XXII:2 June, 2007

SYMBIOTIC POETRY

THE DRAGON'S BACK 
by Scott Metz &
Dietmar Tauchner

LONELINESS
by Max Verhart &
Ginka Biliarska

A DIFFERENT BLUE 
by Catherine Mair &
Patricia Prime

FRAGRANT CURRY 
by Patricia Prime &
Andre Surridge

COUNTRY PUMPKIN 
by Patricia Prime &
Catherine Mair

CHILD'S PLAY 
by Andre Surridge &
Patricia Prime

THE BIG DAY 
by Andre Surridge &
Patricia Prime

DUST BOWL DAYS 
by Sheila Windsor &
Larry Kimmel 

murder! mayhem # 2 OVERCAST MOON
by Marlene Mountain &
Francine Porad

I WANT RHYTHM 11: 
by Nicole Stoffman & 
 R. W. Watkins

A HANDFUL OF SAND 
by Magdalena Dale &
Vasile Moldovan

leaves beginning to change all along the dragon's back

the transparency wings gently attached gently removed

out from under the woodpile old cherry petals

long lonely walk –
the cold deeper and deeper
in my fingers

isolated farm
in every window
closed curtains

the leash is straining
to the breaking –point –
somebody's footsteps

more and more dead flies
on the windowsill

broken window
birds and voices
coming back to life

haiku about shadows, in shadow on the boulder    on the bollard a

discarded cardigan    is he going to inspect it - stink from the river

climbing the carved sea elephant, two pink-hatted girls    a different

blue - cornflowers against the sky    on the other side of the stream -

swish of cows' tails     light catching the horns of the black bull    a

blaze of colour - the flame gladioli    "Is it these glasses or are the flowers really so bright?"

as he pulls off his shirt - the man's bronze torso     checking on the old

woman's safe return     after the long walk - a cold shandy

FRAGRANT CURRY
Patricia Prime
Andre Surridge

at the restaurant
tearing the garlic nam bread
her polished nails
the crunch when he bites
a crispy beef samosa

through a window
the orange yolk
of the full moon
she lifts the rice pot lid
his face vanishes in steam

her bubbling laughter
the serving spoon hovers
over fragrant curries
down the steep winding stairs
she follows his shadow

satisfied groan
he loosens his belt
another notch
at the corner of the road
they turn to separate homes

either side of the entrance … pumpkin orange flags

conversation interrupted - those thundering trucks

over cappuccino tourists discuss travel plans

"Victoria" splashed across her windcheater

autumn clouds, a circle of bricks encloses an oak

the motor cyclist takes a direct route across grass

café's hanging baskets - a lone petunia

two plasters remain on the old woman's wrist

a cat claws its way along a fallen branch

pushing the walker she decides on a hill climb

approaching storm
rattling church railings
a boy with a stick

the hand that guides
stays out of sight
a jointed figure
with its painted smile
swings skips struts

cold grey day
children sail their boats
on the canal

a cat scampers
along the cinder path
midges weave the air
heavy with the scent
of hawthorn flowers

a black dog
the low growl
of thunder

there is no way
to stop her from being afraid
of the noise
she hides in the stairwell
until her mother comes home

shopping bag
a packet of dolly mixtures
to share between us

it stops raining
we put on boots and coats
run outside
skipping as the sky lightens
we find the biggest puddle

a bus
passing close to the kerb
drenches us

a snail stretches
beside the fallen
oak leaves
how far away is childhood
and all those dreams we planned

city café
he kickstarts the working week
with a short black
together with the breeze
she comes in out of the cold

warming her hands
on a radiator
the typist
balances her happiness
while waiting for his call

busy kitchen
the ceiling fan
slices the heat
sound of the oven timer
sizzle of cheese and bacon

cell phone
sending a photograph
she smiles to herself
five more sleeps to the big day
she practices her new signature

dust bowl depression

in cement city, a girl
with nothing but

romance on her mind
initials & hearts entwined
on her inside thigh

foggy dawn

through a grime-smeared
casement window

a day
as dull as each before
threatens to take shape

stretch, yawn, & coffee

(a raw egg dropped in the sauce pan
drags the grounds to the bottom)

now, under a fried egg sky
a spume of dust on the road
to nowhere

flyish buzz

room to room
heels tap, thoughts drone

and only drops
of dragon's blood to guard
my glinting heart

jingle of coins

trickle of sweat
down a white-swan neck

in the shadow of Garbo
fading away, a school kid
with nowhere to go

each succulent green

a filigree, a crochet
silver edged

three snails lined up
by searchlight, and not one
prepared to talk

mirage

a fishing net
abandoned and torn

lilts on waves
ink-blue-black and spews
its catch of stars

B _ C image_A.JPG

murder! mayhem! #2
Marlene Mountain
Francine Porad

overcast moon mistakes carved in blue neon

a candle each night for a miracle each day

lull within a lull the pileated seems if gone to return

family party champagne and all

a skim of ice on the pond childish things put away

adult toys DVD disks play on a 40 inch TV

a smirk grown desperate in darkness

'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.' *

no solutions an airstrike for looks

a plane's emergency landing rescue in the Hudson River

stuck in the mud a week's rain

flowing crowd for dinner Boondocks restaurant opens

to town and back especially back

Labrador litter the female with papers the male a mutt

lobbied by feds bowels of the giant lobbyist **

suicide bomb a woman and infant girl lie in a pool of blood

left by the coal miners goodbye notes

unpredicted flurries a green floor with won't -do projects

nothing scheduled today but my doctor

pm sharon's health held breaths of the good bad & ugly

men gather to sit down about something stand for little

lab technician x-rays retaken three times

a wren flits in and out of the shed a long grey-turning sky

sun-filtered room search for a rainbow

the yellow porch light surrounded by twenty degrees

early exit across the mountain falling snow

two more months to go downhill before the uphill slog

recent surge of violence in Iraq

dim recess of my mind the checkbook

I transfer funds bills and gift cards cost an extra two cents

too late to send off a dusk haiku

autobiographical writing 'inspired by a true story'

found sculpture frozen pink

I WANT RHYTHM 11: 
Saturday, March 17, 2007 Yonge St. S of Wellesley
Blog prose by Nicole Stoffman
Haiku by R. W. Watkins

morning breaks
the street erupts with people
contagious as a yawn

As if by some miracle, Old Man Winter decided to take a vacation today so Jennifer and Catherine and I could dance along Yonge St from Wellesley to Shuter. Highlights include...

