May 3rd, 2013
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November 29th, 2012
Three Poems by Lorie Beauchamp
The Singing Bowl
its hollow tones
from empty space -
like corporate illusions
in a career corridor
with no door
open to integrity.
still, the meditation calmed me.
ruminate, write, revenue.
repeat as necessary.
a conservative path to success
built on consumer excess
and my distress
at the emptiness
The Observer Observed
a random remark,
an unconscious start
to channeling Andy Warhol -
it might be the fall of my bowl-cut hair,
or the glasses chosen without care,
or the hapless way
i dress in black -
if only to hide my bulges
and battles with the household cat -
still, i like the comparison;
cross-gender, pop culture,
i can be a vulture, too.
if the clone fits,
Waiting for Dolly
my dollhouse has no dolls;
i pulled their heads off
and planted them in the garden
to grow breasts.
how naive can you be?
but there's furniture inside
for my imaginary friends -
the ones who thrive
in miniature spaces,
no traces of body waste
a tiny toilet
no itty bitty bowels
a space for waste, or
a waste of space?
the dollhouse sighs
Lorrie Beauchamp is a Montreal-based poet, journalist, freelance writer and business owner. She is a member of and editor for the Quebec Writers’ Federation, former student of and editor for the Thomas More Institute, and co-founder of The Writers' Bloc, a literary group celebrating English writers in a city where everyone, including the majority, is a minority.
October 9th, 2012
The photo, Blue Lily, reminds me of my poem Black Grass about Chernobyl published in: Book, Black Grass, (Broken Rules, 2012.)
Life as a human, 2012
Anastasia didn’t wrap the fruit trees,
windows low to the ground
peasant house, in Zalesye village,
the mud brick oven, her table,
What does she pray for?
Bulldozed and buried:
The Red Forest.
Grandmother Olga’s grave
inside the Zone.
in a kindergarten,
rubber gas masks are left.
encases the reactor
Barbed wire fence, the military.
Wild horses, wild boar,
wolves roam the streets,
blue-green Dnieper marshes.
Montreal author of two poetry books, Blue Poppy, (Coracle, 2009). Black Grass, (Broken Rules, 2012). Editor, creative writing teacher, published in numerous magazines, including Vallum, Accenti, The Fiddlehead, Serai. Founder/producer/host of The Yellow Door and Visual Arts Centre Readings, co-founder/producer/host of Lovers and Others. QWF 2010 Community Award.
October 3rd, 2012
St. Joseph's Oratory
ORA – a cry of agony from the flesh mob.
Rip these prison veils
locking us two apart!
Strip the tatters of the earth
from my starved and dirty soul.
ORA – a heart's resonance
when the horizons toll an azure birth
in the clutch of an up-reaching hand.
ORA – when the supplicant kisses his own spirit,
body and self bent out in submission
at the feet of the icons and idols
in the house of heaven-on-earth.
ORA – bliss at the world-navel,
where the cosmic sky is struggled to the earth
and monufied in the cathedral dome,
where the electricity ceases to burn,
but generates the soul from the lofty turbines.
ORA – darts and bullets are not enough.
A plane the length and width of the sky must project
in order to infuse the empty above with the praying one.
ORA – give, or the astral lacks light
and will not illuminate the earth,
and will not illuminate the things on earth
that will turn dull and fade
when they might shine
as black shines whitely back in the light.
ORA – the ascetic has nothing to give
dusty with desert, emaciated, alone.
He offers bones when he should give fat,
he offers ash when he should give barley.
ORA – here the heart of a dead saint bleeds
into the night for the thirsty.
His sympathy is sustenance.
He who kneels deserts the crutches
with which he must walk the earth.
When he stands again he may walk with two legs
for awhile, in the open air above the city.
ORA – one rests on one's knees
to drink from a stream.
ORA – a prayer emanates close to the mouth that spoke it.
Flesh trembles and organs go still
from their churning.
The voice of the prayer cascades through the gut.
Incarnate, the spirit can speak
and speaks its desire to outgrow its body.
Ungrateful spirits abandon their birthplace
and impoverish it.
Their hands pray idly when they refuse the work,
the imperative to multiply, to multiply icons and idols
and works of humanity.
ORA – a cup must brim before a drop spills over
unless a hand or a tremor overturns it.
Turn over an empty cup, or nearly empty,
and the drought of the earth receives not a drop.
September 9th, 2012
Sand Plains, 1848
- A poem by Ilona Martonfi
When deer are mating:
The clatter of antlers.
Sound of the drum beating
Log house where the family lived.
Planted maize, sunflowers, and squash.
Plum-red forest berries, wild rice.
To woo a yakon:kwe
A woman of the Mohawk village.
Warrior playing oboe music.
Outside the well.
Circle dancing and singing.
Under the pines
girl in long buckskin dress.
