How Yah Doon?

Taking the Stairs Christmas Review in London?

2011-12-26T22:31:00.002Z

Trucker Woman by Lars Kampe

2011-12-11T18:06:00.002Z

The Gift (a short story republished with permission from the author)

2011-11-27T15:08:00.000Z

This story won first prize in December 2010 contest of Perspectives Magazine.

The Gift by Wilma Seville

Arthritic fingers smoothed the paper carefully, covering every inch of the box in which I am housed. I can feel the love that oozes through her fingers and into me. I hope I will be worthy of this affection and do her proud. Voice quivering, she softly sings “Stille Nacht” as she finishes wrapping me up.

I’m decked out with silver and gold paper and a large golden bow. I’m looking forward to being unwrapped, bigger container, then smaller, then smaller until the receiver opens the last one, the card with its treasure inside.

I myself, the actual gift, am enclosed in a Christmas Card, lovingly picked out by Oma. Tucked underneath me, with a big note, “Read me”, is an article taken from the newspaper about Civi-Side, a company who helps returning military personnel find jobs in the civilian world. I’m giving myself away by letting you in on that clue.

Oma placed me right in the front of the Christmas tree, beside other gaily wrapped parcels. Small ones wrapped in red, larger ones in green, a tiny box in multi-coloured paper, all look intriguing to me. The freshly cut pine tree above me, hosts delectably decorated ginger bread men, with raisins for eyes and white icing for eyebrows and mouth. Stringed popcorn grace its boughs, and red and white bows bring contrast to the green branches. I watched, from a distance, as my humans gently put each glass ball on the branches. So much family history. The Star of David, hand carved from Olive Wood in the birthplace of Jesus, the Messiah, tops the tree.

I love the candle holders with their red candles on it. Oma brought them from Germany as a young bride. My larger outer box has seen them for many years and told the rest of us boxes about them. Oma is a great believer is reusing things. The family doesn’t light them anymore but we still put them on the tree.

When the electric lights are lit, I seem to glow more than the other presents. I hope that they won’t be jealous of our good looks. I know they will resent me when Danny opens me up, but what can I do?

As Oma was wrapping me up, I heard her talking to herself. She’s alone so much of the time and I think she’s lonely.

“I hope Danny hasn’t changed too much. He loves opening surprise boxes. Will he be too old for this now? He was in Afghanistan on his 21st birthday. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a silly old lady doing this. We all were so worried when he signed up right after high school. At nineteen, what does he know? It took almost a year for his basic training. He’d come home so exhausted, every muscle aching. He’d flake out on the sofa and just lie there, I hated to see him like that, but Hans said that the Army will be the making of him, so what could I say? He’s his Dad.

Our worse fears were realized when he was sent overseas for a three year stint in Afghanistan. We’d get the newspaper and watch the news on T.V., always hoping that all our boys would be safe.”

A big sigh from Oma accompanied those words as she sat down in her favourite chair and picked up her crocheting. Oma is my favourite, she is so kind and thoughtful. Danny is her only grandson. She has been counting the days until he arrives back in Canada.

Seventeen year old Marita spends a great deal of her time on the family computer and she was the first one to get an e-mail from Danny from Cyprus.

“Dad, Oma, there’s a message from Danny here.”

“Hi Sis, could you pass this e-mail message on to the family and let them know that our platoon is now safe in Cyprus? We are having an awesome time! Surfing the waves, playing soccer, swimming and hiking. Sis, can you show the family where I am on the net? It is such a beautiful place and full of history, not to mention pretty girls! We will be flying out in a few days back to Petawawa. I can hardly wait to see all of you. Danny”

That e-mail brought so much happiness as it meant that Danny would be coming back to Canada in about a week or so.

s one of the gifts, but I think I am the most special, I can’t wait till he opens me. The girls are so excited right now and anxious to see their brother come down the path in his uniform. They think he’s so brave.

I, and the other presents will be left alone for a few hours, as the family is going to church for the Christmas Eve family service.

One more sleep for the family and then Danny will be here. I hope he likes what’s in me. Oma thinks it’s such a good gift. She kept it a secret from the rest of the family, so they are as curious as can be and the girls keep shaking me, hoping to hear me rattle. That amuses me!

I have to tell you that Oma saved really hard to get enough of me. She didn’t buy anything for herself for quite some time.

It snowed overnight, the path up to the house looked fresh with no footprints to mar the delicate pristine scene. The sun picked out the crystals of snow and made them sparkle like a diamond on a newly engaged woman’s finger.

The snow plows had already been and the banks of snow were piled at the side of the road.

“Dad, Dad, Danny’s coming. I saw him get off the bus at the corner. He’s got his knapsack over his shoulders. He’s carrying lots of things.”

“No, Sarah, it’s called a CadPat. See, it matches his uniform. It sure looks heavy. I’ll go out and help.”

Hurriedly he slipped on his jacket and ran out. “You and Marita stay inside, it’s cold out there.”

“Mom, I’m just going to meet Danny and help him with his things.”

Hans, plowed through the snow on their path and hurried to the corner, almost slipping as his feet slid on the patch of black ice, hidden under the newly ploughed snow. He met Danny half way.

A big hug, back slapping was what the family saw from the sitting room window. What they didn’t hear was the loving tone in both men’s voices as they both talked at the same time. They also didn’t hear Danny’s comment about “war being hell”.

“I can’t get those images out of my head Dad, they haunt me even when I’m awake. I keep having flashbacks. My buddy John was killed right in front of my eyes. I heard the bullet whiz by my ear and saw him struck down. It was horrible. He had a wife and two children and now they are alone. Dad, I saw what the bombs did to civilians. How can I ever get that out of my head?”

“Son, I think I know what you went through, remember I was in the Korean War. We’ll talk about it once we are alone. Best not to mention it to our womenfolk.”

One last hug and the two men walked up the stairs.

The door flung open as Sarah and Marita raced to greet him. Oma, her cane tapping on the ceramic floor, was right behind them. Danny, his smile as large as the man in the moon, hugged each one as they clung to him.

His biggest hug was for Oma though. He had been twelve, Sarah nine and Marita seven when their Mom passed away from cancer. Their Oma, his Father’s Mom, had come to live with them a few months later. She had steadily taken over, her quiet strength sustaining all of them as the little family tried to cope with their loss.

Loss was very familiar to her. Arthur, her husband, had passed away when their grandchildren were very small. When her daughter-in-law Gisela died from cancer, she had been devastated as they had been very close. The grief that she felt was nothing as compared to the grief of her son Hans. With three small children to raise by himself, and a demanding job which took so much of his time, he felt overwhelmed.

“Mom, I don’t think I can do this by myself. Can you come and live with us? We need your help.”

Ten years had passed since Oma had come to live with them. Danny had finished high school and enrolled in the Armed Forces, done his three year tour of duty, Sarah was nineteen and working and Marita was 17, still in school.

Why am I telling you all this? I want you to understand why this family is so special to me. I am so proud of all of them. In spite of their great loss, they have pulled together as a family and made the best of things.

I could sense the excitement in the air as the family gathered in the living room where we presents were waiting to be opened.

“Swish” as ribbons came off. “Crackle, the sound of wrapping paper being crunched up by impatient fingers. It all added to the excitement. Gradually, the green carpet began to resemble a sea of gaily coloured wrapping paper, the gifts floating on top of it.

It was so much fun for me to see, as Danny and his sisters opened up various presents Finally, it was my turn, as Oma wanted me opened last.

The outer box, who was the oldest and wisest of all of us, was set aside gently ready to be used for another year. Then the next size lid was popped off, showing another smaller box and on it went.

Danny’s voice boomed in the small sitting room as his fingers explored the many boxes inside my large box. “Oma, you remembered how much I love surprises!”

“What’s this? His blue eyes quickly scanned the words “Read this article first before opening the card.”

Danny skimmed over the article quickly, more anxious to get to the card then read a newspaper clipping.

I could feel his eager fingers tugging at the gummed surface of the envelope. His fingers were clumsy but he finally got the card open. There were two other small gaily wrapped slim parcels inside..

“What’s this Oma? You’re really making me work to get to the present! This must have taken you a long time to wrap all these things.”

“Danny, I had lots of fun doing it but open those two parcels very carefully or you might do some damage,” Oma said with a big smile.

By this time, the whole family eagerly awaiting the surprise. Oma had done a good job of keeping her secret and now it would be revealed.

Finally, or so it seemed to Marita and Sarah, Danny had it open.

“Wow, look at that, would you? Oma, you shouldn’t have!”

Oma, her face wreathed in a big smile, just smiled as he read what she had written. Inside the card was enough money for a new business suit, two shirts and two ties, not to mention socks, underwear and new shoes. Oma had included $50.00 on top of that labeled “have fun”. This card was nestled on top of the article from the paper which said “read me”.

“Oh Oma, you think of everything. What would we all do without you? Thanks so much for that money. I never needed business clothing before but I intend to use my skills that I learned in the Army and I have to look “professional” when I go on job interviews. I’ll register with that company once the holidays are over. The article sounds really interesting.”

A big kiss for his Oma, a hug for everybody else was his way of thanking all of them for their presents.

After a lovely dinner of roast duck, the family gathered in the sitting room and sang Christmas carols and talked about everything, but the war.

Danny’s room was the way he left it, three years ago. For him it was like stepping back into a more peaceful time when all he had to do was study, his chores and go out with his friends.

Shirts and slacks hung neatly on hangers, underwear in drawers and a quick look around to see the familiar things in his room satisfied him that all was well in his little world. Things he had had as a boy, his baseball bat, his Blue Jay cap, his trophy for best baseball player in the league, all were surveyed as he stretched his tall lanky frame on his single bed.

“I’m so lucky. I’m here with my family, not like so many of my comrades who came home in a wooden box. John, my buddy, shot before my eyes. How will I ever forget that? The little fellow, only about 10 if he was a day, killed when a bomb went off near him. I still hear the high pitch wail of his mother as she raced to where what was left of him lay. I saw the anger and hatred in his father’s eyes as he shook his fist at the departing airplane. Their mangled child, the image burned in their minds, a living nightmare which would never depart.

I went away as a boy and came back as a sorrowing man. Jesus, the Messiah, was known as a “ Man of Sorrows” and now I understand better. I will never be the same again.

We celebrate the Prince of Peace’s birthday on December 25th yet we still kill each other and discriminate against others. When will we ever learn?”

His eyes staring up at the ceiling, he pondered Christmas past. This has been a much better Christmas than the last ones he had spent overseas. Nobody would take a potshot at him or throw a bomb just because he was “the enemy.”

Sleep overtook him, his eyelids slowly drooping as Oma came up to check on him. She covered him with the heavy crocheted blanket she had made for him as a boy and turned off the light so he could sleep.

Me, his Special gift of money, in tidy stacks, was weighed down by a glass paperweight with the newspaper article beside it.

Safe and physically sound, back home among his family and friends, Danny slept like he hadn’t for several years, his face in repose.

I, the money gift, knew my time would come when Danny and I would go out shopping for new clothes and spend some time together. I could wait, while he rested. Me, the gift from Oma, would give him a new look as he exchanged his uniform for the uniform of industry.

*** Glossary:***

Stille Nacht – German language - Silent Night in English

Oma - a familiar way of saying Gran or Grannie

Cad Pat - a heavy camouflage backpack that all soldiers carry which matches their uniforms.

Note: After deployment in Afghanistan, the Canadian troops are sent for rest and recreation to Cyprus for five days before returning to Canada.

'Speck', re-published at Writing and Publishing Blog. Thanks Wilma!

2011-11-01T17:38:00.000Z

Read 'Speck' here.
Wilma Seville is a writer based in Hamilton Ontario.
Her earlier short story, The Choudrys, can be read here:

Killing House Flies?

2011-10-10T16:32:00.000+01:00

Master of the Flyswat. Oh Carleton.
Read article HERE

Deck Chairs ignite female passions?

2011-10-06T16:46:00.004+01:00

Read Article HERE

Deckchairs 2 new plays at Leytonstone library

2011-09-23T00:35:00.004+01:00

EARLY BLIGHT – a heart breaking exploration of a doomed mother/daughter relationship
Helen – Hazel Bell
June - Diane Lefley
DAY TRIPPERS – confident Beryl and prudish Doris on an annual works outing get a few surprises
Beryl - Diane Lefley
Doris – Hazel Bell

September 23rd
7.30pm

September 24th
2.30pm

Leytonstone Library
6 Church Lane,
Leytonstone E11 1HG

Presented by

FEMME FATALE
THEATRE Co

Famous thoughts?

2011-09-22T21:06:00.000+01:00

Below are some real situations I have found myself in over the course of my life. They involve famous people and, um, my 'magination.

Famous person 1. SHIRLEY MACLAINE.
Situation: She was accepting an honourary Doctorate from Acadia University, NS in 1985. I was 17, working for Saga foods, as a runner.
Expression: hard to describe exactly but she looked at me...
Imagination: "Hmmm. He's not bad, though a little young. WHAT? LISTEN I MIGHT BE 51, BUT I'M A MOVIE STAR!"

Famous Person 2. BEN WHISHAW
Situation: I was sitting on the steps of St Martin's in the Fields in London recently with my brother and his two sons. They were at the end of their summer holiday, it was a sunny day we were tired from walking from St Pauls, we looked a lazy college volleyball team watching the buskers at Trafalgar square. Ben Wishaw came through a pack of people quickly. He was wearing a jaunty scarf and sailed along into the pack of people up St Martin's Lane. He definitely had a good look.
Imagination: "Yanks. Tourists!"

Famous People 3. NEIL TENNANT, PET SHOP BOYS
Situation: walking back from work cutting down the back way near Pollards Row in the east end and wondering it I should walk to the next tube or go into the cafe and check to see if I had any messages from my wife. There in front were Neil Tennant and his boyfriend taking snaps of local buildings. Neil Tennant looked at me, then looked away.
Imagination: "Too old. I don't do old!"