* Discovering Jennifer and Catherine. Jennifer is a Nia instructor and told me she felt liberated once she decided to acknowledge but not act on the inner voice saying, "this is stupid! what will people think of you?" She especially enjoyed the anti-establishment aspect of not behaving in the way our urban planning has dictated that we should behave. Jennifer has natural leadership qualities and kept smiling at people who were watching us and saying, "Yup! We're dancing in the street. Hooray for spring!"

scoring concertos,
crows arrange and rearrange
on five hydro wires

Catherine is a former clarinettist and Scottish folk dancer who has recently rediscovered a love of dance through expressive movement and Nia classes. Both of them inspired me with their movements which I really enjoyed copying and then transforming.

Simon Says
--the losing child
discovers dance improvisation

* Quizno's Sub (rating: ****): The glorious sun was shining down on us as we took to the stage at Quizno's (who knew?). This raised area in front of the door allowed us to do synchronized dances to "California Dreamin'". It's amazing to stumble upon a performance space like that. I feel greedily excited just thinking about all of the undiscovered stages out there in Torontopia just waiting for us to dance on them.

avoiding cracks in the sidewalk,
street dancers step
on each others' shadows

*World of Posters (rating: ***): Great rock n' roll but no stage. Strange, but I never noticed before how HUGE the sidewalks on Yonge St. are (named after George Yonge, The town of York's secretary of war, in case you were interested). When the coast was clear, I let myself venture away from the storefront saying, "Hey! There's a sidewalk here!" Suddenly I felt as though I was onstage. In a flash, I gained insight into the need that caused break dance and the street dance aesthetic to evolve. I wanted to get down to the ground and cover it with movement, but I didn't have the dance vocabulary for that so I hopped onto a garbage bin and bent backwards off it then lowered myself to the ground. Jennifer loved to dance along the curb. She found her own private stage there.

alley cats caterwauling
walled-in dancer dances
in lonely flat

*Dancing to the Bagpipes!!! We were thrilled when we heard the pipes calling us through the din of commercial radio and heavy metal. "He's gonna feel so lucky", "This is his lucky day," "He's not gonna know what hit him" we said as we made our way towards our first busker. I was excited hoping that Catherine could lead us in some Scottish dance moves. "Do you mind if we dance?" Jennifer asked as she flipped him a tooni,e "Sure," he replied, "I just don't know if I can play and laugh at the same time." Catherine taught us a traditional dance step in the round and another that's done two by two. We got a round of applause from the tourists at the end.

This piper plays in "Box Full of Cash" at Lola's on Kensington Ave in the market every Sunday at 6pm. I've heard them play before, they're really good and always soused; a rollicking mixed drink of pipes, barrelhouse piano and guitar licks.

old leaves dance,
swept off their feet
by drunken wind

* Toronto T-Shirt Company (rating: ****): The owner of this place was really happy when he saw what we were up to. "What are you doing?" he asked Jennifer. "Exactly what we appear to be doing, which is dancing in the street." He put on some GREAT salsa and house music for us. I taught them the basic salsa move but stopped there. You don't have to dance traditionally to traditional music, the three live dance performances I've taken in at Harbourfront over the past ten days have taught me that. Rubberbanddance Co. from Montreal breaks to classical symphonic music, Shanti Smith, the choreographer from the Mohawk nation, grass dances to spoken word, and The Danny Grossman Company dances modern to La Bohème! Having seen these sensational Canadian Dance artists inspired me to play with different levels, losing my balance and narration in my dancing today. Bless Harbourfront and the Premiere Dance Theatre. Amen.

improv ballet
in the Renaissance wing;
cherubs dance on air

(This blog would not be complete if I did not mention an interesting exchange I had with three teens about whether or not we were really dancing. At that moment, we were in front of a Chinese gift shop doing interepretive movement to classical music. "That's not dancing!", they explained, "You can't dance to music that doesn't have a beat!" I wish they'd stuck around long enough to let me tell them about Rubberbanddance!)

zen brain activity
how to dance
to Cageian silence

*4Life Natural Food, Kensington Market: Finally, as I swooped down on Kensington Market for my usual after-I-WANT-RHYTHM-coffee, I could hear Catherine's voice in my ear, "I still got dancing in me" she had said when I'd asked if we were ready to call it a day. That's how I felt. I felt liberated from the self-censorship that keeps me from dancing in the street all week. I felt supported by the fact that people like Jennifer and Catherine exist. So I danced in front of 4Life at Augusta and Nassau, one of the top danceable spots in Toronto. I explored. I choreographed. I played with balance and lyrics.

I performed. A door was opened today. I hope it stays open all week.

dance lessons
her young legs part
and she is seduced

a handful of sand
at the bottom of her heart
like in a conch;

on the church roof
two white doves ready
to fly

only a flower
with so many fallen petals
in midsummer

wings of butterfly
my day-dreams flying
against the wind. . .

Who We Are

Deadline for your collaborative poems for the next issue is
September 1, 2007

Table of Contents

I would like to know more about Renga.