No One Wants to Fail

This new poem is about choosing to not look away, but to notice.

Painful, yes, and there are easier choices. But it seems to me I have never had a choice. Perhaps others feel the same. And out of this decision to simply not look away comes so much, in ways I have no doubt are untold.

 

No One Wants to Fail.

From the cart behind me
I hear the commotion.
The little boy refuses to bend his knees
So his mother can place him
In the child’s seat in front.
He stiffens,
Screams.
Another child tugs at her skirt.
But she has had enough.
The shopping trip is sacrificed.
She yanks them through the exit doors,
Her face set in anger.

The boy will wish he had obeyed.
His sister will see it all unfold.
The mother will wish it was otherwise
But feel powerless to make it so.
Who among us
Wants to fail.

Hard Evidence

There are so many gods. I like to believe there is one just for small children.

 

Hard Evidence

Ahead of me in line
I catch a glimpse of two tiny white feet
sticking out from a baby seat,
uncovered on this October morning,
the soles black.
Around each of the frail ankles
lies a ring of grime.

When the baby’s face bobs into view
I see that she’s captivated
by the jeweled butterfly on my lapel
and smiles wanly.

Shall I pin the treasure to her stained sweater
Spirit her away
Teach her the names of all the creatures that fly.
Shall I wash her sooty feet with the finest velvet
And dry them with my hair?

Maybe

Maybe

 

It was a Wednesday,

A normal middle of the week day.

Or was it a Sunday, all the more

Portentous.

Did I wear green

After debating the monochromes.

Weren’t you in that gray bespoke suit

The one you got for a song on 81st.

 

I remember a scent.

Sweet, apple blossoms perhaps.

Isn’t that our favorite song playing suddenly,

Somewhere.

Did you lean over to stroke my cheek

For no reason whatsoever.

I might have put my arms around your neck

Surprising you from behind.

Was it a long time we stood there

Just like that.

 

Are we unfazed by the long wait for a table,

The sudden downpour,

The lineup for a cab.

Is that you mimicking Walter Raleigh,

Until I, the winsome damsel,

Protests no.

 

Do I imagine

Such enrapture,

Such fervency.

Or has time and yearning

Simply made it so.

Easter Morning Once.

 

A new dress, even if it had been my sister’s.

Helmet-like perms, and all of us

in soft white cotton gloves, with vertical ridges stitched in

above each knuckle, so they stood up,

like Mickey Mouse’s on Saturday morning.

The matching hats were courtesy of Jackson’s Department Store’s bargain bin,

Fill a basket, five bucks out the door,

their out-sized pink and blue plastic daisies haphazardly attached,

head wear meant for the deranged.

 

Our conspiratorial looks as we were herded together

for the obligatory snapshot on the stone steps after Mass,

the sunlight harsh on a still-frigid April morning,

swiss dot and stiff crinolines lofting in the wind.

 

Embarrassed by my sturdy white knee socks,

I yearned for the silk stockings

Worn by my older sisters, who flanked me.

Stationed solemnly in front

was our younger brother, happy to form his own line,

quietly proud of his clip on bow-tie and tartan vest and

perfectly pressed little wool trousers.

 

Chins up! Stand straight! came the reprimands,

but not one of us listened.

At least one child would turn her head away that day just as the shutter clicked.

Another would squint unbecomingly against the glare.

And the third, the face of the third girl

would show to the camera a look of such sadness

as is unimaginable in one so young.

 

Now piled deeply in this battered shoebox,

the sorting job no one ever took on,

these celluloid witnesses to our lives.

The edges scalloped like icing on a cake,

bearing hairline cracks, some of our heads and limbs torn asunder,

the truest chronicle of those years,

bringing with it the simple message

that each of us might have done better

if we’d only known how.

 

 

 

 

 

The Sadness of Her Sewing

A poem for your birthday, Mom. I miss you like it was a thousand years.

 

The Sadness of Her Sewing

 

There she remains,

In the folds of her nightgown

Tucked deeply in her bedside drawer,

Releasing the scent of her Chantilly.