Cash Cow or White Elephant? Olympics' Mega Mall finally opens

2011-09-21T20:10:00.000+01:00

Read Article HERE

Sandpiper by Elizabeth Bishop

2011-09-11T17:18:00.003+01:00

New Poems from Graham Buchan

2011-09-11T09:58:00.016+01:00

Graham Buchan graduated as a Chemical Engineer but chose instead a freelance career in the film industry as a writer, editor, producer and director. He has published two books and a pamphlet with The Tall Lighthouse, and short stories, travel writing and many film and art reviews.

Shakespeare rewrites Hamlet

Hey! Hamlet!
Shit happens.
OK?

Appearances

I know that under
that calm, cool and controlled, placid exterior
you hide a calm, cool and controlled placid interior.
Yes, you really are boring.

Display

He was never quite as optimistic
as his website

Poetry Unplugged 15th Anniversary

2011-09-11T09:47:00.012+01:00

On Tuesday 6th of September the Poetry Cafe at Betterton Street in London hosted the 15th anniversary birthday party of Poetry Unplugged complete with birthday cake and previous hosts, John Citizen, Carl Dhiman and current host Niall O'Sullivan introducing 37 acts and which featured many old regulars or at least attendees including, Paul Birtill, Tim Wells, Emma Hammond, Donall Dempsey and so on. What made the night curious was how the hosting styles differed. John Citizen was more laconic and quizzical bantering with the audience as if to say, "Did I say that?" Or "the birthday cake has been mullered!" Carl Dhiman more like a stern, but compelling showman and O'Sullivan like a cheeky Phys Ed teacher knowing he has the best job and can ditch the classroom at any time. It was a lively atmosphere, good vibes, though the old stock phrases such as "please turn off your mobiles" and "don't hang around the entrance and talk during intermission" were still being ignored as every one hung out in front and sucked on a fag during the intermissions. It was good to see Graham Buchan read; the audience especially liked his slow, grating delivery so include some new poems from him in the next post.

Tallin: Soviet influence in exotic Baltic jewel?

2011-09-04T19:05:00.008+01:00

Read Article HERE

It was all going so fine at work, I got my sales and that, but...

2011-08-17T17:34:00.000+01:00

Extract from "Taking the Stairs" by John Stiles

2011-08-11T21:29:00.000+01:00

Extract from "Taking the Stairs" by John Stiles

Storytails, east end? Testing out some new work...innit?

2011-07-26T20:56:00.002+01:00

Record This

Tales from professional and non-professional writers in the basement bar of The Drop, below Stokey's Three Crowns pub...

Confirmed readers are:
John Stiles
Amber Massie-Blomfield
Karen Onojaife
Ian Long

Spread the word to word-worshipping friends....

The event is FREE as always, but donations towards running costs are welcome.

Special recipient of this month's profits is the awesome company Foolish People, who are raising funds for their extraordinary film project Strange Factories (www.foolishpeople.org)

Greg Santos: Emperor of Solitude

2011-07-10T10:03:00.008+01:00

Recently at an event at Goodenough College in London I was lucky to meet and hear a young Canadian poet from Montreal. The event which supported the work of numerous Canadian and British poets such as Todd Swift and Grahame Davies was held in the cozy confines of a Bloomsbury college for expatriate students and was a great success. The place was packed, the wine and fruit juice was free, too, which didn't hurt. The poet who caught my attention most was Greg Santos, launching a debut book of poetry, The Emperor's Sofa. Part of the reason that he caught my attention was that he was funny, a former actor, and was on an international book tour with his drinking buddies from Montreal. That can't be bad can it? Later at home I read his work and was impressed; while the book covers pop culture and Canadian identity and references those who have made cleverness and pop culture references their oeuvre, such as David McGimpsey and Stuart Ross, it has its own style, I think. The book moves on from Hulkamaniac poems, observational and also sarcastic, but always clever - like conversations with people who know each other too well (BFF) getting their bits in, to the more sobre territory of the imagined soul, or alter ego. In this case, in Greg's case it is The Emperor. There is a lot there about love, looking in from the outside, so how can you not feel for a heart, "a white butterfly mounted in an iron shadow box." However where the book gets its wings is in the Emperor Poems in the second half of the book. They are odd, great, like ghosts who inhabit an old room and so I add: "I appreciate this book, especially the idea of the slightly awkward, at odds with the world, Emperor soul rattling around in his castle, proclaiming his love, his heart for the world, from his iron prison."

Two new poems from Greg Santos:

The Fortress of Solitude
by Greg Santos
In the seat in front of me
A mother is traveling
With her toddler and infant.

I think of my own daughter
Who waved for the first time
Before I departed on this train.

The children are a welcome distraction
From the loneliness
Draped over my shoulders like a cape.

But not for long.
Missing my family
Is my kryptonite.

The Fortress of Solitude
Is a great place to put up my feet
And colour code my thoughts.

The interiors might be snazzy
But the acoustics in here suck.

The Great Hoarder
by Greg Santos
Sometimes when my wife and daughter are asleep
I feel like I am forever filling up an attic
with boxes of knick-knacks I’m not prepared to throw out
but have no clue what to do with.
I think of errands to run: I have to go to the bank,
diaper supplies are dangerously low,
we are out of milk and orange juice...
Other thoughts drift by like odd deep sea fish:
Will I be able to read all the books that are piling up?
My hair is getting too long. Does anyone read my poems?
I wander this dark attic when I cannot sleep,
thinking of friends I’ve lost touch with
and speak to ghosts in need of company.
They want to know what it’s like to be young
and laugh at my talk of being mired with responsibility.
Well, you haven’t changed diapers
while trying to write a status update, I say.
You’re lucky, I tell them, you don’t have to choose
between Apple and Android, Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus.
Go back to sleep, Greg, they say.
Those are questions for the ages.

Bio: Greg Santos is the author of The Emperor's Sofa (DC Books, 2010). He is the poetry editor of pax americana and is on the editorial board of the Paris-based literary journal, Upstairs at Duroc.

Death of Harry Flannigan by Wilma Seville

2011-06-22T12:24:00.000+01:00

Harry Flannigan

A house steeped in sorrow, looking unsightly
Harry’s home, born there seventy years ago in May
the Flannigans, Mother, Father, Sister, all dead
died young, decent people, death by motor car.

Harry lives alone, except for Sammy
in fifty years he’s had several cats at home
never married, you see, his mind affected
by the terrible crash which snatched his whole family.

Harry alone survived the accident, you know
damage to his face and ears with loss of hearing
an ugly scar running from eyebrow to neck
disfiguring his former spectacular good looks.

Old Harry, friendless, alone except for “Sammy”
went to bed one night, all doors and windows bolted
sleeping soundly as his custom was, never dreaming
in the basement, danger lurked waiting till he slept.

A man with scraggly matted hair slowly crept upstairs
the creaking of the old staircase should have alerted deaf old Harry
sleeping on the narrow bed which was his since a boy
creeping, creeping, getting closer to his room.

The stranger, coming off a high, needed cash, you see
to buy his next fix from the dealer which is not free
an intruder filled with hate and anger
intent on grabbing valuables to sell for cash.

The hidden knife in dirty tattered jeans pocket
betrayed his awful motive in coming there
old Harry, defenseless and frail, lying so still
seemed to taunt the crazed dope addict in his mind.

Harry awoke with a start uncertain of the danger he sensed
his sleep crusted eyes focused in the dim light unseeing
the awful presence standing beside his bed
steel blade of hunting knife clutched in hands that shook.

Sammy lying beside him, claws extended, was no match
yowling filled the stillness of the upstairs bedroom
hunting knife plunging into arched orange body
crimson blood spattered on white crumpled bed sheets.

In spite of hard difficult trying times in Harry’s life
loss of family, good looks, hearing and no wife or children
the will to live in him continued very strong
he tried to fight against the younger person

Harry watched in horror as the hand came closer to him
his mind still groggy with insufficient sleep
his only thought, escape the smelly vile man
who held the blood stained hunting knife.

His blood mingled with that of Sammy
As he took his last breath
Together in life, together in death.

Teen Canada World Cup?

2011-06-19T23:13:00.003+01:00

Fifa U 17 world cup Canada v Uruguay live in 1 hr
http://www.fifa.com/u17worldcup/video/live/index.html

A short story from Wilma Seville: The Choudrys

2011-06-06T23:16:00.006+01:00

The Choudrys
By Wilma Seville

The sound of a key turning in the lock alerted the white cat first. Ears quivering, he padded to the apartment door. Saleem reached down to stroke the soft white fur.
“Assalamu Alaikum Saleem, I didn’t hear you come in – sorry.” Ayesha said as she gave her husband a hug. “How was your day?
“It could have been better, I got some bad news,” he replied quietly.
“What did you say, I didn’t hear you?”
“Never mind, we’ll talk about it after supper.”

Saleem's stout frame filled the green high back chair. Saleem peeled his wet socks off, wiggling his toes to warm them, before inching them into his fleece-lined slippers. He was soon joined by the cat. His purring soothed his wounded spirit.

The delicious smell of fried onions and ginger wafting from the gallery kitchen gave him a momentary sense of peace. Shock and a sense of unreality gripped him in a firm grasp, shaking him to his very core, as he realized fully that his employment would be terminated at the end of the month – only a few days away. His employment insurance and severance pay would not last.

Emotions swirled within him; despair, hopelessness, and sadness. The frigid cold outside, his bad news, seemed to reach into the very marrow of his bones as he wrestled with what to do.

He remembered how long it had taken him to get a job in Accounting. It had been tough the first few years, he had had to drive taxis, and do odd jobs. They chose Scarborough with its Mosque and Islamic School, its Indian grocery stores and so many people from South Asia within its borders.

He was out driving, picking up passengers when the call came for a job interview as a Junior Accountant in a multi-national company. His interview was scheduled for the next afternoon.

The ad he had answered had read, “Applicant must be currently enrolled in a CA, CGA, or CMA program and working towards completion of it”. He had been studying for the designation of C.G.A. for the last three years, part time. Thankfully, his credentials from Pakistan had exempted him from some of the courses.

Over the five years he had worked for the company, he had done his best and when a position came available as a Senior Accountant, he was chosen to fill it. Things had turned out well.

The children were happy and doing well in school. He and Ayesha had made friends at the Mosque and in the neighbourhood. Both of them felt that their financial sacrifice to send the children to Islamic School was worth it, knowing that they would be well grounded in academic and religious studies.

The purring sound of Billoo and the familiar smells of home, soothed him, his eyelids drooped. He was emotionally exhausted. A little rest was all he could hope for before he broke the news. His mind drifted back to when he was a boy. He saw his Mom and Grandmother smiling a welcome to him as he returned home after school. His Dad, returning home from work from his office job, greeting them with “Assalamu Alaikum.” His Dad, who passed away two years after they arrived in Canada, had been the quiet strength of the family.

He owed so much to him, he had supported his decision to stay in school and learn Accounting. How he wished he could talk to him right now.

With a start, his little rest over, he heaved himself out of the chair, disrupting Billoo’s purring. “Where are the children Ayesha?”

Ayesha, her long black hair pulled back from her face, wiped her hands on her apron as she said, “They’re down the hall visiting the Shaikh family. I’m amazed how they can text each other, and yet have so much to talk about in person. In all my 45 years, I’ve never seen such a thing. At home we didn’t even have a phone. Even if we had, we would never have been allowed to waste so much time.

Saleem, you just have enough time to pray Maghrib Salat. The kids will be home shortly and then we’ll eat.”

His time of prayer was interrupted by the slam of the apartment door. Ayesha, her finger over her lips quietly said to Ayub and Nor as they came into the kitchen. “Ssh, Dad’s praying Maghrib salat. He’ll be finished in a minute.”

Saleem arose from the floor and folded his prayer mat neatly, smiling as he saw his children.
“Assalamu Alaikum Dad. Mom, what’s for dinner?”
"It’s karhai gosht tonight.”
“Beef stew, you know how I hate that.” Ayub’s round face wrinkled as his nose smelled the familiar spices. Can’t we ever have fries and hamburgers?”
“You’ll eat what’s put in front of you Ayub, just be thankful that you have food!”

After dinner, the twins went to their rooms and started their homework.

Saleem seized the opportunity to speak privately with his wife. “Ayesha please, come and sit down. I had some terrible news today.”

Ayesha sat down opposite him, her brow wrinkling, concern written all over her face. “What is it Saleem?”
“I’ve been laid off. It’s going to be tough to get another job at my age. We’ve got some savings and with my severance pay, I’d like to start an accounting firm.” Saleem said.
“Who would be your clients? We don’t know that many people here,” Ayesha stammered.

Clearing his throat, Saleem answered. “There are many small businesses run by South Asians, who may wish to contract out their bookkeeping. I can build up my clientele this way. I already have several clients who wish to stay with me when I leave. This might be our chance for a better life.

Ayesha’s expressive face reflected her uneasy mood. She tried to put a positive spin on their financial status.

“Well, one good thing is that the kids will be going to High School in September and so the expense of Islamic School will be over soon. Saleem, we’ve been saving so hard to put a down payment on a house. Can’t we do that first? Now that you have Canadian experience, it should be easier to get a job where there is security and benefits. If you went into business for yourself, it’s very risky.”

“Ayesha, I know it’s a gamble, but sometimes risk has to be taken for a better future. I realize that we have been saving every penny to buy a house here, but that may have to wait. The alternative is to look in a less expensive area, like Malton or Bramptom.

“I really want to buy here Saleem. I feel comfortable here, the Mosque is only one bus ride away, I see lots of people dressed like me, and shopping is easy with the different Indian grocery stores. I don’t want to start new in another area. You’re asking too much from me! I moved from Pakistan because you thought the children would have a better future here. I hated to leave my friends and family behind. I’m so lonely at home, with you and the kids gone all day. Now you’re talking about more change. I’ve had enough change to last a lifetime?”

