A particle strayed into the woods
Away from its electromagnetic course
An escape from collision and fission
To where unobserved it observes
Sunlight and shadow moving freely
A playful chase between branches and leaves
While deep below water connects with root
All set by the massive world’s own spin
That allows each element to settle down.
Away from concrete walls and cyclotrons,
A probabilistic reality charted out
On messy whiteboard based upon
Some as-of-yet unconfirmed theory.
Its entangled pair may stay in its place
While particle A shakes off its
Undignified designation and returns
To the natural process from where it came.
Tetepiskat
An exquisite adventure in poetics and artful use of digital space by Innu poet Natasha Kanapé Fontaine.
As the National Film Board describes, “From her family’s ancestral hunting camp, Natasha Kanapé Fontaine sends a message across time and generations.”
Tetepiskat
http://legacies150.nfb.ca/tetepiskat/
Natasha Kanapé Fontaine
Poems from the MoA Cliff-Face, north boundary of UBC, June 23 2017
Cliff-Jumping Process Poem
Jumping intimidates – standing on the grassy rim of the sand cliffs, snatching glances at the distant islands across the Georgia Straight, Mount Washington’s white-capped peak visible in the background, the forested slopes of the North Shore mountains rising up from the bottom of the bay (ooh, vertigo), and the shining city bulging from the side of the horseshoe-shaped abyss into which we will fall. To jump here involves a freefall of 25 feet to the first sand-ledge and springing off with sufficient force propels you past a second rocky ledge into the near-vertical, 150 foot chute, golden sand cascading down with each fleeting contact as the jumper pushes off for more airtime, finally breaking into a run as the sand levels-out to the beach head far below. In 40 seconds the jumper descends a distance that takes forty 40 minutes to climb, clinging to roots, getting sand in the face, hair and eyes, traversing precariously across the paths that erosion had made rocky enough for a foothold: This was a daring person’s sport; dangerous, and for thrill seekers only. “You chicken?” my pal prods, pretending to push me, but I have banished him from my mind. If I concentrate hard enough, focusing on where I want to land and only on that one spot, I can make it appear to be a mere foot or two away, a small step, rather than a death-defying leap that will scream every molecule of air from your lungs before you even contact the cliff-face. I am not a chicken; I’m no flightless bird; I’m a cliff jumper. Anyway, I figured, if he can do this, so can I.
******
(This poem was used as an example of changing relationships to place and memory. Structure = Sentence starts with: Gerund, Infinitive, Prepositional Phrase, Direct Speech, Conditional Sentence, SV/O, Sentence Adverbial)
******
Windsweep Event poem
Photo Credit: Yuya Peco Takeda
Go to the edge. Lie face down
arms extended, gripping the bar.
The sand cliff is a hand glider
the nose is stuck in the beach below
the wings extend to the sky above.
Once you have reached the core
of the earth, turn over and look up.
Point the glider at the sky, with the
tail stuck in the sand banks below.
The hand glider comes unstuck.
Sail the alphabet of salty gusts.
Swallow up the limitless suns.
Either way, return with fire.
Speak, be lustful, be animal,
recall your minimal viable self
resemble an ancestor.
Become a stick figure and dance badly.
Get permission from ghosts to be afraid.
Give your ghosts the names of trees.
Fall to the ground like a leaf.
Rise up with the force of the tide.
Wear the moon like a hat.
Become the plunder of harvest.
Avoid Mars, curling past your shoulder.
Write a journey with firewater contrails.
Shower the sea with perpetuity.
Photo Credit: Olga Glukhovska
******
Recompense of the Lately Arriving
birdwatcher on the
gratifying climes
of the junctions eye,
focusing sandbanks
at the distinct
climb-it – change
ushered across the
spring-armour climax
making visual the
Semioticians, the
forested
Straightness of the
Mountebank Washtubs
peals of scream
profaned uphill from
the backlog of the
slopes (Northerner,
Short-changing),
and
clinked from the
bougainvillea of the
horseshoe-shaped
bayou into which we
will
glasnost. To
filch hereinafter
bulking an ooh of 25
feet vested to the
first-home of civics
and
beaching off with
sugar-coated whales
side-glance
risking your past
second-half hopscotch
into the near-vertical,
150 foot drop
freelances feldspar,
good sand-wedge
descry down with
reruns return
some fleshiest
forcemeat as the
leer
breasted off for
more-muscular
footing, spot-rot,
not financially
rung into a cicada’s
chirp as the sandbank
container to the
west junctions aisle
farcically,
beneficially lead.
Sneaking back
up the sandbank
pussyfoot a stride
that levels-out
that
banked forty
year beachwear to
intone,
ghosted to
wants,
prettied secretion
in the junctions,
tastefully
and
talk preciously
across the yarn
that docked
face-creams hair-oil
roguishly enquiring
for an eyewitness:
This
hawked a darker
patina’s erratum;
dank,
and
masted headboard,
amalgamating to crazy
Dennis, what screeched me,
but
holds
him from my
sports. If I fall
ionize harder
tread on where I
hipped to throat
and
slipped it
incased to
every
property-casualty of
notable erosion
leaps; unmolified
no flimsy
air-interdiction:
the lure of a cliff-face.
Poem from the Reconciliation Pole, UBC, June 23 2017
Each copper a nail
Nail in the coffin
Pie eyed piper
Poem from the Orchard Garden, June 23 2017
Down Into
Reflection on our June 23 Ecopoetics walk through UBC campus
Among many other things, it felt like the stories shared on our walk explored time and timelessness of place; how place stories and is storied by deep time, individual and communal time, and the experience of our own lives.
I am fascinated by how languages and naming paint time on this landscape like cycles of sun and dark on rings of a tree and the lengthening of reach of a cedar trunk over 8 centuries.
Stories are like little time capsules. They carry pieces of truth and meaning over time. Whether it is a myth from 4000 years ago or your own untold story from childhood, the meaning waits like a dry ration; only by the next telling does it enlarge and soften to become edible. It is the sweat and tears of the telling that bring the meaning out of its sleep as if no time has passed. It is the telling that heals. Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening, 2000, p. 303-304
Fern Poetry
the noise
i am surrounded by a
noisy silence
a calm in the air
yet
the sounds of the wind and rain
on my left
and
the sounds of a whirring vent
on my right
how strange this
cacophony of sound
how strange this
battle of sounds
competing for my attention
unfolding before me
and suddenly …
the whirring vent is
tag teamed with the
whining fridge
and now all i hear
is deafening mechanical
noise.
~ claire s. ahn
hitched to an end and to a beginning
At Nitobe Garden
with six students
upside down
in the pond
a koki wonders
who we are, where
we came from
dew-soaked moss
on the lantern
light’s memory
the maples
gnarled like
an old man’s feet
garden composed
behind a wall
isolated from
the world outside
the koki knows
nothing about
a gunshot crack
hawk swoops soars
with empty talons