In her favorite clip-on earrings

Of aurora borealis rhinestones,

All  the colors of the northern lights,

She explained,

And here, perhaps most,

Up on the closet shelf,

Her worn wicker sewing basket,

A frayed tapestry on the lid of

a young woman’s face.

Inside, among the bobbins,

Mother’s tarnished metal thimble,

Its tiny nubs smoothed glossy from use.

Remembering now whenever she mended

I would hear her sigh deeply,

As the steel cap clicked

Against her flying needle,

Her impatience palpable,

Desperate to be done.

Knowing now it reminded her of

Being pulled from school at the age of nine

To do piecework for a gruff Glasgow furrier,

Stitching together overcoats in dingy rooms

From towers of animal pelts,

Never to return to school

Or childhood

Again.

 

Traffic

 

Today the streets were grey with rain

and the sight of a car that looked like yours

stopped me in my tracks.

I know that when I see you again

you will be remote, mildly interested

and unscarred.

 

Still

I look for you everywhere.

And even the sound of your name

releases a flood of remembering.

 

The Confessional

 

 

Waiting in line for my turn

in Saturday confession,

Still young enough

To not conceive of why the young woman in the last pew

sobbed,

so piteously.

I stared and stared

at her hunched figure, shoulders heaving,

her quiet rasps obliterating the stillness.

 

By the time I entered

The dark pocket of the confessional

My curiosity could not be contained,

And even before Father Blackwell

had slid open the wooden panel between us,

I blurted it out, brazen.

Why is that lady so sad, Father?

His response was clipped, dismissive.

She has not been forgiven.

More importantly, he demanded,

What was it I needed forgiveness for this week passed?

 

When I emerged,

Chastened, reborn,

The woman had gone.

I never saw her again.

But I remember the child

I was that day,

The one who could not yet know

A grief so profound.

A heart so broken.

A life never

Bargained for.

Proper Punishment

It was exact, sophisticated,

The cruelty perpetrated by the nuns

On the young girls

With the full heft of the church behind them.

Brought there

In fear and disgrace

Away from everything they held dear,

Come to give birth.

Unwed, they called them,

Fallen,

They called them.

 

Then the new, bewildered mothers allotted time

To bond with their newborns.

Their babies brought to their waiting arms

For scant moments

Then as toddlers

In between incessant chores,

Just enough to bind their hearts together,

Enough to punish

Properly.

 

Soon enough

wrenched from their arms

And left to watch from behind the bolted convent windows,

Their tiny children loaded into strangers’ cars

Bound for America

And homes their mothers would never see.

 

The children pressed their faces against the back windows

As they inched down the drive,

Nervous, curious,

Not yet bereft,

Wondering of their mothers

Who clutched one another

From behind the misted windows

Weeping,

Whispering,

Stay.

Thank you, Katherine and Robert.

I think it impossible for any of us to imagine the sacrifices made for us as we remember those lost.

Pictured are my father’s parents, Robert and Katherine McCallum, in Glasgow in (I am guessing) 1914, 1915… just before my grandfather went off to fight in the First World War.

Robert and his five brothers all fought in various capacities. He alas was subjected to mustard gas on the battlefield in France (although it had been outlawed) and died shortly thereafter. My grandmother meanwhile handled the home and cared for their many children but, sadly, only survived her husband by two years.

I love their confidence in this photo, their hopefulness, the equality between them that shines through. I wish I had known them. I wish I could tell them how proud they make me, here, in Canada, 100 years later, in a life they could not even comprehend.

I hear from the scant stories there were of them that my grandmother was very independent, a real firebrand, and that Robert was a born storyteller and generous in spirit. I’m sure they had faults too but sweetly these never made it into the few stories I have of them.

I thank you, Katherine and Robert, for all that you did and all that you both were.

A friend from the Bahamas visited me recently in Toronto.

I baked butter tarts for her, a Canadian staple, and added a bottle of maple syrup. Next, I set about preparing the card I would include: a compendium of quotes about Canada, with noteworthy observations and commentary by both residents and visitors. And for fun, a soupçon of the ill-advised and the flat out wrong.

The first quote that popped us was this, attributed to the indefatigable Britney Spears: “You get to travel to overseas places, like Canada.”