Ayesha, tears streaming down her face, rushed into the bedroom, throwing herself on the bed. He followed her and quietly closed the door so the children would not hear.

“Ayesha, be reasonable, let’s talk about it. I’m trying to think what’s best for all of us, can’t you see that?”

A stony silence met his words. If she had looked up, she would have seen his utter look of dejection as he left the room.

He felt dizzy, his chest felt like a heavy weight on it, his heart was racing and beads of perspiration flowed down his face. He staggered over to his chair almost sitting on Billoo who jumped up with a hiss.

“Ayesha, help me.”

His call to his wife went unanswered.
Ayub heard the faint call, as he sprinted into the room, closely followed by Nor.

“Nor, get Mom! She must not have heard.Dad, Dad, can you hear me? What’s wrong?” Nor, get going – get Mom!”

His hands shaking in his haste, he punched in 911 on his cell phone, gave the address and buzz code and continued to call his Dad’s name. He felt numb with shock, he’d never seen his Dad looking so ill.

“Nor, such commotion, why are you banging on the door? I’m trying to rest here!”
“Mom, it’s Dad, come quick!” Nor blurted out, tears running down her face.

Agitated, Ayesha ran into the sitting room, her knees buckling as she saw her husband gasping for breath, his hand on his chest.

“Saleem, Saleem, oh what have I done? Hang in there, help is coming.”

The harsh sound of the buzzer jolted the distraught family as Ayub ran to the door to open it. Burly firefighters arrived first with the oxygen, followed closely by the para-medics.

Saleem was transferred onto the narrow stretcher, the oxygen mask already in place, and was transported by elevator to the waiting ambulance. Sirens screaming – their destination, Scarborough General Hospital.

Hospital routine took over. A nurse put in an I.V. drip, put the oxygen line gently into his nose and gave him two baby aspirin. Then she took some blood.

“We’ll be doing an electrocardiogram as soon as the technician comes.” The lights overhead, the hum of the E.R. lulled Saleem into a half sleep as they waited for the doctor to arrive.

“Mr. Choudhry, we want to keep you in for three to five days just to run some more tests on your heart. Your blood work has to be taken every eight hours for the next twenty-four. It will be awhile before you go up to the ward. No point in your wife staying.”

Ayesha, her feet dragging from tiredness, made her way to the hospital entrance to get a cab. As soon as she got home, she dialed her brother-in-law’s number in Pakistan.

“Asher, it’s Ayesha calling. Saleem is in the hospital emergency right now. The doctor’s think he may have had a heart attack and are keeping him in for a few days. They asked a lot of questions about family history. I need you to tell me if there are any heart problems in your family.”

A moment of silence met her outburst as he digested the news about his brother.

“Asher, are you there? I know this is a real shock but I need your help so I can tell the doctors.”

Realizing that he needed a moment to collect his agitated thoughts, Ayesha continued to talk to him.

“You would have been so proud of Ayub, he called 911 and got his Dad the help he needed. He kept gasping for air and clutching his heart. None of us have ever seen him like that. It was so frightening.

You know your brother, he’s always so calm and knows what to do.”

“Okay Ayesha, I was just thinking while you were talking. There have been some rather strange things happen on our side of the family. Do you remember Abdul, our first cousin? You and Saleem were newly married. He was engaged to be married himself and the whole family was really excited as they liked the girl whom his mother picked out for him. Can you recall that he was exercising one day and he just dropped dead? It was a terrible shock and all the doctors could tell us was that his heart just stopped for no apparent reason. Also, we had Great Uncle Bilal who lived in a small village, he was as healthy as an ox, but one day his wife found him lifeless on the floor. It was the talk of the whole village that she had probably poisoned him. Everybody knew they didn’t get along. Fortunately for her, the doctor squashed those rumors. I guess it was the suddenness of it all and you know how people will talk! Nobody knows for sure what the problem is, even the doctors don’t know, but both of these men, their hearts just stopped.”

“I didn’t know about your great uncle but I do remember about your cousin. It was so shocking. He was so young. I’m afraid for Saleem now. Please pray for him. I feel so alone, I wish you all were here. I’ll be in touch soon.Assalamau Aleikum.”

Ayesha lay on her double bed, her mind tormented as images of Saleem played through her mind. Oh why had she been so hard on him?

All this had taken place while Saleem was waiting for a bed upstairs in the Cardiac Care Unit. It was after midnight by the time he got one.

He spent a restless night, his mind in a turmoil. His Dad had supported all of them, including his elderly mother. He had only his wife and the twins to look after. In the morning, his resolve stiffened by this memory, he borrowed the paper from his roommate, Mr. Cohen.

Determined eyes scanned the want ads, but found nothing that would suit. Later that morning, Saleem felt like a pin cushion, as he was prodded, pricked and x-rayed. He knew Mr. Cohen was going home and wondered who his new roommate might be.

The lunch trays were just arriving, when Saleem was brought back to his room. An elderly man, with a lined face, thick white hair and brown skin lay in the bed next to his. His voice weak, the newcomer introduced himself as Ahmed Naqvi, originally from the Punjab.

Saleem felt drawn to him as he had the same gentleness in his manner, as his father once did. He looked about the same age he would have been had he lived. Casually chatting, they quickly established a bond in their favourite sport, “cricket”. Saleem wondered if he could confide in the old man.

His decision made, he took the plunge and explained his plan for the future. Had the old man heard him at all? His eyes were closed and he didn’t respond. Perhaps it was just as well, after all, what could he do anyway?

His nose in his book, Saleem heard his roommate speaking to him. He had heard after all.

“My friend, Mr. Ahmed, has a son who is searching for an Punjabi speaking accountant to become a partner in the business? He would require some investment. Shall I ask him about it for you?”

Having received a grateful thanks, Mr. Navqi, his arthritic hands deformed, painfully punched in his old friend’s number on the phone beside his bed. The two oldsters spoke of family, friends and cricket, before the purpose of the call was revealed.

He’ll call his son right now. He thinks the position is still open as it has not been advertised yet.
Arrangements were made for the two men to come in that same evening.
After school, Ayesha and the twins arrived with plans of their own.

“Saleem, I have a suggestion which I hope you will agree with. You know I learned to be a hairdresser before we married. I may need to update my skills somewhat but I could do part time work in this. I loved hairdressing. I really would enjoy working part time. I hope you’ll agree?”

Ayub, his boyish face lit up, chimed in with his plans as well.

“Dad. Nor and I are old enough to get part time jobs. I saw an ad for a paperboy in our neighbourhood. I’d like to try that. Nor said she wouldn’t mind babysitting for some of the families in our building. We want to help.”

Saleem felt so proud of his family, pulling together in this time of need. It seemed to him that Ayesha was reaching out to him and might even be willing to relocate, if needed.

“I’m so proud of you all. I like all your ideas.

He gave the twins a hug and clasped his wife’s hand.

“I had some great news this morning. My tests were negative but the doctors want to run one more test tomorrow before letting me go home. They’re not sure what caused this problem but think it may have been a panic attack. The doctor told me the symptoms are very similar to heart attacks.”

With tears in her eyes, Ayesha patted his arm. “Thank Allah, this is the best news!

Nor, the quiet one, chimed in with “Billoo misses you Dad, he sits on your chair waiting for you. She quickly hugged him and mumbled, “I miss you too.”

Tonight, Mr. Navqi’s friend’s son will come in to discuss a partnership with me. The only problem is that the office is in Malton. If we hit it off, and my clients keep their promise to come with me, then I’m willing to drive to Malton every day.

This way, Ayesha, we can remain in Scarborough as you wish.

It’s a long drive but I’ll do it.
We’re family after all, and we’ll work it out.
By Wilma Seville

(Wilma Seville is a Canadian writer who lives in Hamilton, Ontario. She writes poetry, short stories and articles for different publications.)

Amnesty International Event

2011-05-18T10:15:00.003+01:00

The Poetry Library | Events | Poetry readings
To celebrate Amnesty International's 50th birthday, the Waltham Forest Group will be hosting 'Freedom in 50 Words'. Amnesty supporters as well as members of the public will be invited to perform stories, poems, lyrics or non-fiction pieces of exactly 50 words on the theme of 'Freedom'. Beyond this, participants are free to interpret the brief as they like - pieces can be serious or humorous, personal or political.

In addition to the 50-word contest, the event will feature a number of headline acts, including acclaimed musician Darren Hayman (of Hefner fame), Shaun Attwood (author of Hard Time: A Brit in America's Toughest Jail), and poets John Stiles (author of Scouts Are Cancelled and Taking the Stairs) and Jacqueline Gabbitas. Participants will be asked to read their work (up to a maximum of five pieces) aloud in front of the audience, as well as a panel of three judges - Bea Moyes (Ether Books), Gabriella Apicella (Storytails) and Katy Darby (Litro magazine and Liars? League). The 5 best acts, as determined by the judges, will then return to the stage for a Grand Final, where the overall winner of the night will be determined by audience vote. The best entries on the night will also have the possibility of being considered for publication in Litro magazine.

If you'd like to participate or would like further info, please get in touch with Ken Barlow at k.barlow919@btinternet.com, find us on Facebook (Waltham Forest Amnesty International), follow us on Twitter (http://twitter.com/Waltham ForestAI) or visit http://waltham.amnesty.org.uk (campaigns>diary of events).

LONDON E17: Waltham Forest Amnesty International Presents: 'Freedom in 50 Words'
Date: Sun 22-May-11 Time: 02:00 PM Price: £5

Address:
Upstairs Theatre at Ye Olde Rose and Crown
53 Hoe Street
London
E17 E17 4SA

event is upstairs in the hall 3 pm start v excited

2011-05-14T13:09:00.001+01:00

out window in wicklow

2011-05-07T20:30:00.000+01:00

how yah doon anight?
one week to go to Haliburton 4.0

First call for submissions

2011-05-02T10:28:00.004+01:00

Please forward to your networks! NewPoetry.ca is finally accepting submissions.

NewPoetry.ca seeks poetry for its premier gathering of work. The theme is “Beginning” and text, image, audio, video, and web-capable multi-media interpretations are welcome. Visual, lyrical, dub, sound, flarf, narrative, aural, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, formal, sculptural, hip-hop, slam, recitation, etc., and whatever unnamed hybrids may exist between are welcome and encouraged. Work in both French and English is welcome. NewPoetry is a new multi-aesthetic venture that encourages cross-form collaboration and seeks to bring together as many poetic attempts as possible under one banner. Our goal is simply to showcase interesting work in a variety of styles. Please send work and/or proposal abstracts to newpoetry.ca@gmail.com, by June 1, 2011.

Just before the Royal Wedding some poems about heart by Simon Barraclough

2011-04-28T15:50:00.023+01:00

Wiki Heart

by Simon Barraclough
(from the forthcoming Neptune Blue, Salt Publishing.)
Someone put my heart on Wikipedia.
Just a stub.
Un
stub
stantiated
awaiting citations.
The entry is unkind,
I hope that any reader clicks on by
as Dionne Warwick might advise.
Anyone who had a heart
would do well
to set it apart,
ring fence and firewall and snap up its domain
in perpetuity.

Magpie Heart

Stick your ‘gimlet eyes’
into your stuffed and mounted travesties
Don’t flatter yourself that I’d want yours,
to wet my beak
in the inkhorns of your vanities.
When you see me you say,
‘One for sorrow.’
When I see a magpie,
I count myself too,
and every time it’s, ‘Two for joy.’

Simon Barraclough was born in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire, but has lived in London since 1996. He won the poetry section of the London Writers’ Prize in 2000 and his debut, Los Alamos Mon Amour (Salt Publishing) was a finalist for the Best First Collection in the Forward Poetry Prizes 2008. In 2010 he published a boxed ‘minibook’of commissioned poems, Bonjour Tetris (Penned in the Margins). His work appears in the anthologies Identity Parade (Bloodaxe 2010) and Poems for Love (Penguin 2009).

Orca Heart

I feel safe because I know
your teeth will bend right back
as they encircle me

but in they go.
And now the quicks of all ten nails are gone
from scraping the splintered deck.

You have the better half of me.
Who thought you'd be so inflexible?
I'll never put on a life jacket
again.

NB. Paul Vermeersch also references 'heart' in his poem about a Baboon in Reinvention of the Human Hand. Hope Kate and Wills have a happy marriage. From me, in one.

More Events: Waltham Forest Lit Festival

2011-04-19T14:58:00.033+01:00

Waltham Forest Literature Festival

Haliburton 4.0 (With Todd Swift, Tiffany Anne Tondut, Public Speech Band with host John Stiles)
Saturday 14 May, 3-4:30 pm
Leytonstone Library
6-8 Church Lane Leytonstone
E11 1HG

Then right after, (if you can't get enough already.)

In other words ( and right after)
Saturday 14 May
Poetry from Gerda Mayer, Kathy Towers, Lorraine Mariner and Graham Clifford + support from members of Forest Poets. Vestry House, Vestry Road, Walthamstow, London E17. Part of Waltham Forest Literature Festival. 6.30pm. £4 on the door includes wine.
Wednesday 18 May
Poetry from Julia Bird, Heather Taylor, Liz Berry and Graham Buchan. Support from members of Forest Poets. Walthamstow Library, High Street, London E17. 7.30pm (doors open 7pm). £4 on the door includes wine. Part of Waltham Forest Literature Festival.

