On Being a Poet
What does it really mean to be a poet?
Is it when I look up
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
bleeding out alcohol
and forgotten cigarettes.
I am on the beach
I am wearing a poppy flower
and w o r d s
out of your mouth
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
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.
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
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
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
also full of
H O P E
she knew she could do it
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.
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.