage Three colon cancer. The news was devastating for all of us, hitting us like a bolt out of the blue, in particular his young family. He has just completed a six-month course of chemo and soldiers on with such an upbeat wonderful attitude he humbles me. He jokes and makes light of it all, making it easier for everyone who loves him. And many do. We all pray he remains in remission.

Our culture of fear.

2009-03-22T12:33:00.001-04:00

Following the sad story of Natasha Richardson reinforces for me the kind of culture we are living in. It is basically a culture of fear.

All the reports now are focused on helmets. Buy them, wear them, never take them off. Save your life. Endless discussions and film clips of brain swelling and surgical procedures. In fact on the National last night it showed there were a mere 14 deaths due to brain injury on ski hills in Canada in the last DECADE! (When I say mere, I don’t minimize the tragedy or the value of the lives lost, but you get my point).

But very little discussion about the very real fact life is precarious, accidents happen every day, in less likely places than ski hills. Life is fleeting, fragile. The message should be: Live it fully. Not carefully.

Returned from Eleuthera!

2009-03-12T12:53:00.002-04:00

We returned to below zero temps so it wasn’t the most eloquent of homecomings. But still good to be back and ensconced. And this helped immeasurably to soften the blow…

Walking in to a warm house with a stocked fridge and handmade notes from the two wee kids next door. Evan, the 4 year old, launched himself at me from across the threshold, a long hug first, and then, when he had collected himself, demanded to know just how long we were away. Arms folded on chest, scowling, looking quite miffed.

I am ecstatic to report that the news on my brother Scott is good. His CAT results came in two days ago and showed nothing of significance. But the oncologist cautions it is early days. (This doctor sounds like a real charmer: very dour and to the point, but Scott says he prefers that to the Disneyland approach.) Scott will be retested in May and of course his testing will be frequent and thorough from now on. Apparently the first three years are the most critical for metastases activity. This makes our Hawaii trip all the more special for us and most certainly for Scott and Kim. They are over the moon about it, and with this reprieve we can all breathe easier for a while.

When I think back now to Eleuthera and the magical Double Bay, even though only days have passed, it has a dreamlike quality. It is ever thus when I leave there. We thought last night of everyone around the piano at Tippy’s, with the swells of the ocean as backbeat. Driving on the 401 at the time, amid eight solid lanes of traffic with an icy rain descending, needless to say which scenario was the more appealing.

We are preparing our letters toward a possible home exchange for next year. I like the barter idea, much like thrift shops – bring one bag in, take one out. A lovely economy.

Off to manage this mountain of luggage and laundry – and, oh joy, oh bliss, my tax return, now there’s a page turner, but buoyed with Scott’s recent news – and we were all on tenterhooks – I’ll be singing through it all. (OK, calm down, Tricia, maybe not the tax return…)

I already have chosen our film selection for 2010’s movie nights in Double Bay: Glengarry Glen Ross (David Mamet’s absolute brilliance at work here– he is also a gifted short story writer – see if you can find or download “The Rake.”); The Winter Guest, (Emma Thompson) The Visitor, just saw this one and loved it. Full of spaces and silences, the camera lingering – deliciously - as in the Leone movie, Once Upon A Time in America.

I miss Eleuthera already.

t.

2009-03-10T13:28:00.000-04:00

For my very first post, I chose a poem I wrote last week that is close to my heart, entitled "Once."

Once.

Never the one you think
Never the one that should.
Never the right time
Or enough time.
Never again the sweet lull
of the day-to-day.

No more easy solace
Or just passing time.
No more the open-ended chat
The breezy how are you
The unburdened goodbye.

Never again
The unbridled laughter
The unfettered innocence
The making sense.
Never again the sweet lull
of the day-to-day.