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And Words Are All I Have
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Home Again
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A true friend is someone who commiserates with you over your
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broken toe without mentioning she broke her foot.
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Michelangelo said the work of art awaited him beneath the slab of marble, the task for him being merely to uncover it.
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In my own small way, I understand that mentality as I write these days. The poem I feel is "possible" waits patiently beyond the first tentative lines of a succession of untidy drafts, across a murky divide, and with luck and patience perhaps I will reach it, to reveal all that it might be. But it is fleet footed, and elusive, and a task master, each time. Here is one I wrote recently that felt exactly like that.
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I should have bought gold.
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I wonder lately where everyone has gone.
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Why the most important never
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And why enormous changes are so often required
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with no chance to catch our breath.
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I wonder lately where everyone has gone
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I return to my homeland of Scotland on Thursday. To see my family in Glasgow and Forres. And to help my eldest sister scatter the ashes of her dear husband, who died in October, at Hogganfield Loch.
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The last time I saw my brother-in-law was just before he died. We had a wonderful party at our home and, as he was leaving with our other guests, he asked me to sing a Scottish song. (A very common Scots tradition, to close the evening with a song.) I chose to sing one called Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go, as it turned out, a song Barry had never heard before. He called me the next to day to ask me about it and would I please sing it again at the next gathering.
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All of us together at Hogganfield Loch will be that next time. I think Barry would be pleased.
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Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go, also known as Wild Mountain Thyme, is a Scots/Irish song written in the 1950's and based on lyrics and melody by a Scots poet in 1760.
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Here is Ed Sheeran's recent rendition.
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It will be a bittersweet return home.
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when time somehow stands still.
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this our world for the next ten hours,
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A chorus of seat belts snaps shut
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A familiar hush settles in.
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blankets and pillows positioned,
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lights dimmed, soothingly,
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video screens are beacons up and down the cabin.
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each for our own reasons.
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May we all travel hopefully
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Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said,
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It is said that before entering the sea
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a river trembles with fear.
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She looks back at the path she has traveled,
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from the peaks of the mountains,
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the long winding road crossing forests and villages.
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she sees an ocean so vast,
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there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.
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But there is no other way.
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The river can not go back.
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To go back is impossible in existence.
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The river needs to take the risk
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because only then will fear disappear,
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because that’s where the river will know
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it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
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but of becoming the ocean.
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Kahlil Gibran (1883 - 1931), best known for his book, The Prophet, was born in Lebanon to an impoverished family. He moved with his mother and siblings to Boston at the age of 12, but returned to Lebanon three years later to attend college. He was studying art in Paris when a family death brought him back to Boston. Gibran ultimately settled in New York, where he gained recognition for his poems and short stories as well as for his drawings and paintings.
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I had a story published in the Globe and Mail last week in its First Person section. A fun romp (welcome break from writing some very somber poems) and I enjoyed the resoundingly warmhearted feedback from readers.
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though a child, you became a god
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when you lit your first fire.
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learning almost nothing to be unburnable
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was how you learned love, finance,
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the charms of delinquency, and war.
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those lessons self-taught
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through the repeated act of burning as much
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as you could reasonably take a match to
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put you way ahead at school.
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your teachers, no better than mine,
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hated that you knew everything
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when a drunk history teacher
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challenged you to a fight, you sparked
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him out and walked home across town in your blue
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uniform, stopping only to throw stones in the canal.
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between the ages of five and eight I thought
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you looked like a flying cherub in one of the
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holy paintings in the chapel on the hill
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where you served as altar boy.
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you said a priest up there accused you of swiping
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a twenty from the collection basket
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just so he could frisk you. i believed you.
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i believe everything you say.
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you’re always the first person i call when I’m happy.
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An old acquaintance is getting married to a woman named Amy, but she spells it Amye. That wholly unnecessary "e" is why I unfriended him. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.
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Recent Post
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Poetry Reading and Sharing event with poet Tricia McCallum When? Saturday, June 17 at 7:30 pm Where? the WACC, 475 Whitevale Rd Why is it different? Tricia McCallum, our resident poet, will not only share some of her poems, but she is inviting you to share a poem that has a special meaning for you. Before this June rendez-vous, you …
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his poem of mine is a difficult one. Painful to write and perhaps moreso to share.
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But what is it a poet promises her reader if not her most hard-won truths? (After Keats)
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We were leaving the bar and he erupted,
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I had been paying attention to everyone but him,
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Who was that guy you kept flirting with?
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I hurried ahead, mystified,
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realizing how little I knew about this guy.
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He rushed up alongside me and with a closed fist punched me so hard on my upper arm
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that it propelled me sideways,
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sent me down to the hard cold ground with a jolt.
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He leaned over me, preparing to strike me again.
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Oh, you’re not worth it, he spat out as he walked away.
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And left me there that frigid February night
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Left me with what I came to see as a bizarre gift,
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by letting me feel at his hand for those few moments, utter powerlessness,
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the terror of helplessness,
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and seeding in my deepest core the determination
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to never feel those things ever again.
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At a certain point I need to go wandering. My feet need to hit earth, again and again,
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that bone-filling drumbeat. I need the sky's colored threads to tangle inside me,
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― Megan Harlan, Mobile Home: A Memoir in Essays
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Book Sales
The Music of Leaving, my collection of poetry, is available to order.
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Order directly online — for both Canada and U.S. orders — from Amazon, Brunswick and Demeter.
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