1.

On Being a Poet

What does it really mean to be a poet?

Is it when I look up

or

D

O

W

N

or side to side

and you snap a picture and post it on

that awful Facebook site

that has brainwashed society?

Do I look like a poet then?

Poets are hard to find

    search under pebbles—-

    in the sky ///

    between two walls |-|

we are hiding from the camera

with our tattooed arms

    and hearts

    bleeding out alcohol

    and forgotten cigarettes.

I am on the beach

    &

    I am wearing a poppy flower

and w o r d s

are R

O

L

L

I

N

G

out of your mouth

    too quickly

for me to write them down

and pretend I made them up

for one of my poems that is definitely

NOT ABOUT YOU.

To be a poet you have to stick your hand in your heart and write really hard with the other hand on vanilla crème paper bonded with glue and a fancy hard cover that someone gave you as a gift from Indigo. To be a poet you must hurt everyone’s feelings, including your own. To be a poet it is essential to read other poets and wish you had come up with their poems first. It is SUCH

a lonely place with no windows and a view and shutters that refuse to open.

I REALLY DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT MEANS

all I know is this:

I copied out all my favorite poems on graph paper

lined paper

toilet paper

any paper

and by twenty-one

I realized I had a writing disease called poetry

It can never be cured

so I was told

the w o r d s

kept on fighting with my immune system

and I hate most of them.

I swear I cannot control my brain from SCREAMING out.

2.

The wind is the sign that hope is alive

She was in love with an ideal

way before he came into her life and ate her whole

he wanted to cut her up and save a piece everyday

but she refused the sharp touch of his blade

she fell deep into a well

and no one heard her CRIES

except the

W I N D

that never showed her the way out

years she suffered in anguish

(while he came and went as he pleased taking everything with him as he slept and ate under the same roof)

till finally she saw the

S I G N

it was a dull August morning

no clouds in the Montreal sky (for once)

and he came home early with a book

just for her

some writer was selling her books at the corner of Peel and Ste. Catherine. Can you believe
it?

she took the book like a drug addict takes his fix

and read it in one day

she did not get out of bed

it was an awful book

filled with spelling mistakes

and run-on sentences

but

also full of

H O P E

she knew she could do it

she bought

some journals from Dollarama

with black lines and purlple lines

and wrote a story

he watched her

and he went out and bought her more books

he went to book launches and met writers

and finally he saw her

A L I V E

and he read every word she wrote.

3.

Ghosts in the Hallway

If you turn into an ice cube I will not melt you with my body heat but walk through that door and leave it open a tiny bit for one footprint.

There’s other fish in the sea.

That day and night I did not leave my room or my bed. I cried my soul out.

You’ll get over it.

Of course, here I am.

O, it was you who turned into a young man and then a man and now a middle-aged man full of anxieties.

Perhaps I lack the love to fill your cup up.

He is not the only boy in the world.

And I still think he was the only boy in the world for me.

My father’s voice haunts me

The pain will get better, you’ll see.

And the pain did

And he was right

And now I am trying to unlock my front door

And see your shoes in the hallway\but all I see are ghosts

Soon I will turn into one too

If you refuse to look at me

I love you.