Saturday 21 May
Book-ish - Literary Fair at Leytonstone Library: books, postcards, artists’ prints, magazines, pamphlets, stationary – all on a literary theme. The fair will give participants the opportunity to share their skills with the general public, and to sell a range of products including illustrators’ magazines and fanzines, handmade books, poetry books and pamphlets, fine art and letterpress printers and posters, stationery, postcards and cards. Cakes from Suzie’s Kitchen and music from Tony Tunes of the Shellac Collective, playing vintage 78s. In association with Forest Poets and E17 Designers. 6 Church Lane, Leytonstone. 12 noon to 4pm. £1 entry includes a drink and the chance to win a goody bag. Carolyn Abbott 07904 546 294 or carolyn@carolynabbott.co.uk

Haliburton 4.0

2011-04-14T19:33:00.004+01:00

From Canada's East Coast to London's East End?
We're back. Haliburton 4.0 and a right Royal Weddin' Anthem

The London chapter of North America's Oldest Literary Society returns again for its fourth event in London as part of Waltham Forest Literature Festival in The Hall at historic Leytonstone Library, Saturday, May 14th, 3-4:30 pm
Tube: Leytonstone on Central Line

Celebrating the work of Charles Dickens' rival, International writer Thomas Chandler Haliburton, the event celebrates humour and the written word and encourages a lively performance from its readers and encourages a good time for the audience members who enjoy colourful characters and a relaxing but fun atmosphere.

Join event host and poet John Stiles as he invites some of Canada's and London's finest poets and musicians.

Confirmed readers include:

Tiffany Anne Tondut: “Poet, pin-up and occasional contributor/cover girl for the Chap magazine, Tiffany Anne Tondut is a prime contestant for Chap of the Year. She is often seen slinking about the Bohemian quarters of London’s poetry scene, complete with kiss curls and red-stainéd mouth. Oozing sensuality in an effortless revival of bygone glamour, Tiffany is equally at home in pair of outdoor hunting slacks. Person and pen combine to enslave the hearts of gentlemen everywhere! For anyone yet to follow her exploits, she keeps a sizzling blog at tiffanyannetondut.blogspot.com.” Aloysius Nightingale

Todd Swift, Canadian poet, Critic, Writer and Editor of EyeWear

Todd is a lecturer in Creative Writing at Kingston University; a poet, critic, anthologist. Born in Montreal, he has lived in England since 2003. He recently co-edited Modern Canadian Poets, published by Carcanet, reviewed recently by the Globe and Mail.

And if the sensual tones of London's top wordsmiths aren't enough and you aren't already excited enough about the Royal Wedding, local Hackney band Public Speech will provide a lively accoustic set featuring their new number Royal Wedding.

Public Speech

Public Speech are a kaleidoscope of satire, irony and searing guitar licks distilled by a bad ass rhythm section into a potent attack on just about everything. Along the way Public Speech has created it's own genre and they are just a bit more original than your average Punk, Blues, Rock and Rap band with more than just a bit of comedy thrown in for good measure.

In a recent email, Public Enemy's Chuck D described the lyrics to Public Speech’s 'Lets Sell Out' as "poetic genius". Neville Staples described frontman Joe as “the Man”.

Public Speech have been played on BBC Radio 6 – Tom Robinson 'introducing' show and have supported Neville Staples, Chas And Dave and Marv The Martian to name but a few.

Hosting the event and reading selections from his award winning poetry book, Scouts are Cancelled as well as his novel Taking the Stairs as well as debuting work from a novel-in-progress will be Annapolis Valley Nova Scotian native and current Leytonstone resident John Stiles.

The event is free but please support the acts.
How Yah doon anight?

Canada's World Cup dreams die with crocked Hargreaves? Not likely

2011-04-03T16:57:00.002+01:00

Read Article Here

Poppy by the Sorrys

2011-03-28T17:13:00.002+01:00

Watch it HERE

Tips for Writers Block

2011-03-16T22:40:00.002Z

Read Article HERE

Football for a Fiver at Fisher

2011-03-09T21:14:00.002Z

Read Article HERE

Serday' Night, World Book Night in Leytonstone Library

2011-03-01T18:53:00.002Z

World Book Night this Sat Night at Leytonstone library 7-8pm
48 Copies of Seamus Heaney’s Selected Poem’s to give away
free, fer frigs sakes.
Also there will be readings and a discussion of Heaney’s Poems.

WPP: World Poetry Portfolio

2011-02-28T18:57:00.010Z

NEW POEMS HERE

City State: New London Poetry

2011-02-27T21:22:00.004Z

Read Article HERE

Critique of an essay as if it were a poem?

2011-02-22T20:30:00.005Z

(This from a writer from the valley I like. Name is Josh Garagan).

On Jordan Chittley's Poem

Behind the Scenes with N.S. Woman who Made the Dragons Cry

Dear Jordan,

Last night my roommate and I had a lengthly discussion about your poem entitled Behind the Scenes with N.S. Woman who Made the Dragons Cry. He comes from France. He's a journalist who arrived in Canada last month for research. I presented him my issues with your poem i,e., form and function, and both of us agreed: you lack objectivity. Think long term. Ideally a journalist's subjectivity should be recognizable only after his or her articles are gathered and examined after his or her death. In the meantime I think your goal, from what little I understand about journalism, is to represent global and local news in unbiased objective terms. Leave poetry to poets; please, write us news.

Your poem on Yahoo! about Barb, Barb Stegemann, was well written but Grammar Girl (and possibly the critic Northrop Frye, The Bush Garden) might have criticized your abbreviation of Nova Scotia. Whenever acronyms or abbreviations are used in official documents its first usage is usually written in full. Had Strunk & White included a section on abbreviations in The Elements of Style they might have also argued, as Grammar Girl does, this reduces mystery or else squashes a writer's presumption that readers read minds as well as texts. Let's face it, readers nowadays have enough problems deciphering digital newspeak (simplified English, bastardized for efficiency) without the added stresses of regional handicaps. And Frye might have argued us Canadians often identify ourselves in terms of regions. By representing Nova Scotia as an abbreviated N.S. and then categorizing the not-so-special province as nothing but a smaller part of 'Atlantic Canada' you've created a negative story, negative news.

In the first paragraph you misrepresented Ms. Stegemann as someone who, "...was looking for money and exposure," which is later contradicted when you quote her as saying, "I wasn't going just for money, you can get money anywhere...Brett became my mentor". At first I assumed, because of your station in life as a professional writer, you tried to recreate the experience of 'behind the scenes' with literary conventions. I figured you were leading us — the viewers — through a televised personality and slowly, over the course of a story, you were showing us who Ms. Barb Stegemann really is. You illustrated it with craft. But then I remembered this isn't your job. Your job isn't recreating or representing experiences. Your job is journalism; you present us facts. If I wanted drama then I could have watched the Dragon's Den myself. Or better yet, I could have watched reruns of True-Life Adventures.

I understand your situation though. You're an online journalist in a world where the very definition of 'journalism' changes rapidly and uncontrollably. To fit in, to be accepted, to make a living, I see you and your peers borrowing conventions of other, more emotional sister arts like literature, and even though their expressive forms are probably more fun for you (much like skiing and sailing are) I have a feeling it damages the 'psyches' of exploited people. But you, you're a Western Canadian; your regional ignorance is expected (a reflection of your second stanza: "...she became the first woman from Atlantic Canada to succeed"). In the future, instead of throwing together a poor TV piece after a long day at Whistler, consider research. It's your job, and your current writing style reflects a generational and demographic laziness that sucks.

Nothing is ever simple. The next time you, as a Westerner, find yourself writing about people and places outside your region ask someone’s advice. Send an email. Try Herb Wyile. He studies Atlantic Canadian Literature in Wolfville Nova Scotia, and though I cannot speak on his behalf he'd probably be thrilled to help edit your articles to sound more honest and culturally true.

You write about Humanities but never leave a bubble, a screen, a region. The least you could do for us, your audience, is try a little harder. It’s your responsibility. We rely on you. So either write about familiar things or humble yourself and learn from others. Work harder. Do research. Give facts.

Sincerely,

Leroy

PS. In the 'about' section of your website you explain your interest, or research subject, during a Masters of Journalism was, "[The] result of negative news on an individuals’ psyche". Strunk's Rule #1: either pluralize individuals (omit 'an') or keep singular and change the possessive.

Cisne Negro: Black Swan in Seville

2011-02-20T15:58:00.009Z

Read Article HERE

East End London: Road to the Olympics 2012

2011-02-11T17:46:00.005Z

Read Article HERE

Richard Tyrone Jones

2011-02-09T21:09:00.023Z

All your ex-girlfriends as Soviet statue park

The first has been decapitated. Her eyes severe, colour gone, could stare out seas or deserts, but instead gaze over a sliproad to the retail park. This one's legs, which your current squeeze poses inbetween for a photo, digital, not polaroid, are still shapely despite the mould. That one's almost still whole, I think she holds a discus, or is it chips? She's too far away. That one, the short one, her pointing wrist now buried in the ground holds up just her head and torso, like a broken breakdancer. One with a bob hefts a thick book, and longingly surveys a flat on the run-down blocks. Drizzle hunts your eye from some far-up granite rill. The martial one looks up and out for planes, will never meet your gaze, and the one you always overlook is just an unsmiling bust. Strange, what you must now pay to see what was once immanent. Your current's in the gift shop, so your artist's eye can't size her up. Suns set. Atoms swap. The porphyry, pumice, basalt strain to remember lust.

--
Richard Tyrone Jones
Poet, host, Director of 'Utter!' spoken word
www.utterspokenword.com

http://twitter.com/rtjpoet

The Mayfly by Mal Grosch

2011-02-07T19:06:00.002Z

Hi's n Lo's of the X Mas and New Year period:

2011-01-09T18:49:00.003Z

Hi's n Lo's of the X Mas and New Year period:
HI__________________________________LO
Sidney Crosby Streak________________Sidney Crosby concussion (bummer),
Canada U 20 Hockey win v USA______Canada U 20 wlds choke v Russia (poor),
Beckham to Tottenham?_____________Beckham not to Tottenham,
Martin Phillips to semis in Darts____Martin Phillips beat like a rented mule by the Wolfie (cocky wolfie)...

Five years on?

2010-12-31T12:57:00.005Z

Don’t do lists normally but this is to commemorate 20+ book and music reviews at how yah doon? oh yeah, and Happy New Year.
Little note…

1. Five (or ten?) of the reviews were done in the space of a month (or two?) in 2005, so a bit lax after that (review wise!)

2. Favourite book: Easy (The Golden Spruce). About a renegade logger in the west of Canada. History of the decimation of the Canadian forest in BC and images such as widowmakers falling from 400 foot tall trees and the line (“…if that snowbank moves, it’s just Grant.")

3. Talent spot: Annie Freud, (from the pages of a self-published chapbook to an award winning and major prize-nominated poet – and guest book reviewer) in three years.

4. Favourite Review: Patrick Woodcock, Controlling Mastema. Guilt, ambition, hints of kindness, snappy one-liners and an unreliable set of narrators. Two people not meant to live together.

5. Favourite Music Review: Corb Lund (Hair in my Eyes Like a Highland Steer). Smalls to reunite in 2011?

6. Discovery of 2010. Paul Vermeersch’s mordant wit in new poetry book.

7. Second favourite book review. Stole this from a hockey card by Chris Robinson.

8. Great. Still hope for a few more ‘writers on writing’ interviews…

9. Favourite book reviewed in place of a book sought out. Gold Indigoes by George Elliot Clarke.

10. Favourite album never to be reviewed on How Yah Doon? Take that. Progress…

Thanks to the guest reviewers, Mr Tea, Graham Mummery, JP Fadely, and Annie Freud.

Oh yeah and we take the odd poem

scoutsarecancelled@virginmedia.com
pls send bio poem n photo
thanks..

George Elliot Clarke in London? "Gold Indigoes" reviewed

2010-12-06T22:14:00.004Z

***REVIEW***
HERE

***ARTICLE ***
BELOW

George Elliot Clarke in London?

2010-12-04T15:04:00.029Z

I saw George Elliot Clarke read recently as part of a book launch in central London. Though we are not close friends or even aquaintances, I knew of GEC from my beginnings in Halifax. As a young scrawler living with my girlfriend in a low rent apartment in the south end of Halifax in the early nineties with a foggy notion of wanting to write I stumbled upon the name George Elliot Clarke (GEC) in the poetry section of the library at St Mary's University. I was twenty seven, working as a room service waiter at the Chateau Halifax, walking to work at 4:00 am on freezing January mornings. I was unsure of my future, other than I wanted to write. During the past few years I had shacked up in a small house with a glum group of metal musicians in Edmonton (the smalls: Corb, Mike, Dug, TJ) and had also worked as a teacher in Japan. But in those early, icy days in Halifax, GEC was always on my radar, in the way that you are aware of a writer and the discipline it might take to make it as a writer. Something about GEC appealed to me; perhaps it was that he was a local unlike my early obsessions Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer, and yes, T.F. Rigelhof. Also he seemed like a regular guy to me; what I noted was that he smiled in his author pictures; most writers tend to glower.

Seven years later and I got the chance to meet GEC in person at my landladies' house in TO. I was now 33; seven years of isolation, starvation and deprivation had taken a toll. I was still unpublished and yet seated at the table were George Elliot Clark and Al Moritz, two celebrated Canadian poets. It was a lively and impassioned night, led by my landlady and her girlfriend, the subject of which was poetry. Mostly I listened though I got in a few stories about the valley and how a couple of rowdy fellers who got kicked out of school set a school bus on fire one Halloween Night and rolled it down Gaspereau Mountain. That little bit of storytelling, and certainly not my literary achievements, got me a little attention that night.

I saw George Elliot Clarke perform shortly after at an event at the University of Toronto and he was an excellent performer on stage as well as reading. His selections that night were from Beatrice Chancy and the soon-to-be Governor Generals' Award-winning Execution Poems. He read in the form of a performer and dedicated one of his poems to his wife. I was a lonely and down at the heels struggling writer and so to me, dedicating a poem to his wife, meant something I could hardly articulate. Later Paul Vermeersch asked GEC to blurb my debut book of poetry Scouts are Cancelled, and he did; I'll always be grateful for that.