From brainy Britney we move to, who else, the French explorer Louis-Armand de Lom d’Arce de Lahontan (now that’s a handle!), who said in 1702: “To survive the Canadian winter, one needs a body of brass, eyes of glass, and blood made of brandy.”

The Iroquois wars gave him his glass eye, his blood would definitely have had a high brandy content, and he probably did have certain nether regions composed of brass to venture here 300 years ago.

Next up, the ever-capricious Al Capone: “I don’t even know what street Canada is on.”

Rather amusing, from someone who actually knew Canada rather well, since he visited with the infamous distiller Hiram Walker frequently at his Walkerville, Ontario mansion. The two would carouse while making arrangements to ship Canadian Club Whisky south. You see, CC was aged a minimum of five years in oak casks, while American whiskies and bourbons were aged a paltry year. Al knew his booze.

Comic Jon Stewart weighed in next with this: “I’ve been to Canada, and I’ve always gotten the impression that I could take the country over in about two days.”

Not so fast, Jon Boy…might not be so easy to do. It’s a common misconception that Canadians don’t have guns.  But for good or bad, seven million of us are armed…that’s about 20 percent of our population. Not to worry, though; we tend to shoot mostly deer, bear, moose, and caribou..

Writers were no gentler with us.

Here is W. Bruce Cameron in his book Emory’s Gift: It was Canada where they let people do whatever they wanted because it was too cold to bother stopping them.”

Kelly Link in Magic for Beginners said: “The zombies were like Canadians, in that they looked enough like real people at first, to fool you.”

Ouch. Leave it to Jane Fonda to save the day with this love note: “When I’m in Canada, I feel this is what the world should be like.”

Jane, how you talk!

This also cheered me up, from Spook Country, William Gibson’s political thriller: “Canadian cities looked the way American cities did on television.”

Winston Churchill may have exulted about Canada more than anyone. “There are no limits to the majestic future which lies before the mighty expanse of Canada with its virile, aspiring, cultured, and generous-hearted people.”

Nice schmooze, Winnie…that was in 1939, and he was desperate for volunteers. We did not disappoint him.

In my travels I find people’s knowledge about Canada has vastly improved; now the real facts are a few keyboard clicks away. But misconceptions still abound, mostly about our (yawn) weather.

Does it snow all the time?  Do you snowmobile to work? Do you use British money? You all speak French, right?  It’s stuff like this that really gets our fur collars up.

And no. We don’t all play hockey. Many of us have never even strapped on skates. I, for one, am allergic to ice and am still traumatized by the time I tangled skate blades with a bully at the local arena and was catapulted straight into the boards, effectively kyboshing the slightest affection I might ever have had for the colder climes.

A somewhat hardier Stephen Leacock, the country’s celebrated humorist, eloquently characterized our national sport this way in 1895: “Hockey captures the essence of Canadian experience in the New World. In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of life, and an affirmation that despite the deathly chill of winter we are alive.”

Another native, comedian Rick Mercer, offered this truism: “The U.S. is our trading partner, our neighbor, our ally and our friend… and sometimes we’d like to give them such a smack!”

Truth be told, Canadians are quite kindly disposed to our neighbours to the south. We visited you 23.4 million times in 2013!

Toronto activist and author June Callwood was ever the straight shooter. “The beaver, which has come to represent Canada as the eagle does the United States and the lion Britain, is a flat-tailed, slow-witted, toothy rodent known to bite off its own testicles or to stand under its own falling trees.”

Our very own Mike Myers quipped: “Canada is a subtle flavor — we’re more like celery as a flavor.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt after reading this sentiment from Jan Wong’s memoir, Red China Blues: My Long March From Mao to Now. “Living in China has made me appreciate my own country, with its tiny, ethnically diverse population of unassuming donut-eaters.”

But leave it to Robin Williams to skewer us to perfection. “Canada is like a loft apartment over a really great party. Like: ‘Keep it down, eh?'”

I can’t find out who came up with this little jewel but it may rank as my favorite of them all:

“Canada is like your attic. You forget that it’s up there, but when you go, it’s like ‘Oh man, look at all this great stuff!'”

Writer and Poet

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Tricia McCallum

Always be a poet. Even in prose.
Charles Baudelaire.

In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]

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