Montreal Serai » Poetry

Miles to go

lisa — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 19:03:01 +0000

(Inspired by Robert Frost)

If only I had enough pens, enough to write ghazals in my sleep.

then I would know I have miles to go, miles to go before I sleep.

In my city, sirens are lullabies and trucks perform symphonies.

when their instruments clash in dawn’s chill, time stalls for sleep.

Cramming into subway cars, we stare into spaces devoid of eyes.

we grip poles and sink into seats, defying the poison of sleep.

Sometimes I walk until streets fail to recognize me, until I lose myself

until I follow instinct to Queen’s Park, where the homeless sleep.

At Bay & Bloor, crowds push and thrust themselves into traffic,

maneuvering through humming cars, cars that routinely fall asleep.

Women with Prada fur coats dig designer heels into concrete

freshly glossed nails and coiffed hair put self loathing to sleep.

Some faces stretch beyond expression, blank and repulsively perfect

if they could speak, they’d confide, We don’t dream when we sleep.

At dusk, when bitterness creeps in and the horizon is bruised blue,

we enter cafes and sip our espresso to drive away the fear of sleep.

When night breaks open and the city is glowing with artificial light,

shopkeepers force doors shut and we must lull ourselves to sleep.

My evening commences at 3 am, with dead poets resting in my bed.

with my fingers skimming their lips, what is the allure of sleep?

I stay awake with black tea, mourning words without ink

Frost whispers in my hair, “Miles to go, Israh, before you sleep.”

Reprieve, This is also that & Golden Afternoon

lisa — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 00:56:20 +0000

Reprieve

Back again in Brooklyn, where it’s hot.
Coffee upstairs in McDonald’s with
A.C., at eighty-sixth and twentieth.
Music piped, that’s not unbearable.
The subway, elevated here, in view,
And people, people, people, everywhere.
For this is home, Calcutta in the West…

The NY Times: a right wing nut who’s killed
Four score and more, in Norway yesterday;
The heat wave roiling east — and then Obama’s
Compromises failing yet again;
Tea-ers used to strengthen stranglehold
Of wealthiest — but now, like jihadists,
A threat to Doctors Frankensteins themselves…

A day’s reprieve, from tensions personal,
To reacquaint myself with public ills…

Babui / Arjun
2011 July 23d, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

this is also that

a summer day, a sky that’s laughing loud,
the trees aflutter in their seasonal attire,

a cat that sleeps between the sun and shade,
and he, who wakes and walks within his fire.

a day like all the rest that came before,
no different than those that are to come?

and all is peaceful, as the breezes blow,
but he can hear the devil softly hum.

oh fire that gave us birth, oh fire that will
consume us all! can you not spare the cat?

but to what end? to meow and never hear
reply? to know that this — is also that?

the signal changes and a mother walks,
with child that dangles from protective hand.

on crossing, she releases him. he runs
but circles back to clutch, again, her hand.

babui / arjun
2011 august 4th, thu.
brooklyn

Golden Afternoon

Oh golden afternoon in late July,
That brings to mind the many that I knew,
With memories that float through skies of mind
Like wisps that grace your arcing dome of blue!

******

I sit in cooling shade, beneath the spreading tree,
And watch the boys that play on sunlit field.
And there’s the breeze that blows in from the sea,
The sibling of the one, to which my love did yield.

How many past have felt as I have done!
How many still will feel the ebb and flow?
I watch the eager youngsters as they run,
As I was watched by those who’re now no more.

There is a mood, within, that matches clime,
For we are beings kin to beings wild.
And so, we need to pause, from time to time,
To shift our balance back to humors mild.

What better clock to set our tempos to,
Than that of sun, whose daily climb and fall
And yearly motion, north and south, set pace
And season for our cousins great and small?

The blades of grass, the leaves upon the tree,
The limbs of plants and children curve and sway.
We are as waves upon the wind-tossed sea,
Each line is arced, as sun arcs through each day.

And yet, an afternoon like this is timeless, still,
A placid pond, on which the dragonfly
Appears to pause, as if by act of will,
Before it darts — with none to question why.

******

The sun is mellowed and is slanting low,
As fleeting summer hints at coming fall.
The park is populated now by elders, who
Are venturing out, before the curtains fall.

Babui / Arjun
2011 July 31st, Sun.
Brooklyn

Budapest Suites & More

lisa — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 20:00:59 +0000

Budapest Suites, I (from Grand Gnostic Central: DC Books, 1998)

“Apply what you know to what you feel that’s more than enough”

On Váci utca, mongrel pigeons, flapping,

Mount American-style shopfront windows.

Grey cops in pairs or trios patrol;

Country people bag handiwork, whistling.

At the end of Vörösmárty tér, a blind man begs fillérs at tables in Gerbaud—

A blond father yells No! at a Gypsy girl and daughter.

Behind me a woman asks for directions:

Bocsanat. Nem magyar. “Nem Magyar?!”

Á Quebec (from Grand Gnostic Central: DC Books, 1998)

A lady asks me

I speak in season

“Avez-vous l’air?” (Wanting the time.)

Twin tractors mow a civic meadow,

level a grove of Queen-Anne’s-Lace.