Roll on a further ten years this time in London and the exuberant and animated linguist now approaching fifty was equally friendly and polite at a well-attended but rare poetry event - the launch of a new Canadian Poetry Anthology from Carcanet. At first GEC struggled to recognize me but then after puzzling at a newly grown salt and pepper beard, he said:

"Oh, John. You've got a slight English accent now, too."

Despite my mortification at this at least he didn't say that I sounded like an Upper Canadian.

The evening started and I stood at the back of the packed room despite the well-intentioned efforts of poet Todd Swift and his fellow anthologist, Evan Jones, to usher everyone into the seats in the middle of the room. While marveling at the books in the stacks, I listened to GEC read. Through the chit chat of London weather and economic woes and the free wine, I listened to the words of GEC: first a dedication to Irving Layton (and a poem) and then a short reading from Beatrice Chancy. I was again struck by the images of the rail road tracks cutting through the valley like an accordian, the africadian bitterness and unspoken tenions of the people there, the familiar glow of the valley's most bountiful crop: apples. (Now they tell me it is grapes.) As it was a crowning night for Todd Swift to launch his Anthology, (the first such anthology on Canadian writers in fifty-seven years) GEC kept it short and sweet and sat down at his seat after the reading; then other poets read, David McGimpsey - one about Gilligan'sIsland - and another plus Eric Ormsby who was sobre but terrific.

After the reading I obtained a copy of GEC's latest chapbook, "Gold Indigoes" for five pounds and I went to talk to him flanked by two admiring women. One of them, a Finnish translator eyed me up as eased up and I told GEC that I wanted to thank him for the reading (and the original book blurb) in person: "It is so great to hear people so passionate about poetry, especially ones that look like a big ice hockey player." The lady piped in. I looked at the little woman. She had a look in her eye, which only a poet can have, a kind of mysterious, beady-eyed stare, like the piercing look in the eye of a crow. I said to her, pondering the five o'clock shadow on my chin,

"That's funny. I only know two words in Finnish: Teemu Selanne!" "

"Who is that?" asked GEC.

"A Finnish Ice Hockey player" answered the translator, smiling.

"I'm going to review this George," I said. And so I was off with my chapbook in tow. I thought about the night and the poets as I wandered back towards the tube.

A night later I was watching Leonard Cohen perform on TV on the BBC iPlayer and detected certain similarities in tone while flipping through Gold Indigoes. Though late in his career, there is a definite nod to the Bard of Montreal, something Cohenesque about GEC'S new work - the marrying of the sacred and the profane, and while GEC's setting is equal parts NS and Ottawa/Quebec City there is a hint of an English pirate in there. What? How can this be, you might well say, he is a Canadian Poet. I can only ask you this, as a man and as a man in this woirld, walking these streets. Do you think those pockmarked scallywags, weighed down with rum and mollasses didn't have an eye for Nova Scotian women? And do you think those women did not have an eye for the men who sailed in on tall ships from the Caribbean, drinking up the Halifax North End. So BLOW ME DOWN, me 'ol Matey, I wait for the back woods spirituals and indeed the opera which is bound to come out of this.

A short review of: Gold Indigoes

ISBN 0-9321112-40-4

Carolina Wren Press,

Durham, North Carolina

120 Morris Street,

Durham NC USA

27701

The Leonard Cohen comparison is strongest in George Elliot Clarke's poem, Naima, with a nod to Cohen's most famous song, Suzanne:

Naima I should perfume my letters,

confuse spices with my ink,

spirit tea from orange peels and sugar....

...

I know the lime or vinegar taste

of leaves in rain,

but I crave the criminal flavour of red

wine sick with magenta lipstick.

...

Our poetry will close

either in flames or flowers.

In 'Nietzsche' there is a return to the constant undercurrent of vice and sin, which is prevalent in the new work.

"A world of good," they

insisted, "it would do me

to try the brothel."

I was not exactly expecting this, as I am not a great GEC scholar or any great scholar in general and perhaps was expecting more a cacophony of words, as I had heard at the reading at U of T all those nights before but the distillation of themes of love, sex, regret and carnal passions are all carefully placed, each poem its' own entity, its own statement. There is a deftness of touch, less of a tendency to show off here:

In Au Moment the familiar cold French streets present this arresting image:

"Six days to go, six days too long.

Snow is fainting in the streets.

My money is unhappy, love,

and all the beds are hard."

As Clarke is an Africadian poet, with an eye for the local sensibility imbued with history of intolerance and shame and neglect and racial undertones of his beloved Nova Scotian homeland his strongest work in this collection must be:

September 17, 1977

Dissolving, I am dissolving under

Persevering cold and severing rain

A bit of winter in that bitter wet

Guillotining us like a death sentence

The North Street Church steps spumed up frost, waiting.

As clouds and she stormed colder and later:

Her gold hair delayed even rain-weighted.

Standing stuttered by chills at chasms edge.

I was not quite, not quite, understanding

Her Irish name fronting an Acadie

History who she really was, I knew

No history about Evangeline

Or Eve, only that she was departing.

Deporting me from her occupied heart.

So? So what you might ask? I guess it is like this. When I read the words, I hear the voice. And the voice takes me back to that place that I come from, the people, the cadence of speaking, the rythymn. And those are the things that carry us through out lives: the memories that we have when we are old of when we were young. I can see George Elliot Clarke saying this poem. I can hear him reading it too. It stays with me. Imagine the struggle that he must deal with, that all poets must deal with. If you can get a person to read a poem, even? And get them to say it, and remember it? Well then, then you have really accomplished something haven't you? This is part of a larger work evidently. And I, even though I didn't know it, have been following his work for nearly twenty years.

Taking the stairs, Belly Dancers, Hula Hoops

2010-12-01T15:03:00.006Z

Poetical Cabaret December 11, 2010. 7pm
Hello,
How have you been? Hope you're coming!

Some of the acts are:

The Sneezy Ts
http://www.myspace.com/thesneezyts

Hula and the Hoop... Quite literally: Fire!

Acrobatics and backflips from Capoeira artists that play traditional Brasilian instruments for us! Ceara...

http://capoeira-ceara.co.uk/

George Lewkowicz... The superbard!
He's big enough to say he's invented his own genre,... He's currently calling it Live-Lad-Lit.
And will keep you to the edge of your seat... or bar!

http://www.myspace.com/superbard

Rosie Martin
She has a thing for surfing in the red sea and her influences range from LENNY BRUCE to Joan Rivers, to Woody Allen, Ava Vidal, Jimmy Carr, Steve Coogan… her list is even bigger! ;)

Don’t miss this out loud funny Stand-up comedienne!!

www.myspace.com/rosiemartincomedy

The Bohemianauts
The Bohemianauts strive to travel through ALL realms and dimensions towards a notion of bohemia.”

www.myspace.com/thebohemianauts

Some have said of John Stilles' “Taking the stairs”

“it is horny, abject, real, funny and grand." —Annie Freud, Author of Best Man That Ever Was (Picador)

“Taking the Stairs is subtle, desperation-laced with bits of hope that compel it forward with improbable force. It’s Stiles’ best, and a winner by all accounts.”
—Corb Lund, Juno award-winning cowboy poet

An author and poet that sometimes throws in a few jokes…

Hear hear!

http://www.takingthestairsbyjohnstiles.com/

John also vents in his blog called How Yah Doon?

http://www.howyahdoon.blogspot.com/

And dance.....
A dancer Mor from the Michaella’s belly dance school.
… a take on the art of seductive belly dancing!

http://www.michaellabellydance.co.uk/

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=23196108116

Daniel and his guitar
...Singer song writer and neighbour...

Exhibiting during the night:

Six Stations Away” : Read, look, imagine and complete it by participating….

Where: The White Lion. When: 7pm
Streatham High Road,
LONDON
SW16 1BB

Sofia x

Already Here by The Sorrys (Halifax NS)

2010-11-26T22:00:00.002Z

Watch for a new one "Poppy"
Coming soon.

New poem from the Bard of Bethnal Green

2010-11-23T19:16:00.004Z

The Old Spot, Woldingham
by Mal Grosch

It is bred to be gentle
It is bred to be kind
It is bred to be tasty
With a nice, crispy rind

In its slow evolution
It is hoped it will swell
So its nearly all meat
For the butcher to sell

We were bred to be gentle
We were bred to be kind
We were bred to give glory
To Our Maker Divine

We have as our function
To mirror our God
To build up the Church
With prayer and the hod

And where the Gloucester Old Spot
is covered with mud
We in our sins are covered by blood.

taking the stairs a "coming of middle-age" novel

2010-10-27T21:31:00.000+01:00

taking the stairs? wot? more like vacuuming the stairs...innit?

Say Grace Before A Guinness by Mal Grosch

2010-10-26T20:34:00.001+01:00

Say grace before a Guinness
Thank God with all your heart
For it’s body’s like a cassock
And priest’s collar at the start

For drunk in moderation
It is a wholesome food
So praise Him for the barley
And the art with which its brewed

For to drink it in fair measure
Amongst some dear old friends
It is a reinforcement
When with tiredness days do end

So step back and admire it
All the craftsmanship displayed
Give thanks in mind and body
For the landlord and his trade

Mal Grosch

New Reviews: Vermeersch, Freud

2010-10-20T21:43:00.005+01:00

***BOOK REVIEWS***HERE

Arrestin? Try sayin it.

2010-10-18T19:16:00.006+01:00

Ken Dodd's Dad's Dog's Dead.

Saw this one written on a London canal on way home.
There's a band n blog n everythng.

Le Noise

2010-10-09T10:26:00.005+01:00

Neil is back "le noise" "le noise" "le noise" shit hot shit hot but I magine you already knew that...

Frantisek Vlácil:Glass Skies

2010-10-04T19:51:00.003+01:00

Saw Glass Skies in the foyer of the BFI; it is only 18 minutes long (you could nip in on your fag break?) but its right up there with Grizzly Man and Burnt by the Sun. There I said it.

The Director is: Frantisek Vlácil

The expressions are what make it for me.

he said, I said, she said

2010-10-03T15:12:00.008+01:00

I was at work, sketching away and they were applying the *&$#%@???!!!! pressure.
He said: "We need to pick it up, been stuck on 5 sales for 20 minutes. Can you write down your sales?"
I said: "Watch out this pen is from Canada. It might write in French and/or English...It has a mind of its own."
She said: "Guys can you not talk, we need more sales, you've been on wrap for five minutes."
So I hopped it for the loo. Just had to.
Then I thought more about it.

TBC in Elliot at bay. Maybe.

Two poems from Todd Swift

2010-09-29T16:39:00.013+01:00

My Father In Hydra
by Todd Swift

Father that was,
Night you bother
My sleep, why?

Once you banged things,
Didn’t you come to me
When I was a child, to

Ask where the friends had gone?
I wish you a solid death –
I kiss your red face.

---

A Stoic Writes A Love Song
By Todd Swift

It isn’t different to die
Or swoon; both times
Someone will cry out.

Todd swift is a leading UK-based Canadian Poet and the author of several books of poetry and anthologies, including Mainstream Love Hotel, pictured left. He is the editor of Eyewear, a British-based blogzine that focuses on poetry, politics and pop culture. Eyewear is being archived by The British Library.

London, Musical Theatre, 1920'S

2010-09-27T21:08:00.005+01:00

I discovered this after doing some family research following up on a vague lead my father mentioned.

Leslie Stiles was my grandfather's uncle. Uncle Harry.
He lived in Fulham.
He wrote a famous Gaiety Musical theatre song called Why do they call me a Gibson Girl?
He had a wife and son and maid in 1911.
He lived off the proceeds of his writing.
He wrote Lumber Love in 1928, about a Canadian Logging Camp.
Lumber Love played at the Lyceum Theatre on The Strand.
Leslie Stiles lost his wife in a fire and this was reported on page three of The New York Times.
He lost his fortune in the stock market crash of 1929.
He worked as a doorman afterwards.

How does this relate to me, taking the stairs and so on, you might well ask.

Library murmurers n mumblers

2010-09-18T20:07:00.006+01:00

Every time I go into the library I am reminded that I am not alone in my state of mind. This is not just because there are other people in the library, fellow introverts, but because if you listen hard you will hear restless minds at work.
The first thing I always notice is murmuring, or talking to oneself. This happens frequently in libraries and there is always a strange dude in a coat who is sitting at a terminus talking to himself. Could be me right? I know, however I am frequently reminded when I see the librarians deal with the odd person patiently and kindly, talking to them as if they are a little mad but not mass murderers or petty thieves or vagrants (as I am certain the police would if they found them on the street) – that there is a certain normalcy of letting people be people in libraries.

The second is scrawling. I find it funny when people scrawl their thoughts in libraries, so I attach this one found in a National Geographic in scratchy handwriting:
MY LAST 4 MONTHS WERE ALMOST LIKE A PRISON SO I WON"T GIVE A BREAK FOR PEOPLE THAT PUT ME IN THIS SITUATION. (written in a national geographic entitled Hubble Renewed: The telescope sees more clearly than ever.)
ALSO
I can't establish (ANY) business connections.
Well I myself would rather be in the library than in the office. But maybe that is just me.

illustrated poem

2010-09-05T17:33:00.006+01:00

Little buggers My Mom from Scouts are Cancelled illustrated by Anna Jouli

Sumpin I wish they'd do.

2010-09-04T10:40:00.004+01:00

"I keep tellin' em to turn up the music in between poets."

notes, left around the house...

2010-08-15T19:31:00.005+01:00

...(er at least how I felt the other day)

Elton, where's David? (some stuff I drew at work)

2010-08-09T23:18:00.003+01:00

Truro was a good show... stuff n stuff?

