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!'”

Washed Away.

Rushing in to a truck stop,

Three a.m.

A quick rest room visit; coffee.

I stand alongside her.

She leans in deeply over a sink,

Peering in the mirror,

Wide-eyed under the fluorescent light.

 

I try not to stare.

She’s washing her face

With the bright green soap from the wall dispenser,

Pumping out more and more,

Lathering it up until her face is thick with it.

Her diaphanous gown grazes the floor.

Her silver heels are perilously high.

She may be 17.

 

Do you want some coffee? Some food, I ask,

Quietly,

She turns to me, her face traced with suds,

No. Thank you, Ma’am,

In a tone that efficiently heads off

Anything more.

 

She needed to eat.

Her face must be stinging by now.

She’ll snag her dress on those heels.

 

 

(Photo titled “The Pool”  courtesy of Polly Chandler.)

The Dark.

The Dark.

I want to not leave him there
alone,
at the end of the first night’s viewing,
realizing as I tell my brother this
how ridiculous I must sound and
nodding in compliance
when he says that’s not our father anymore,
but when I drive out of the funeral home parking lot
and see the last light go off inside,
plunging the place into darkness,
my breath sticks in my throat
remembering how Dad lit the night light
in the hallway outside his bedroom
every single night this past year
since my mother died.

 

Photo by Giles Norman.

Reading my poetry in Whitevale, Ontario.

I am honored to be the first artist to appear at the Whitevale Arts and Cultural Centre with a reading of my poetry on Saturday, October 17 at 7:30 pm. (This is the building that housed the town’s former Public Library.)

Check out the venue’s new website at http://www.whitevaleacc.ca for more information.

Meanwhile, a favourite quote from the poet Claire Clube.

“Poetry is the long rope to heaven.”

Labor Day.

Funny word for the end.
Summer’s being given the bum’s rush.
All its lushness and abandon.
Broken rules
And splendor.
No more nonsense now.
Time to be adults again.
It’s what autumn does.
Leaving us
The poorer for it.
Safeguarding the child in us
Until May honors us
Once more.

 

Hitting the ground running.

This piece by Denise Duhamel from Queen for a Day  is precisely why I love the form of poetry.

It hits the street running. Makes us rethink everything we think. Wakes us up. Makes us see differently. In the best possible ways. Xo t

The Ugly Stepsister

You don’t know what it was like.
My mother marries this bum who takes off on us,
after only a few months, leaving his little Cinderella
behind. Oh yes, Cindy will try to tell you
that her father died. She’s like that, she’s a martyr.
But between you and me, he took up
with a dame close to Cindy’s age.
My mother never got a cent out of him
for child support. So that explains
why sometimes the old lady was gruff.
My sisters and I didn’t mind Cindy at first,
but her relentless cheeriness soon took its toll.
She dragged the dirty clothes to one of Chelsea’s
many laundromats. She was fond of talking
to mice and rats on the way. She loved doing dishes
and scrubbing walls, taking phone messages,
and cleaning toilet bowls. You know,
the kind of woman that makes the rest
of us look bad. My sisters and I
weren’t paranoid, but we couldn’t help
but see this manic love for housework
as part of Cindy’s sinister plan. Our dates
would come to pick us up and Cindy’d pop out
of the kitchen offering warm chocolate chip cookies.
Critics often point to the fact that my sisters and I
were dark and she was blonde, implying
jealousy on our part. But let me
set the record straight. We have the empty bottles
of Clairol’s Nice’n Easy to prove
Cindy was a fake. She was what her shrink called
a master manipulator. She loved people
to feel bad for her-her favorite phrase was a faint,
“I don’t mind. That’s OK.” We should have known
she’d marry Jeff Charming, the guy from our high school
who went on to trade bonds. Cindy finagled her way
into a private Christmas party on Wall Street,
charging a little black dress at Barney’s,
which she would have returned the next day
if Jeff hadn’t fallen head over heels.
She claimed he took her on a horse-and-buggy ride
through Central Park, that it was the most romantic
evening of her life, even though she was home
before midnight-a bit early, if you ask me, for Manhattan.
It turned out that Jeff was seeing someone else
and had to cover his tracks. But Cindy didn’t
let little things like another woman’s happiness
get in her way. She filled her glass slipper
with champagne she had lifted
from the Wall Street extravaganza. She toasted
to Mr. Charming’s coming around, which he did
soon enough. At the wedding, some of Cindy’s friends
looked at my sisters and me with pity. The bride insisted
that our bridesmaids’ dresses should be pumpkin,
which is a hard enough color for anyone to carry off.
But let me assure you, we’re all very happy
now that Cindy’s moved uptown. We’ve
started a mail order business-cosmetics
and perfumes. Just between you and me,
there’s quite a few bucks to be made
on women’s self-doubts. And though
we don’t like to gloat, we hear Cindy Charming
isn’t doing her aerobics anymore. It’s rumored
that she yells at the maid, then locks herself in her room,
pressing hot match tips into her palm.

I have actually never been a committed fan of Charles Bukowski’s. Someone described him perfectly, don’t know who, I just remember reading it years ago, that when he read Bukowski’s pieces it felt like “being stuck sitting beside the boring drunk at a bar and there was no getting away.” To me, this is perfection of description.

But this poem for me stands above. His grief over Jane here is palpable. And unsentimental. A tough combination to pull off.

And so I wanted to share it.

 

For Jane with all the love I had, which was not enough

– by Charles Bukowski

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.

 

Photo courtesy of Walter Pilsak

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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