Chez Le Maizerets, I’m served lasagne

wretched as any in North America.

The churchyard maple reddens and yellows

in the fumes of passing traffic.

A family emptied from their Merc

set their infant beside me.

August clouds blown higher over all this.

Bochum (from Ladonian Magnitudes: DC Books, 2006)

Bochum, for the third and final summer now, I sit in your May sun, beside Engelbertbrunnen, three o’clock.

How many times have I walked the cobbles of Kortumstrasse from and to the Hauptbahnhof?

How many times passed your bookstores, looked in their windows, sidewalk bins, searching for anything English, despairing over the German riches I can’t read?

How many times gazed into the shade of the Konkret cafe, wishing I sat at that table, discussing some artistic matter with that heavy-lidded, copper-haired woman, cigarette in hand held up by elbow on table, other hand’s fingers hooked in white coffee-cup’s handle?

How many times heard the bellowed laughter of red-faced men out of the kneipes?

Eyed excited tables of youths under the red beer-garden parasols?

Passed the same bum by the bank’s door, legs stretched on clean sidewalk, ten-pfennig coins, brassy as sunny beer, dirty as his trousers and hands, in his cap?

Bought perfect ripe tomatoes, soft white mozzarella in tiny bags like water-balloons, unblemished yellow bananas, sliced turkey breast, hazel-nut or poppy-seed yoghurts, Leibniz cookies, Russian vodka, all at the HL?

Looked always disappointedly at your cinemas’ billboards for anything not American and dubbed in German?

Wondered how knackig that bratwurst was, or how spicy that currywurst, what the pizza there tasted like, how thin and crunchy its crust, how many kinds of beers I could taste, what the fish sandwiches at the Nordsee were, which Döner Kebap was best?

Eaten your gold hot crispy fritjes dolloped with mayonnaise?

Flirted with your Westphalian long-legged, long curve-torsoed, white-skinned beauties, hair black or yellow, eyes hazel or sky?

Felt small beside your men, head and shoulders taller?

Considered sitting at a table on Shakespeare-Platz, lightly-frosted beer in hand, smiling at the irony?

Come to you to my lover’s arms and kisses and warm, fragrant bed?

Come through you to friends and poetry in Heidelberg and Munich?

Wandered under your trees’ green everywhere, delighted in doves and jackdaws?

Wondered how all could be so fertile and orderly, after the rubble and ashes and ruin of the War,

How my grandfathers bombed your weekend avenues now crowded with youth’s hot desire,

Took aim at you, marched through your streets?

And today, I sit, pocket heavy with your coinage, your dust in my nostrils, air in my lungs,

Solar plexus and throat tight, eyes with tears, trying to hide this inspiration close on me from every side,

Saying the chopping block of History is washed with tears of mothers, lovers, comrades, sons and daughters, the groaning mourning weeping of the clouds, the cold heart of winter and its ashy snow,

So today I can sit in this poet’s garret, at my lover’s desk, free of such disaster, ignorant of it but as imagined, and hymn you, city of the Ruhrgebiet, giving nothing weightier than words in thanks.

from “Home to Argo”

Stopped by Argo to see if Chris had

a Dover Thrift Paradise Lost and Robinson Crusoe

to complete my Puritan library

Chris slow, down with a summer cold

While we talked only one other customer

A quiet small brown man, blue Gatorade

On my way out I stop outside the display window to look at what Ferlinghetti poem Chris has in the typewriter there

We’d talked about Ferlinghetti how one girl’d bought him because she’d heard he’d been the only one willing to publish Howl

How another couple read the Bible to each other morning and night, autodidacts

and the little man, bald head maybe up to my chin

green sunglasses, brown scarred teeth

You are curry?

I’m sorry I don’t understand

You are cary?

You are khouri?

What is your mother tongue French?

I’m from Saskatchewan

English

What is your mother tongue?

Punjabi

I don’t speak English well

How come you know so much about history and

I read a lot

as a boy, I’m a teacher, a writer, a poet, I have a book in here

One of my favourite singers is Nustrat Fateh Ali Khan

His eyebrows go up and he holds out his hand to shake mine

I am from his home town everybody there on every wall posters of him

I saw him perform here in Montreal at Place des Arts

He comes out

Big man

Big man he comes out and sits on this huge pillow

and his musicians, drums, organs, clapping chorus

and sings ancient sacred Sufi songs

You know Sufi?

I study Sufi thirty years

You know Q’ra? Sufi have Q’ran in his heart

The Sufi they have great (he touches his tongue as if lifting something off it)

You know Benazir Benazir Bhutto Bhutto?

Sufi puts his hand on her shoulder like this “You are in”

You know what he sings it is very

Profound

deep deep

You have yo–can read

No I can’t read Urdu or Farsi

I have translations, you can’t translate

His phone buzzes and he shows me its face

A picture of him in Lahore

I have to go to work

I work at this Indian restaurant

You must point it out to me

We walk down the street to the corner

At the Thali Thali he waves

You come there for a free lunch I’m the cook

What is your name?