2010-07-26T20:04:00.002+01:00

Nicked this from a short story I rot

2010-07-13T20:53:00.000+01:00

Jim Swan, dishwasher, actor, bed sit drinker...

Jim Swan: Manuella -- I used to be an actor, an artist...
Manuella: Uh Huh?
Jim: I used to act in roles such as Mercutio, Equus, n so on.
Manuella: Jim just because I dance it doesn't make me a ballerina, you know...!

Ye--ooow.

Have we booked...?

2010-06-11T20:00:00.003+01:00

Touch me I'm sick is back this month with a night decided by google search results

Have we booked...?

A)John Stiles (The Comedian)
B)John Stiles (The Ex footballer and after dinner speaker)
C) John Stiles (author of the poetry collections, Scouts are Cancelled and Creamsicle Stick Shivs)

Have we booked ...?
A) Liz Berry (The worlds first female Vari*Lite technician and operator)
B) Liz Berry (2009 Eric Gregory Award winner)
C) Liz Berry (ripmybodice.com - because rakes do it better)

There is only one way of finding out.

Poem swapping floorspost - bring one poem for yourself, one for the pot and pick someone else's poem to read out with your own.

R&B news from Joe Campbell

Guest Host - Mike West to accompany Joe Campbell

Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Time:
7:30pm - 10:30pm
Location:
The Old Crown Pub
Street:
33 New Oxford Street, WC1A 1BH

bit o' cheek from Gordon Brown

2010-06-05T21:39:00.001+01:00

Uncle Material - watch more funny videos

Country boy in London (er at least how I survive)

2010-06-05T19:29:00.012+01:00

I get off the streets for one.

Just some other things I noticed.
The dancing dog and lady on Britain's Got talent.
It is a cute dog and the lady is quite nice and all that but...
The dogs looks a little bit too nervous to me.
Then...

I saw this sign.

I mean they don't have doggie toilets on TV shows do they?

Another thing I thought.. and said at work listening to some clever manager say how the monthly hours were built into an equation that would be mutually beneficial to the company and the employee...
"You might be clever sonny Jim, but you can't outwit your heart." John Stiles

Arvon poetry prize

2010-05-13T13:43:00.001+01:00

$11,500 First Prize
over $20,000 in prizes
http://www.arvonfoundation.org/p236.html

do participate, forward, post on your site,
and spread the word -- thanks

Sudeep Sen

Just some notes about them planes....

2010-04-22T10:08:00.000+01:00

On lookin up this morning...

"Vapour trails cut the sky
like cats claws scratch bare thighs..."

Shit...

...I enjoyed those six days didn't you?"

For Patrick Woodcock...

Isn't that sumpin. Stan?

2010-04-03T15:55:00.006+01:00

I can't hardly believe this exists..

New Work: Bow Legged Man and Speck

2010-04-03T12:30:00.009+01:00

Featuring:
Geoffrey Gatza (Sherlock Holmes Poems)
Russell Pascatore (New York Times Headlines)
Gregory Betts (Ouichi)
Karin Falcone (Pearls)
Izzy Oneiric (Veneration Of Saint Sylvia)
Travis Macdonald (Excerpts From N7ostradamus)
Nicole Mauro (Tax-Dollar Super-Sonnet)
Meghan Raham (NYT)
Meghan Raham (Tiffany Series)
Matt Reeck (Finally Consider The Cartoon)
James Sanders (Untitled)
John Stiles (Bow-Legged Man & Speck)
Nico Vassilakis (Text For Nothing But Cut Up)
Damian Weber (The Well Equipped Pad)
Catherine Daly (Silhouettes)
EJ McAdams (Formation Of Bogs)
Jonathan Skinner (It Is Not A Spam)
David Mauro (New York Times Headlines)
Damian Weber (Beat Beat Beat By William F Brown By Damian Weber
Chelsea Silber (No Colon After Is Or And)
SAM OR SAMANTHA YAMS (Man Thinks Woman)
Grant Jenkins (Praise Plus Poise Plus Prayer Equal Perfect Peace)
Joe Cooper (Cosmopolitan)

Also here:
"A third hand took the Dip & Fizz" in The Watch the University of Kings College student newspaper...noted in the editorial as work from "a man twenty years our senior."

The Move

2010-03-28T22:42:00.008+01:00

The Finance Director sat at the end of a long, barren and exposed room. It was cool in the room and populated almost entirely of women sitting round a huge oval table. When I walked in I said, "it is like Star Wars: The Jedi Council," and this was met with a hurried, slightly pained laugh. The Finance Director, seeing a need to take charge, started to talk about The Move. A chart appeared, papers were ruffled and so on. Then the Finance Director turned to face the table and remarked soberly that people on the second floor were not like people on the first floor: at a recent staff outing (on a house boat) the second floor staff went up to the second floor of the house boat while the people from the first floor of the office remained on the first floor of the boat and stood awkwardly at the bar.

"Awkwardly?"

Many of the women at the table exchanged puzzled but wearied looks. One reached down, grabbed the table and then scooped her finger forwards as if to say..."And..?"

"Only this...simply that. No more." The Finance Director shot back with a fierce piercing glare. He had to, he was running on time.

The Finance Director, who was suffering from a bad cough, started writing on a board. He fielded the 'pros' and 'cons' of The Move to the second floor. The Finance Director said many important facts about the 'Years Service' and how many faces had changed and so on that The Society had been at the last property for 100 years but the archivist corrected him and said 80 years, actually. The Finance Director retired to his cubicle and said nothing till there was a sudden remark filled with sighing and a diminishing bluster: "HP Sauce is going to be made in Holland, a disaster!"

At this, The Finance Director paused and his secretary remarked , through the cubicle: "I tried it years ago when I was first trying out things as a young child!" The Finance Director, trying the keep the spinster at bay, remarked casually: "David is... Oh Dear Me!"

"David, who?" The spinster remarked casually but the Finance Director was away again.

All looks turned and peered through the room.

Then the quiet but brooding girl, seated directly behind me, said in a slowly building but controlled little girl's voice:
"Oh God! Who lost my printout? Who else is using my printer? I`m sure that two of my print outs have disappeared..!"

The old lady, the quiet, cat-faced one, who had been sorting through the needlepoint and sifting through trunks of discarded finery from the Church vestibule shuffled up, and mumbled: "Oh God! I walked right past you. Can you help me please? With the suitcases for the Volunteers. I`ve made more progress than I expected to."

At this point a large African woman came in. A remark was made about the numbers of discarded milk cartons in the fridge.

"Are there still more than ten? Cheese forms in warmer temperatures, I`m going to have to put my name on the carton."

Is it just me or is the intranet down? It`s working...

Shortly thereafter things got into a state again; it was as if some aliens had come down from the sky and sucked out all the energy of the room.

"What about the boxes?" Someone said and this was met with another wave of disdain, bordering on fear.
"Hasn`t this been covered before?"
The archivist pointed out that it had not.
"The boxes of valuable stuff went to Oxford there was a storage facility and then there was, what...?"

The Finance Director was really beaming with fierce self-containment and expectation. He returned and said to himself - and to the others - are there any questions? Then a remark was made what about the boxes that we have to move and the Finance Director faced the little archivist (a natural enemy in the wild, perhaps?) and he said: "Our archivist can answer that, can`t she?"

And the archivist went white as a ghost. "Who me?"

Then finally, after a month of mulling and contemplation the group sat and watched the clock.

A young man ventured forth. Throats cleared.
"Can I help?"
The Finance Director mulled for a moment and then said, "I suppose there really is no stopping you!"
"OK." The man said.
"If you were to ask the crowds of people clustered on the Central line if they were happy jammed in the Tube as they were early in the morning you would most likely come to the same conclusion - they are not! And if you asked the people sitting down on the Jubilee Line, on hearing that a new car had been added to soften the burden, if you were to ask of them, "Are you happy?" then I think you would have your answer - people like a little space! So finally, since you have this building and this building and all this space, why are you moving the two floors together? I mean why are you doing this to yourself?"

At this the silver-haired Finance Director was stunned into silence and started to gab and bluster. He wasn`t sure how to answer it was as clear as day and then there were a series of amused responses and self-contained shrieks of delight. How this should go was really anyone`s guess. The Head of the organization was not there to remark about Hot Air being blown all over the room, so he was stuck to deal with this.

The room was aghast and fierce glares darted forth.

"We still have a job," said the cat-faced one.
"Right, you could be worse off," said the Finance Director.
"I suppose if you are not happy here you could always run of and join the circus."
"Oh no that wouldn't do," said the cat faced old lady.
"Then I think we have your answer," said the Finance Director.
And the archivist thought this a sound answer. She was already packing up her things as he said it, ready for another week of having a right go at him when she was in Monday week.

YOU’VE GOT AN EYELASH by Lee Wilson

2010-03-20T08:33:00.007Z

YOU’VE GOT AN EYELASH by Lee Wilson (Survivors’ Press, LONDON, UK)

Reviewed by John Stiles (PS I sent this to a journal to review before both Olympics and the last World cup, I think, and then various things including eight jobs in one year and the madness of life took over. So I re-post here as it is a good book.)

Lee Wilson has been knocking about the London poetry scene for a while and has received recognition in a few decent poetry journals such as Ambit and The Rialto as well as more grass roots publications such as The Polka Dot Ceiling. Wilson’s controlled, taut poems now come to prominence in his first full collection YOU’VE GOT AN EYELASH from Survivors’ Press in London.

The tension in the writing, which propels the reader through each poem resonates with Wilson’s themes of disappointment, poverty, resignation, bleak humour and self-parody. While hopelessness might have its cache (and stay forever sunk) in the underground bars and depraved scenes of singles nights Wilson’s poems are skilled in their observation, each line bristling with dramatic intent. In the title poem, the author, perhaps all too familiar with the futility (but comic tinge) of life remarks:

You’ve got an eyelash

After a film, I find my curiosity/
entwined with hers. We’re almost a knot/
when we push through/
the ever stiff doors/
away from disinfectant, electric light...//

Do we know where this is leading? Towards a confession, a rejection?

In Carpet, the tautness, the tension of the solitary man is evident in self-parody. We are not left needing the words Travis Bickle to tell us who might be parodied here, or guess why the subject might be in such a predicament:

Carpet

Are you talking to me? he says./
Are you talking to me? – to the smeary mirror./
He picks at a speck of egg on his fleece./
He leans back against the wall/
and pulls out a box of Marlboro/
Light. He flicks at his lighter./
He flicks at his lighter./
He takes out a cigarette, glares at the mirror,/
And flicks at the lighter. //

Right, he says, turning up his lapels.
Let’s go and sell some carpet.

The disenchantment with the world, is not restricted to self, nor to parents nor siblings. And this penchant for doom could get tiring but Wilson has a way of winking at you amidst the loneliness, perhaps playing with the idea that he has a plan to escape all this. Wilson’s fierce intelligence is daring you to read on.

Are you English?

You’re not Kosovan are you? she repeats/
as I lean toward her. She looks worried; I can see/
she imagines eyes on her back. She explains//

that Kosovans have been hassling her; all night./
Put your arm around me, she says./
they’ll think we’re together. The way she says//

the word together, it could be foreign to her./
As my fingertips come to rest on her ribs/
Her friend, who’s wearing a decorative bindi, joins us.//

We’re minutes into a new millennium./
That year before I’d bumped into my cousin/
in the same pub. She dragged me over to her crowd;//

her boyfriend handing me a drink I didn’t want…/

Lee Wilson has a rare quality, to let the reader into the world where small dramas unfold in private moments; no preachy subtext here, just the bare elegant facts in careful studied choice of words.

Springtime?

2010-03-14T20:37:00.006Z

Q: Nabokov?

"...Fair Tigress of the Tennis Court
So short in sleeve and strong in shorts,
Little, alas, to you I mean,
For I am bald and old and green..."

A: Uhh..No.. its the gent from the country
a country boy, in fact.

John Betjeman from

John Betjeman's collected poems
Awarded the Duff Cooper Memorial Prize
1958.

Otherwise translated as

"She's some nice lookin..."
Q: "Right?"

"I mean, I wouldn't kick her outtta bed fer eating crackers."
Q: "Right?"

The three best and worst things in Brazil:

2010-03-12T21:41:00.004Z

The three best and worst things in Brazil:

THE GOOD--------- THE BAD
Cerveja Gelada ------Cerveja Quente
Boi na Invernada-----Boi Doente
Mulher Pelada-------Mulher ' dargente.

TRANSLATION

THE GOOD---------THE BAD
Cold Beer----------Warm Beer
Cow in Birth--------Sick Cow
Naked Women------Our Women.

cariocas

2010-03-11T21:37:00.011Z

40 degrees

After Mal Dormidos, a recent poem.

2010-03-02T20:56:00.013Z

The day I got hit in the head was a hot day,
the last day of the Carnaval and we sat at a
table at a bar owned by the family.

There were many there - kids and cousins
come and go 'round the tables of the Bodeca
then on the dancefloor my wife said:

"Can you get a beer for us?
Would you like to sit down?
Senta Aqui."

After she went for a haircut sat there with
all the women, it was so hot then Z. said lets make
a trip to the cemetery and visit Dona Veridiana

in the nursing home; the home is divided one
for the men and one for the women and we met
an old woman who lived next door who says

that she knows me. Do you know my name asks
Dona V. in her room as she points to a picture of
her husband she looks at me but I do not speak

Portuguese. My wife is holding a bag of peppers
that she got from Gia Terezinha I say to Dona V.
in English (please translate) I do no know much

about this place nor am I from here but I will try
to treat my wife tenderly.

Must be, kinda, related.

