Surcharges Sometimes Apply
Poems by b stephen harding
i seed black loam
i will know you by the scent of burnt cane
and the faint rustling of your new banana leaves
you magic me with gods of ifé
it is time to plant the winter wheat
i seed the furrows black loam
in beltane's fire's edge
the stag falls to the lioness
three days of you and ripening
breath tumbles
through shellacked lips
coloured kisses of stinging nettles
ripe currents of red fundy anger
carried you
away
savouring bourbon
I
a solicitous waiter proffers
a drink
bourbon seven fingers deep
jealously savoured
II
our sex was
an angry ocean a rocky coast
III
stretching skyward
you gather
soft sighs
to hush the bed
IV
your skirt of indian cotton
traps me as i reach to thank you
she smirks into her coffee
at the smokey oak poetry reading
everyone is trying to be something
pursuing this lyric-non-lyrical myth
my attitude and dress are serious fashion
and i'm known to many people here
though i speak with few
a better way to be noticed
but I've got soggy animalcookie in my lap
it was not just a quick dip
i did not just lift it to my lips
it lingers in the air
watching with great fascination
the last drop of coffee absorbed
there was no ceremony or fanfare
she was right there watching
a needle passed into a balloon
the bang only in her head and mine
where is the myth of the poet in this
six o'clock at the royal oak
friday nights are good here
office etiquette forgotten
alliances made quick
whiskey on the rocks
the first few smooth
and the curves looking
better all the time
bee
apology
you're my flower
with the fuel of your nectar
i've sipped adulterously
blossom
to
blossom
languidly i've lain
with the lily by the light of the moon
enjoyed too much their evening perfume
and though i've dallied in some ladies' slippers
you're the flower of my bumbling desire
5 star
inside the blue moon café
yuppie clichés
and our server (a david copperfield
wannabe) conjures our meal
with flourish
under the blue moon sign
eyes sidewalk grey feet away
in pissed stained pants
joe street struggles
to raise palms
awaits on tosses of goodwill
from passersby who wrinkled noses
claim refuge of the curb's edge
i eat
my dream filled croissants
at the blue moon
food is more than body fuel
it's life raised to 5 stars
when was the last time joe
had a butterfly made of carrots and tomatoes
it's the end of the month and rideau street is full
i weed my way between
spare a little change
thanks for nothin ya cheap fuck
whisper sorry in a closed mouth
irony is cheap laughter here
gold plated cufflinks are easier to adjust
than an uncomfortable skin
at the bank of montreal foyer
i'm stopped by three rideau regulars
at cocktails
joan thirty years past caring
wrapped in remnants of an afghan
wedged into a corner by young gilles'
drunken lust
paul's the bartender
eyes framed by
cauliflower ears boxer nose bloated cheeks
age lost to an avalanche of street-life
he mixes cocktails
lestoil from an aerosol can
with coke in hastily bought paper cups
from giant tiger
gilles walks a tight-rope
for this offering and their
conversation slides around
like the cocktail
me
i know who butters our bread
it's our bond
these bankers and i
i count
the days of rice left
they count the empties
brick thoughts
death
is always somebody else's
burden
but
1994 is different
death is on my doorstep
an abandoned child
its cry desperate
hungry
grating on nerves
insinuating itself
between the brick of my thoughts
women on the ttc
for pamella and her mother inez edwards
you're on the ttc
who's getting on at supper
and off at breakfast
black
latino
chinese
and eastern mothers
while the nation sleeps
they tend the sick
clean homes and offices
so that we
their children can have a better life
ten thousand things make
one moore* around my neck
safely perched on this bench
i've marked this day
by clouds that swarm the horizon
by heat snaking off
the long licorice road
today life's been a sculpture of no relief
so safely perched
on this bench i
mark this day
as i've done so many others
*british sculptor, henry spencer moore (1898-1986)
words for a tombstone
for sylvia plath and hart crane
there is something cool in drowning
when i drown in silence
drown in an empty room
drown in an empty house
drown in an empty world
drown because there are no words of love left to say
poe and the raven
upon its
upper most branches
a cloud snagged
belly torn
its anger black and percolating
from this wound
ravens tum
bled
the raven
my shadow of good fortune
falls
carcasses rained on the roots of my oak tree
their bodies carrion for brother crow
across the way a discarded strawman
lying against the milestone
crying