Beaded tiara, fringed shawl.
Shell earrings, shell necklace.
Deerskin ankle moccasins.
Grandmother how could you sell our land?
The Saint Lawrence River
My grandfather’s house
behind the church.
A ron:kwe, man,
Wild sage. Apple trees.
Who are we really
People of the sand plains.
Mohawk graveyard at the pinewoods.
My daughter Kateri died from smallpox.
A mother cutting off her braids
September 2nd, 2012
"I eagerly await new concepts and processes. I believe that the electronic image will be the next major advance. Such systems will have their own inherent and inescapable structural characteristics, and the artist and functional practitioner will again strive to comprehend and control them."
- Ansel Adams, forward to The Negative, 1968
August 30th, 2012
He hunkered, in mission dormitories,
warmed by hypodermic needles
and Dilaudid pills, subsisting on Big Macs
and riding metro trains, picking fries from the bag
through the season of death.
The city is a loneliness. But one must have friends,
sixty dollars a day for Dilaudid,
living in judgment, and evictions.
Loneliness is a luxury of the employed.
Who was with him when he died?
It rains through the city
on the vagrants with guitars.
Compromise is easier.
His face groans mangled from the cover of his book,
drunk, howling desperate emails, beatings,
losers, hospitals, cruelties.
He scalded the compromised
and now he is the judgment of the dead.
The city's hate blows
behind their jeers, “junky, junky.”
Where are the vagrants with their guitars?
Does Dilaudid amputate the soul?
Dredging up his books and needles
won't uncover from his cynic laughter
the blood blooms and needles,
his days of vagrants with guitars.
August 10th, 2012
Geoffrey Alexander Parsons 1985-2012
Author, poet, man struggling to find his place, died recently of causes not yet known.
In his book, Unwanted Hopeless Romantic Morons, he writes, “Why do I think that I can be saved by people that hate me?” And, “I am a mess. I am on the verge of killing myself. I am weak. I have a hard time smiling...”
Geoff was part of a poet's group that met bi-weekly to read at the Argo Bookshop in Montreal. His poems appear in Show Thieves 2010, An Anthology of Contemporary Montreal Poetry. GAP, as some called him, has several unpublished works and a nearly completed manuscript.
Excerpt from his, Hate Poem...
Did I really write
that trite Please
tell me, are my
thoughts my own?
Do I feel?
OR was I taught?
AM I A Product
Or a Producer?
Cool? A loser?
I am a drunk
and A boozer
A habitual Drug user
An Addict to
Addicted to conflict
Unable to tell truth
A social affliction
OR A self-deployed invention.
My Own Voice
OR Someone's diction,
the sum of
Hang out on
of the truth
if there is such
Looking At it
where does it
start where does
it end if that's
HOW it works
it makes my
unable to sort
So I'll finish
August 9th, 2012
It was the summer of 2005 when I met Travis at a Songhees powwow in Victoria BC. His regalia was beautiful and I wanted to photograph him. Since he was a young boy, I thought it prudent to get permission from an adult. I asked a jingle dancer nearby if she knew who his parents were. “Come with me,” she said. I followed her to an RV. She spoke to her grandmother, “He wants to take a picture of Travis.” The grandmother sized me up and asked if I'd had lunch. I hadn't. She invited me in to eat with them. She was appreciative of the fact that I asked. “Most people don't ask,” she said. She was Travis' grandmother, and she had a story to tell.
“I come from a family of seven children. I'm the only one left. The others died, of alcohol, suicide, and one was murdered. I want to protect my grandchildren from a similar fate. That's why they dance. I want them to know who they are and to take pride in their heritage. Travis wears braids. He sometimes complains about being teased at school. But I tell him he is a warrior, and warriors are strong. Warriors are brave and proud of their aboriginal heritage. Warriors practise kindness and patience. Warriors respect their elders.”
I was moved by her story. Aboriginal people lost their land, their language and their culture. They were uprooted by a society who felt superior. As a consequence, many suffered as victims of manifest destiny. They bore many of the symptoms that accompany victimization: alcohol abuse, sexual abuse, drug abuse, suicide and a sense of displacement. “Dancing is a way to remind us where we've come from, to participate in an identity we've lost, and an identity we've felt a shame to possess. We are still suffering, and that's why I encourage my grandchildren to dance. I don't want them to end up like my brothers and sisters.”
Her story moved me. There are many other stories like her's, tragic, and without hope. I trust, in some way, we can share the burden of the aboriginal peoples of the world.
August 9th, 2012
The wall's textures, shapes and muted colours inspired a friend to pen the following poem:
of the concrete tunnel weep,
to escape the swell
steel rail heavens
this is not
the work of time;
only the molecular
shake of evolution -
struggle for balance.
(atoms to ashes,
dust to must)
Lorrie Beauchamp, 2012