2010-01-04T21:59:00.009Z

Comparing the work of a raven-haired, east end London actress/novelist with the musical repertoire of a long-haired, plaid-shirted hippy singer/songwriter from O-Mee-Mee, Ontario, Canada (OK, Toronto or Winnipeg) probably seems like an odd choice for review. After all one is a thirty something girly girl, slinking round the fashionable parts of Soho and Mayfair looking for love in the form of "Mr Right" and the other is a reclusive folk demi-god, famous for barnstorming one note guitar solos and for writing 70's AM radio standards such as "Heart of Gold" and "Old Man". Putting a Canadian male and a British cockney bird, on the same bill might seem like an odd night out, then.

Well kinda. Live At Massey Hall, recorded in 1971 and featuring live recordings of early and seldom heard songs about leaving home for the US can only be a Canadian album. From the beginning chords Neil sets the tone, and his own speed, which (as he fiddles with his strings and rebuffs a photographer, keeping him out of "time") is clearly not in any great hurry. Young slowly draws you in with his repertoire of songs, recorded in the pin drop silence of the near perfect accoustics or Massey Hall. The audience of working Toronto office folk and teenage stoners, who good naturedly cat call between sets, is clearly there for the listenin', man. The temple is Neil and the album captures a burgeoning city, which can only be Toronto, at a time that can only be the politically unstable late sixties.

London Novelist/Actress (East Enders alumnus and Love Actually scene stealer) Martine Mccutcheon, writes compellingly of place and in her own style, too. This is modern London where money and success are hard to come by but obtainable goals so the cheek is turned up to ten and the girls stick together in packs secretly keeping their fingernails polished and catty gay friends at her beck and call, suffering the ups and downs of love and life in the Big Smoke. ( I think the Brits nicked the term from the good folks of Taranah but I'm not going to start pointing fingers). The Mistress, Mccutcheons self-penned debut is a better than average love romp through the pitfalls of falling for a married man and is filled with the personality of an actress, whose soul mate 'ticks all the right boxes'. In one funny and memorable sequence two girlfriends battle it out over lunch about who has been more honest about their cosmetic surgery. When single Deena, breaks down in tears and says that yes, she did have cosmetic surgery, reconstructive cosmetic surgery – after a cancer scare – the other is mortified but Deena replies with a cavalier nod as she departs the restaurant.
"Well me and my tits are off." It is one of those little moments that tells you that though the times have changed (hippies vs cheekie chappies/caners) you still have to keep your wits about you if you want to survive in the post credit crunch environment.

Lift off: Happy New Year!

2009-12-31T16:48:00.004Z

Best line from 2009 is...

2009-12-30T00:28:00.005Z

Customs officer at Montana/Alberta Border: "So, anything to declare gentlemen?"
Man in car (points to friend, riding shot gun, staring ahead intently): "My friend has polished off a full BMT sub with all the fixings, smoked half a pack of Marlboros in the last half hour and has a belly full of gin. I do declare he's had an excellent time!"

As told by Stephen Dee, now living in London.

Bobby Orr Eruption

2009-12-26T20:26:00.001Z

#10 Guy lafleur

2009-12-26T20:21:00.001Z

Guy Lafleur goal vs Toronto 1978

2009-12-26T20:18:00.001Z

real life script from the sales office

2009-12-20T21:35:00.004Z

Pamperin’ at Studio London?

By John Stiles

TENSE BOSS:
Stick to the script n pick a voice that works, ‘Kay?

[LAZY STORK starts writing.]

THE SQUEAKY ONE
(screams!)
Yes, man, I said ‘Free’, A FREE pamperin’
session at Studio London. This is thin going man!

[LAZY STORK stops writing. LEAVES.]

TENSE BOSS:
Where’s he goin’ now?

NICE EDWARD:
Loo?

[MOMENTARY LAPSE IN CHATTER]

THE SQUEAKY ONE
Anyone speak with a Tanya?

[LAZY STORK RETURNS. Sits.]

LAZY STORK
Few days ago…

CHEESEMAN
She’s mine. Tell her I’m on the other line!

TENSE BOSS
You sure?

CHEESEMAN
May a thousand fleas infest my armpits if I am wrong.

[Knowing glance from THE SQUEAKY ONE and LAZY STORK.]

ZATHAN BIG BUM:
(heated, more intense)
Lovely. Then we’ll pop open the bubbly for you. You can
Sit n relax on leather bound sofas for a relaxing tipple…
(WINKS)
slap n tickle…

CHEESEMAN:
Maestro or Solo? The name and fourteen digits on the front of the card…

THE SQUEAKY ONE
Yes, of course we do plus size models!

TENSE BOSS
ZATHAN is on his third deal, Mr!

[LAZY STORK, mulls]

TENSE BOSS
Start reading the script. Word for word.

LAZY STORK
(Reads)
Experienced expert man sought for afternoons of Lusciousness
Central London. No pressure involved.

THE SQUEAKY ONE
I want that script…

LAZY STORK
(Stares)

TBC in ELLIOT AT BAY

Hey, Sorry but this is me at the moment.

2009-12-05T13:56:00.008Z

With certain people away and no guests for the last fews days and Christmas approaching and things generally hysterical in the world I can revert to the thing that gives me the only piece of mind I have left, my continued obsession with the folk of a small parcel of land situated between the mountains of Windsor NS and Greenwood NS, the Annapolis Valley. So no Dolly Parton today, nor Police, nor Dragonforce, nor Children of Bodom, no obsessing about career, nor leaky roofs, nor money problems, no guy bumping on the ceiling cause I'm playing the music too loud just a full set by a great Halifax, NS band, called The Sorrys. Neanderthal Cell Phone iLike, but won't I pod.
I don't need to.
Hey this is the second album, mother fucker.
I won't get into it more than to say that the guitar has a continuing presence on the second album as if a rocking road ride through the 70's, 80's, 90's. Also the writing is distinctive - front man, Trevor Millet's wit and barbs are there on NCP, passed on from the first album: "The Last Clear Thought Before You Fall Backwards." Perhaps a torch has been passed from Sloan to the Superfriendz on to The Sorrys, I dunno but I do see Charles Austin on the credits.

In Achievement Races, the lead song, Millett announces:

"Christ you are something...
I want to double dare, pull your hair."

Oh, well here I go again...!

Hey it is just my opinion but there is a conversation between the singer (Millett) and the guitar player (Jim) that goes on and on. Also it sounds like there is actually a guy banging on the drums not a dink at a computer adding drum effects. The bass is solid too, listen for it on Roses.

"I will see this moon again,
It's the same old moon that its ever been..."

There is some middle-aged resignation in the music also, especially about the modern pace of the world.
A good line:

"In the end we all turn to dust
so why don't you tell me what the hell was your rush?"

I read the band met at a party, well it is like the conversation from that first intense but good-natured meeting has still continued on in the music. There is an energy there that seems like an extended jam session. It is like the boys don't wanna go home...
Sorry that how I see it..

Lonely but confident...(?)

2009-11-22T21:11:00.004Z

Hair painting n so on

Some other thoughts...

"Canadians nice? How is it possible when we have the same climate as the Russians?"
Do you smoke in packs?

a note from the sales floor

2009-11-14T12:14:00.003Z

Overheard (or thought) in the sales room...

Q: "How many card details this week?"
A: "Can't you see? Once the diagrams and sketches – the sack is not far off!"

Certificate 18?

2009-10-02T07:08:00.005+01:00

Some poems and films by poets with a few poets and Q and A on Tuesday Oct 6th at 6:15 pm at Curzon Renoir Cinema in London.

Including:

More For Less – Sonal Sachdeva

Martin and Alf have been living over the past few years as Freegans, living from the excessive waste generated by people & supermarkets. In a way they have chosen to go against the societal norm of having steady, paid jobs and yet survive well by not participating in the process of earning money and adding to the burden of existing over-consumption in western society, which creates far more throwaway waste than we can handle. Taking this stand leaves them more time to interact with members of the public. They have taken this to the next level by walking around London for 7 days with the strong conviction that by helping and serving people, and not worrying about where their next meal comes from, one truly begins to live.

Director Sonal Sachdeva will be talking about Martin and Alf, her anti-capitalist heroes, after the screening.

La Sonnambula – Marco Sanges and Alberto Bona

The heroes are Hitchcock, Rachmaninov, Bunuel and Dali.
The heroine is Madame de Pompadour.
Bellini's opera is unrelated.

The Man Who Met Himself – Ben Crowe

Ben Crowe left his job, bought a Super8 camera, and made this film, which was nominated for the Palme D’Or at Cannes 2005. A mysterious call, a photograph of a man, and a private detective compelled by the one case that finally got to him. On a stark but brilliant day in London, Austin Petersen takes a job from an anonymous client, a job he knows he should refuse. What happened to Stephen Maker? Did he fake his own death, or do doppelgangers really exist?

Bound – Ben Crowe (World Premiere)

During a train journey through the English countryside a passenger is wrapped in the everyday mystery off remembering: his childhood home, a loving family and the future that awaits. The film is a eulogy of sorts and was inspired by the spaces, shapes, smells, objects, colours, patterns and sounds of “home”: all are fragments of a journey from childhood to adulthood to a vision of old age. The film is a commingling of pasts, presents and futures within a loving family and a changing world. We are always plural and social; our stories already written in part by the mistakes and failures, aspirations and sacrifices of earlier generations. Ben Crowe chose the title to suggest that to be “bound” is not to be “captured”. The film also draws on Gaston Bachelard’s Poetics of Space and Rilke’s “The world is large, but in us it is as deep as the sea.”

Je Suis Ici – Ben Crowe & Preti Taneja

Je Suis Ici is inspired by being on holiday in the south of France and the slight mismatch between expectations and reality. Poet Sophie Mayer wrote a poem in response to the film which she will perform after the screening.

FOLLOWED BY:

Poetry performance from Sophie Mayer.

Sophie Mayer is a writer and educator. She studied and taught English literature and film studies at the universities of Cambridge and Toronto, and taken part in the poetry performance and publication scenes in both of those cities, as well as in London, where she now lives. Her Various Scalpels (Shearsman, 2009) is her first solo collection.

Poetry performance from Luke Heeley.

Luke Heeley won the Eric Gregory Award from Society of Authors in 2002, and has published in a number of magazines and e-zines, including The Wolf Obsessed with Pipework, Boomerang and The Poem (www.thepoem.co.uk). His work has also been included in Anthologies: Reactions 4 (pen&inc press) and Phoenix New Writing (Heaventree Press). His last work is London Trip-Tych, a film poem.

Poetry performance from John Stiles.

John Stiles is the author of the poetry collections, Scouts are Cancelled (Insomniac Press, 2002), and Creamsicle Stick Shivs (Insomniac Press, 2006), as well as the novels, The Insolent Boy (Insomniac Press, 2001) and Taking the Stairs, (Nightwood Editions, 2008). Featured on CBC's 'Q', Much Music, and TVO's 'Imprint', John has also written for The Globe and Mail and The Literary Review of Canada, amongst others. John and his poems are the subject of a documentary film, Scouts are Cancelled .

Q&A with the participating directors and poets.

Two poems from JAMES McKAY

2009-09-13T13:23:00.003+01:00

JERUSALEM

The icy river tightens round your balls
in a Grantchester dawn
and ain't England lovely?

There is always tea.
There is always honey.

Daft bitch rolls her shoulders in the lawn
and her tits in the sun
and ain't England lovely?

Daft bitch in question died recently,
not the brightest of animals but she
certainly knew what she liked.

Old drunk friends watch the seagulls
and the sunset over the harbour.
In rooms above newsagents, young lovers
cook meals and are too in love to eat them.
Making haste to leave the forest,
you see the moon through trees,
you think it's the curry house
and ain't England lovely?

Even the rain.

Soft rain of the west, sharp rain of the north,
big fat rain of London BIG FAT FUCKING RAIN
the Superman's heart breaks over Russell Square,
my missing clothes, phone numbers, hair
all grieved for as the street pisses itself
down into the many mouths of the old brick
god of the drains
and ain't England lovely?

Orchard, viaduct, factory, caravan park and lay-by:
it's not all beer and strawberries, you know,
but there's mostly enough of it about.

---

HELIOGABALUS
(from the Latin of Aelius Lampridius)

When entertaining, he gave prizes
written on the spoons: one would say
ten camels or ten flies, another ten pounds of gold
or lead, ten ostriches, ten eggs: a true tombola.
Maximum vulnerability to fate.

Hosting games he showed the same invention:
ten bears for one, ten dormice for another,
ten lettuces, ten pounds of gold;

The fashion for randomness set by him
we still see today.

But he really called performers to the draw, offering
dead dogs for fees, a pound of beef, or a hundred pieces
of gold, a thousand of silver, a hundred of copper;
you get the general idea.

Which things pleased the people so much
they afterwards congratulated themselves
on having such an emperor.

JAMES McKAY started reading poetry out loud 10 years ago in living rooms, pubs and warehouses in Newcastle upon Tyne. Now inhabiting the outer reaches of east London, he performs his own material at poetry nights and festivals across the UK, and also does good business with large scale readings of classic texts (most recently the book of Job) to literary groups and rather different kinds of festivals. FOLLOW ON, the album he released in 2007 with art-rock band The Morris Quinlan Experience continues to make friends and influence people, notably Radio 2's Bob Harris.

http://www.myspace.com/makepoetryhistory
http://www.myspace.com/morrisquinlan

Weirdos, Delinquents and Utter! Nutters

2009-09-04T22:12:00.007+01:00

Last night attended I Utter! Weirdness; there were a whole heap of people sitting in chairs at odd angles, through the room. Some were scribbling away at diagrams and some taking pics of the poets and it was a confrontational night, in sneaky glances, 'I've-got-a-better-come-back-scratched-down-in-me-pant-pockets-than-you" kind o way. The highlight for me was Jason King who puts out the Delinquent Magazine. He was on about hairs hairs marching one by one into the back garden then this other feller James Mackay read this 17 century biblical piece which said the world was decendent from ancient Hitites except for the German(e) who are essentially Philistines. I was having a right ol chuckle for no other reason other than everyone was either this or that and it was very convincing even the various potions and ointments which were used at the time to treat gout and so on and met a guy on the 25 bus with my friend Nick from Bethnal Green and the guy looked a little like James Hetfield from Mettalica and the guy said I've only seen them once and I said how was that and he said great the VIP section, I said how did you manage that and he said well I just walked in... which was all right then, wasn't it. Weird, tho.

