Poetry

Turning Left to the Ladies

Spy 

I parachute into man’s country,
hoist my beer in the bar as if native.

Cool, I talk shop, stand as they stand,
not quite sure
of the cocky swing of hips,
lift of the glass in a loud bass,
confidence laughing. 

This is the world of the knowing.
It’s only a small slip into a minor key
when I turn left to go to the Ladies.

Poetry A Well-Mannered Storm: The Glenn Gould Poems

Ice Man

The image of me out there – Ice Man –
it’s only image.  I don’t want to show
how it all comes from the blood, from inside, you know?
I only tell you this now because I’m drunk on sound.
Tomorrow I will deny it.
Blood?  What blood?  I am Bach

In Fine Form: The Canadian Book of Form Poetry

Co-edited with Sandy Shreve

 

Inward to the Bones: Georgia O’Keeffe’s Journey with Emily Carr

#44

Emily talks of Freud.
I hate him.
It was this new man, Freud,
who made them see only sex
in my paintings. 

But Emily slows me down,
shows me
the flowering of ribs and pelvis I painted today.
Here is your desire, she says.
See how you have wished it upon paper.
It is a woman’s mind, a woman’s hand, a woman’s voice
and you didn’t even know.
See how it shines from the inside, out.

Kate Braid, in Inward to the Bones: Georgia O’Keeffe’s Journey with Emily Carr  

Covering Rough Ground

To This Cedar Fountain

Untitled

These trees worked hard to get up here
one ring at a time.  The prize is sky
and the freedom of birds.

Only three have reached the high blue dome
and now careen like honey bees
hover like hummingbirds one minute
soar like eagles the next.

These trees threaten to pull their own tops off
they stretch so hard, risking everything
to touch heaven.