Gillian Jerome
Gillian Jerome teaches literature at UBC and her poetry has been
anthologized in Breathing Fire 2: Canada's New Poets. Jerome
has lived in Montreal, Whistler, Banff, Australia, France and
Arizona, where she completed an English graduate degree. She
now lives in East Vancouver. Red Nest is her debut book of poems.
Tenement Song
Sing the song of centuries
Sing the song of ninety-degree summers
The song of syphilis
The song of electrical storms inside us
Sing the song of seagulls
Sing the song of doors slammed
The song of bosoms in our shirts
The song of drunken parrots
Sing the song of cauldrons bubbling
The song of our daughters filing past
The song of school kids revving their engines
Sing the low song of wolves sharpening their teeth
Sing the song of the living
Sing the song of mail in their hands
Of marbles, keys, envelopes sliced open
The song of shoes shuffling past
Sing the song of sneezing and coughing and changing direction
Sing the song of Theseus' madness, midsummer
The song of hard-working, of happenstance
of some tinker's reliquary
The song of tsunamis
Sing the song of pigeons scoring the wind
Sing the song of obstacles, of evergreens
The song of our liturgy, the song of the answering machine
The song of the alcove, the lean-to
the chlorophyll bright in the trees
Sing the song of Apollo, of Agamemnon
The song of Cassandra, the loneliest woman in the world
The song of the swan gliding in swamp water
The song of the clavicle, the cave dweller
Sing the song of our small breastedness, our bordellos
Sing the song of our nightgowns, our decrepit teeth
The song of our hips, our split feet
The song of our thirty three sails in thirty three un-
sailable waters
Sing the song of Cecil nailing the shingles to the roof
Sing the song of mist hovering in the button trees
of cesarean sunset
The song of hydro bills, of snow storms
The song of bottles, of algae, of billy goats
Sing the song of Mars, of Mercury, of the Americas
The song of our fingerbones tapping the locks
The song of the pale bow of the moon, the sun
Slipping into our song:
Dear Landlord,
Twilight
Toddlers tumble down the winding staircase
into the dark guts of the house. They wear
slippered pyjamas. They share fealties.
Some stash posies in their fists.
It's black. Sour breath. Sour breath.
Rain falls for three days straight but the toddlers
put an end to it—some call them sorcerers,
the way they piss mistakenly and soak it up.
They leave washcloths that smell of turpentine,
pluck the branches off the pink magnolias
to hang their laundry. Inside their mouths
you can count every tooth and stains from tar. Everything
smells like ammonium, the night sky, the mist.
At night I lie awake. At night I press my nose
up against their salty heads. To kiss their meaty
cheeks forever. To never let them go. Toddlers
stand motionless in uniforms. Their badges shine
like stars. They radio to each other, asking, is it clear
now? Is there enough light to go out on deck? Some say,
Roger. Some say, Over and out. Lightning storms
cackle outside. Maybe hail, you never know. Toddlers
turn cartwheels in the parlour, toddlers
eat mint cakes and tortiere. They can't yet
write letters to their grandmothers, but they
record each other—they say they wish the trees
could whisper, they say the earth is a square.
They say night-night and hello. When the sky falls
as predicted, everybody runs for it, everybody
belts it out for the last go, everyone
except the toddlers—they pitter-patter, they hold
hands, they walk round and round in circles singing ever so
softly, turning and turning, ashes, ashes-
Apiary of Underclothes
After the beer parlour, we set off for the islands
drinking whiskey from Tupperware cups. We jimmied
the radio for baseball—Expos were up.
I didn't know what day it was, or the year.
Finally, I thought, a good-sized man, and held the wheel.
Strands of silence floated up between us
like duck shit in the lake water. It happened
right when the days held 'til ten o'clock. Fireflies. June Bugs.
Every few miles we stuck our heads into the slipstream
to whet our eyeballs. Both of us taken
with the lights flickering on the dash. We felt
ghosts hovering over the scab of last year's abominable fires.
Have you heard so-and-so's having a baby? Well no.
Well yes. I hummed my favorite Bo Diddleys,
rattled off some names of local birds. Jays
scooped it finally. When the car stopped
furs of dandelions flew around us
& we hastened like they did
into that broom.
Featured Interview
Johanna Skibsrud
Interviewed by Alessandro Porco
So, I'd like to start with a comment made near the end of your Late Nights with Wild Cowboys, in the poem "Jawbone." You express real fear and anxiety over the prospect of having your life and love be objectified, turned into summary, a bowdlerized rendering that "[leaves] nearly everything out." More than that, though, you are worried about how we ourselves are complicit in this sort of exclusionary act. I guess what I'd like to ask first, then, is: do you imagine poetry as a means of letting things in rather than keeping everything out? And what are you aiming to let in, exactly?
I really do think of poetry in that way, in terms of providing a space -- an opening -- in which it might be possible to say the things that are hard, and perhaps impossible, to say otherwise; in which to express that inarticulate feeling that you get sometimes...continue reading
Featured Review
The Good News About Armageddon
By Steve McOrmond
Steve McOrmond's new collection of poems begins with a caution. In the style of TV content warnings, "Advisory" lists potential disturbing content to come: "themes which could threaten the viewer's sense of security," "Evidence of fatalism and irreligion," and the typical forewarnings about sexuality, violence and "language." Here McOrmond displays the dual cautionary and playful perspectives that interact throughout the book, switching from warnings about a drowning and an animal attack to the line, "The following program may contain scenes not suitable for language."
The poem raises the expected questions about what we censor and screen in popular media. What is considered objectionable, and why? Placed at the start of a collection whose title references Armageddon, "Advisory" leads the reader to expect a certain discomfort.
With that warning, the book moves to the title...continue reading