Relit Award Longlists

2009-08-24T09:06:00.001+01:00

2009 ReLit Longlists

POETRY
More to Keep Us Warm, Jacob Scheier (ECW)
The Invisibility Exhibit, Sachiko Murakami (Talon)
What It Feels Like for a Girl, Jennica Harper (Anvil)
Water Strider, Karen Hofmann (Frontenac)
Sentenced to Light, Fred Wah (Talon)
The Delicate Line, Robert Colman (Exile)
Butcher’s Block, Deanna Fong (Pistol Press)
Fear Not, Maurice Mierau (Turnstone)
We Will be Fish, JP King (Pistol Press)
Bush Camp, Marvin Francis (Turnstone)
Augustine in Carthage, Alessandro Porco (ECW)
Troubled, RM Vaughan (Coach House)
The Velocity of Escape, Jim Johnstone (Guernica)
The Sentinel, AF Moritz (Anansi)
The Laundromat Essay, Kyle Buckley (Coach House)
Little Hunger, Philip Kevin Paul (Nightwood)
All our Grandfathers are Ghosts, Pasha Malla (Snare)
Into the Drowned World, Ryan Kamstra (Insomniac)
Dead Cars in Managua, Stuart Ross (DC Books)
Penny Dreadful, Shannon Stewart (Signal)
What Stirs, Margaret Christakos (Coach House)
Noble Gas, Penny Black, David O’Meara (Brick)
Feral Domicile, Boyd Warren Chubbs (Breakwater)
The Sway of Otherwise, David Helwig (Oberon)
You, Gary Hyland (Hagios)
Mongrel Love, Judith Krause (Hagios)
Ragtime for Beginners, Moberley Luger (Killick)
Love of Mirrors, Gary Hyland (Coteau)
Precordial Thump, Zoe Whittall (Exile)
One Crow Sorrow, Lisa Martin-DeMoor (Brindle & Glass)
Night Work, Randall Maggs (Brick)
The North End Poems, Michael Knox (ECW)
The Watchmaker’s Table, Brian Bartlett (Goose Lane)
This is a Small Northern Town, Rosanna Deerchild (The Muses ‘ Company)
Sky Atlas, Alan R. Wilson (Fitzhenry & Whiteside)
Breathe Now, Phlip Arima (BuschekBooks)
The Debaucher, Jason Camlot (Insomniac)
Taking Shape, Edward Carson (Porcupine’s Quill)
The Red Element, Catherine Graham (Insomniac)
Sublingual, Bill Bissett (Talon)
Autopsy of a Turvy World, Sheri-D Wilson (Frontenac)
36 Cornelian Avenue, Christopher Wiseman (Signal)
Living in Gravity, Valerie Stetson (Palimpsest)
Rue the Day, Tanis MacDonald (Turnstone)
Cypress, Barbara Klar (Brick)
Poems that Swim From my Brain Like Rats Leaving a Sinking Ship,
Christian McPherson (Bayeux)

SHORT FICTION

The Withdrawal Method, Pasha Malla (Anansi)
The Cult of Quick Repair, Dede Crane (Coteau)
The Old Familiar, Alix Hawley (Thistledown)
All Things Considered, Patricia A. Stone (Hidden Brook)
The Night is a Mouth, Lisa Foad (Exile)
Evidence, Ian Colford (Porcupine’s Quill)
Mother Superior, Saleema Nawaz (Freehand)
The Slow Fix, Ivan E. Coyote (Arsenal Pulp)
Fly on the Wall, Jason Brink (ECW)
My White Planet, Mark Anthony Jarman (Thomas Allen)
Playing Basra, Edward Brown (Exile)
When I Always Wanted Something, Carole Glasser Langille (Mercury)
Flirt, Lorna Jackson (Biblioasis)
Squishy, Arjun Basu (DC Books)
An Unrehearsed Desire, Lauren B. Davis (Exile)
Elysium, Pamela Stewart (Anvil)
The Butcher of Penetang, Betsy Trumpener (Caitlin)
Once, Rebecca Rosenblum (Biblioasis)
In the Quiet After Slaughter, Don McLellan (Libros Libertad)
The Sherpa, Nila Gupta (Sumach)

NOVEL

The Order of Good Cheer, Bill Gaston (Anansi)
1892, Paul Butler (Pennywell)
The Darren Effect, Libby Creelman (Goose Lane)
Ordinary Lives, Josef Skvorecky (Key Porter)
More, Austin Clarke (Thomas Allen)
Here After, Sean Costello (Your Scrivener Press)
Seaweed on the Rocks, Stanley Evans (Touchwood)
Angels of Maradona, Glen Carter (Breakwater)
Operation Rimbaud, Jacques Godbout (Cormorant)
Chef, Jaspreet Singh (Esplanade)
Quintet, Douglas Arthur Brown (Key Porter)
A Week of This, Nathan Whitlock (ECW)
The Year of Numbers, Paulina Wyrzykowski (Seraphim)
The Mountain Clinic, Harold Hoefle (Oberon)
Blasted, Kate Story (Killick)
The Frog Lake Massacre, Bill Gallaher (Touchwood)
The Bewilderments of Bernard Willis, Aaron Peck (Pedlar)
Skin Room, Sara Tilley (Pedlar)
Chase & Haven, Michael Blouin (Coach House)
Charlie Muskrat, Harold Johnson (Thistledown)
Shuck, Daniel Allen Cox (Arsenal Pulp)
Sailor Girl, Sheree-Lee Olson (Porcupine’s Quill)
The Reverend’s Apprentice, David N. Odhiambo (Arsenal Pulp)
Cockroach, Rawi Hage (Anansi)
The Seary Line, Nicole Lundrigan (Breakwater)
Stunt, Claudia Dey (Coach House)
Niceman Cometh, David Carpenter (Porcupine’s Quill)
Good to a Fault, Marina Endicott (Freehand)
Anna’s Shadow, David Manicom (Esplanade)
The Red Dress, Paul Nicholas Mason (Turnstone)
The Steve Machine, Mike Hoolboom (Coach House)
A Slice of Voice at the Edge of Hearing, Brian Dedora (Mercury)
Cleavage, Theanna Bischoff (NeWest)
In the Garden of Men, John Kupferschmidt (3-Day Books)
Girls Fall Down, Maggie Helwig (Coach House)
Scrapbook of My Years as a Zealot, Nicole Markotic (Arsenal Pulp)
The Frankenstein Murders, Kathlyn Bradshaw (Cormorant)
The Entropy of Aaron Rosclatt, James Sandham (Clark-Nova)
Taking the Stairs, John Stiles (Nightwood)
Eva’s Threepenny Theatre, Andrew Steinmetz (Gaspereau)
The Show that Smells, Derek McCormack (ECW)
Entitlement, Jonathan Bennett (ECW)

BC Logger/Runner - hope he wins in Berlin.

2009-08-21T11:59:00.003+01:00

Canadian Gary Reed. Fastest in 800 heats?

Track and Field Videos on Flotrack

Trespass Launch(es)

2009-08-20T13:24:00.011+01:00

Trespass Magazine celebrates the launch of the 'Americana' issue by travelling North to share the love in Leeds this month, and then caps off the festivities in London with gay cabaret, performance art, brilliant poetry, short fiction and...a Michael Jackson sing-along. It really doesn't get much better than this—it really is It.

Details below:
August 26
Venue: The Enterprise, 2 Haverstock Hill, Camden, London, NW3 2BL
Time: 8:30pm-10:00pm

Featuring:
Music from Peter Scott-Presland and Romy Northover performing alongside Kiera Fox as part of ‘Constantinoplex’. Join us as the This Is It II band (for one night only!)

We also have a vast array of literary talent including:
John Stiles, Sabrina Mahfouz, Heather Taylor, Henrietta Cullinan, Stephanie Petrik, Agnes Meadows, Jacqui Saphra, Anna McKerrow and more!

IN LEEDS:
Trespass Magazine launch of ‘Americana’ issue in Leeds
Venue: Borders Books, 94-96 Briggate, LEEDS, LS1 6NP
Date: 20 August
Time: 6:00pm-7:45pm

With music from The Refined.
Featuring: Anne Caldwell, Emma Decent, Thomas Siddle, Gary Graham, Imogen Featherstone, Gaia Holmes, Lucy Williamson and Gisella Hoyle

A smorgasbord of treats for those of you who were thinking August was turning out to be a hopelessly drear month, and for those of you on holiday, what a reason to come back early!

If you'd like to get hold of a copy of the magazine email our distributor on unkempt44@yahoo.com or buy it online from Inpress Books:http://inpressbooks.co.uk/magazines_listing.aspx?id=459

Best regards,
Sara-Mae Tuson
Editor
Trespass

words, phrases

2009-07-25T11:54:00.008+01:00

Researching for the Italian version of Lexulous?

How are you doing at this fine game anyway?

They should do a valley version for those who aren't "Knocked out, loaded." er "pissed to the gills." er "three sheets to the wind."

Or fer those who "can't work today – the winds gone the wrong way."

Last bit from Dan Soucoup's The Nova Scotia Phrase Book.

Middle Aged?

2009-07-14T22:10:00.013+01:00

Hey man...

They been calling me middle-aged since I was in my thirties so this piece in the local London Press about the reading in Leytonstone Library is innerestin' but truth is Taking the Stairs was mostly written when I was just into my thirties, a young man.

However...

I was in a Park in Islington trying to get away from a lady at the college who is going through a divorce and asking me what I did during my lunch hours? I've had a few close escapes in my time but I have a top three list of responses to questions you'd rather not answer:

1. "Never a dull moment," is a good one to come back with or

2. "It's all happening."

3. Also "Back in two minutes."

On the subject of middle age, when I was in Toronto in 1998 I met an older lady at the Imperial Library Pub at an event and she said she just had a tiff with her boyfriend. "What did you fight about?" I asked. "Oh the teenage stuff," she said, "How do I look, do I look fat in this, do you still love me?"

So middle age is really closer to teenage in my estimation....

I ask you this... then.

Does a middle-aged man appear just as startled as a teenager when the same woman announces: "Tomorrow, I'm working a full shift – you'll have me all to yourself?"

Some stuff n stuff

2009-07-06T19:10:00.009+01:00

Just finished reading a book by Nigerian writer, Lanre Soyode whom I met at Leytonstone Library at an event, recently. The book is about a money scam involving a bank and a fraudulent account and is set in London and Nigeria and has a happy ending with lots of twists and turns. It was weird to be involved in the reading because we are living in these recessive times and my book is about the pitfalls of money, trying not to sell out, and so on.

It was a Saturday all ages event which also featured a beefy feller with some large snakes in a separate room in the library, a first for me.

Also it was good to drink with George Murray in London, briefly about a week afterwards. We called Paul in Toronto that evening.

Taking the what..?

2009-06-05T19:59:00.006+01:00

"Pipin' er...?"

Heresay, recollections, tall tales, survival stories, John Stiles talks about life in the back of a small rock n roll van and peddling Taking the Stairs in London's East End.

June 20th

10 am

Leytonstone Library

London

London Train, Halifax Band...

2009-05-11T16:40:00.003+01:00

Rocks n Rain...

2009-04-17T20:17:00.003+01:00

1989, Damp and mouldy basement, Smalls Band House, West End, Edmonton.
Q: Where you from again?
A: Nova Scotia...
Q: Why'd you wanna live there, its nothin' but rocks n rain.
A: Ummm... I'm gonna write this book bout that...
Q: What?
A: Jest you wait.

2009: London (British Library, Manuscript Section)
Reading: The Sayings and doings of Sam slick (2nd edition). Leather bound, 1830 odd.
Sam Slick: "Never seen so many rocks - enough to starve a rabbit."
Deduction: well he started it.

Victorian-era descendants at London literary bash?

2009-04-07T18:04:00.007+01:00

This London event rekindles a love of Victorian-era wits such as Nova Scotian Thomas Chandler Haliburton and Londoner Charles Dickens. In years past descendants of Victorian luminaries such as Sigmund Freud (great grandaughter, poet Annie Freud) have attended and this year the Patron of the Charles Dickens Museum, Lucinda Hawksley who is a descendant of Charles Dickens will read from her novel: Katey, The Life and Loves of Dickens's Artist Daughter.

To get the evening rolling a group of local London poets called the purple poets will perform 'The Clockmakers Clock' in honour of Canadian Thomas Chandler Haliburton and the evening is always well attended.

Where: The Pembroke | 261 Old Brompton Road | London SW5 9JA
When: 21 Apr 09 | 7 pm
Cost: 5 Quid

Proceeds to The Maple Leaf Trust
www.mapleleaftrust.org

Irving Layton Tribute by Patrick Woodcock

2009-03-25T08:03:00.001Z

Recent observations about Canada...

2009-03-12T09:04:00.003Z

1. People 'discuss' their feelings in public in Toronto. (Not so much in the UK.)
2. There's a lot of Chinese people in Toronto. (I never noticed before.)
3. People are slightly ruder at Tim Hortons. (it was lunch hour, tho)
4. Paul Vermeersch has an airborne cat.
5. Ontario is a watery place...
6. The Leafs need a hockey player who comes from Canada.
7. Mats Sundin is slower but still all class.
8. Adam Getty's Repose was 'staff' pick at Indigo. Shelve stockers, fans -- not too too bad.