homage to: whylah falls
for m. acorn, g. e. clark, s. mayne, a. nowlan, and d. thomas
empty before penning
unfulfilled before printing and
meaningless before enunciation
black letters read
have me giddy on indignation
could've i prepared
for words' weight
making of my chest a volcano
shouting laughter
a clever trap
the silence
of their blackness
are words dolls
to be dressed up
stripped
left on a cold floor
they eddy
in my shoals
and I'm again
in a fresh flush of red
what's next
a love sonnet
a lullaby
saint john river valley blues
forty-fives and hearts were trump
three guys brothers to be
here by chance
at royal road playground
i lost the kittie
and gained
four brothers
four sisters
mumma got another son
re-built
with pieces of
aretha marvin pigs' feet
and hotcombs
mavis and i learnt i could have rhythm too
now miles between you and i
this heart weeps
saint john river valley blues
for 13 years is so
long
45 hawkins street
my chrysalis
from which i emerged
a paradox
in this new city
if i chat up this black man
that black woman
i am whiteness
i burn mumma
for that place
in your arms that has no eyes
vanity
an eagle screams
wings snap-open hard right
a brown flash among the sawgrass clumps
mouse mole vole
brown furred body little radar ears
black marble eyes
slowly turning resting on updrafts
twin telescopes follow spooked dartings
flexing scaled iron-hard vices
dive
torpedo body wings laid back
splits air screeching
accelerating bullet snapping feathers
150 100 25 wings thrown wide
tendons on springs knives slice air
up...up...up...
pump pump straining for the clouds
its claws full of sawgrass.
on this bus i think of pussywillows
it's spring and billows of flakes
surge through the ottawa valley
in the byward market vendors
will be selling pussywillows
snow is still in the forest and
on the edges of country roads
where bouquets were gathered
now marketed 2 dollars a bunch
growing up in esteysbridge
i picked arms full for mother
and later wild roses and violets
part of a day's catch
but i still had to clean my own fish
i pitch soil at dusk...
i pitch soil at dusk searching for night-crawlers
soft bodies wet with mucus or dry caked in earth
preparations for a father and son journey
promise of a 5am breakfast
quiet driving from one village to the next
up tumbling roads following rivers
to secret fishing pools
turning at the covered bridge to Irving's red mud road
we park our van beside 2 cords of yellow birch
like long stacks of bread
walking down a game trail
plastic wicker basket bouncing at my hip
contemplating which flies to tempt
speckled monsters
disturbed only by slapping at flies and the clap of curses
conversation sparser than clouds
we hesitate
step gingerly into brown rushing water
it pours into the holes of my sneakers
rides my legs
its chill jolts my crotch
how many trips of silence does it take to know your hero
reading "claude orsir"
dear alden nowlan: reading claude orsir (1894-1968) was a free ticket home. i laid my
hand upon page 56 and claude arose from the page in export "A" smoke, exhaled from a
cigarette rolled by one hand. a feat, blink and you'd miss it's virtuosity. and about my
table he left boot-prints of soil, freshly tilled, for seed potatoes.
when i pass, i will find claude living around the corner, by the stone bridge and i will take
my broken toaster, the kind claude can fix. the a-frame with a herringbone cloth cord and
you've to toast each side separately. and i will stay two hours with claude in his garage
repair shop, drink red rose tea with carnation milk and talk of the river valley and our
friends that live there.
Acknowledgements
i would like to thank the sandy hill gang: seymour mayne, christal steck, and robert craig,
also george elliot clarke, patrick white, and james whittall for their comments, and james for
the use of his layout and design [re: the printed version]... my son joseph who took time from
his vacation with me to type corrections and my daughter katie, for her special Sunday
morning breakfast. finally the rest of my family without whose help this book would not have
been possible.
to my baby, fiancée and love. gemma. i sometimes wonder where you find the patience, but
i'm sure glad you were made with that special ingredient.
Some of these poems have previously appeared in Bywords, Chasing Sundogs, Graffito
(Friday Circle), Hook & Ladder, Ottawa Poets '95, Volume 1 (audiocassette), Paperplates,
and Remembered Earth, Volume 1 (Bywords).
Copyright © 1996, 2003 by b stephen harding
Print edition, 1996. ISBN 1-896362-04-4
Electronic edition, 2003. ISBN 1-896362-20-6
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