Sheikh

My name is Bryan

Bryan I love you

and he hugs me

I hug him back

Nice to meet you

Montreal

lisa — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 01:45:46 +0000

 

I love Montreal, tu sais

because English  here is charmant

and French  c’est cool

because locals  know

that a ridge

is really a mountain

because tortillas &  chapattis

&  pitas & bagels

have no quarrel

with pâté chinois

because anything that flies

or rides or rolls

or sails or skates

converges on  this island

even the Grand Prix

because the women dress with flair

and the men with panache

because cyclists push

SUV’s off the road

because the weather

can still surprise us

like a new lover

because it has

a head and a heart

somme toute

because life in Montreal

is a year-long  f-e-s-t-i-v-a-l…

32nd Ave., Lachine & Beggar, Namur Station

lisa — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 01:30:54 +0000

 

32^nd Ave., Lachine

Now night, and off the curving yellow arches,
the light, usually so harsh, glows dull in summer's haze.
Moths leave it alone, cavort with brighter street lights.
Cars move slowly, their noise softened.
Songs drift by – salsa, reggae – and quiet voices.
Even the motorcycles, summer's lords, are muffled.
Inside, under a strong white light, white women sit,
examine prospective customers. Outside,
a dusky terrace, where black kids lounge.
Across the street, people disappear down a dark lane
next to the used car lot: a scary little guy with two
giggling girls, a couple on a scooter, a man with a dog.
A fat old man wears a slender nasal lifeline with resignation.
Become a hybrid, battery and oxygen powered,
he parks his electric wheelchair near my car.
I turn the key to check the time and the headlights play
on the thighs, smooth and hairless, of a girl on rollerblades.
Passively she glides.
Her boyfriend on his bike smiles,
his arm around her waist, and tows her
back to their place.
It is a night (the critics will say) of lyric intensity.
Applause that we come out and take our marks and with our flesh
make the scene: that we are here, and here, there's ice cream.

 

 
Beggar, Namur Station

 
The women come down the stairs
like wet flowers
They watch their feet
their heads bent like dripping flowers
He sits near the bottom of the escalator
inhales the scent of moist flowers
As they come some raise their eyes
and their lips curve like soft flowers
And they notice he is blind
as a flower

Unease

lisa — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 00:15:43 +0000

*** Editors note:  Gabrielle Mathews has just won the junior category prize for this poem in the "Act NOW! International Performance Writing Festival".  

Tabloids surround me in shades of black and outbursts of red
Screaming at me to pick them up and read the horrors of the world
'Killings continue in Libya'
and
'Police corruption'
and
'Shocking photos'
and
'Civil war'
All telling a story
(One more and I'm going to snap)
Of something rotten, deadly, hard to swallow like medicine or bitter herbs
Making me terribly aware of how lucky I am
(To live in 'America', the land of opportunities, paved with gold and good intentions)
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, let it out
(Stare at the distorted faces of people I don't know, people I'll never know because they're that terrible D word, the one that takes them away from where I am and puts them Somewhere Else)
I open them only to see a tired world, a dishonest world, a scary world
(Innocence and ignorance go hand in hand, flying away from me as 'nuclear..Japan...anti....energy' flits through one ear to lodge in my heart)
In which the special word doesn't work as often as it should
(Pretty please with cherries on top)
Promises are broken
(-But you said he'd live- in hysterical tones while
-Nothing is for certain, please calm down, Miss-
A grim person in a white coat stares through you)
And, perhaps worst of all, lies are told
All of these thoughts that pound through my head like a battering ram in a desperate action film
Images imprinted on my heart
Of tiny boys with stick bones and rib cages
That could compete with a Greyhounds' for attention
Eyes colored with desperation, faces numbed by disaster; the disaster being their life, spiraling into something that makes even the strong of heart feel twisted and sick
Statistics with the odds piled up high against improvement
Pins boldly stating 'poverty is a weapon of mass destruction'
Polls to see what country is best off
(It's like a race and here in the States, we're winners;
so what happens to the losers?)
The little things that pile up and flash by like a silent movie when it's late
and I'm trying to fall asleep but all I can think of are problems upon problems
(People say I've got a great imagination and I thank them,
braces glinting at them as I smile
but inwardly I'm screaming
'Imagine this;
we switch places with everyone in the slums'
which is too much for anyone who has seen the better side of life to even want to think of)
I fool myself into thinking that they're getting taken care of, that people care and put time, money, energy into helping others
(The Golden Rule, as my teachers taught me in preschool)
When experience tells me that we're too self-absorbed and fast-paced to sit down and consider anybody else
(Charity's a lot less grand when I know of fraud
All I can think is 'what sick people would take money from the dying?')
Driving home, music playing dimly in the background, eyes bleary and turning the road into a dark expanse lit by other cars, like yours
Stopped briefly by the sight of a young woman who is probably just like you except-
She's carrying nothing but a cardboard sign and a tiny can
(Pause to take the sight in, consider, drive by)
Later, I wonder what put her there, why she needs to appeal to the kinder nature of strangers, how she would feel if she knew I saw her and WENT ON ANYWAYS
(I imagine she's used to it
I imagine she's tired of it)
Guilt sits on people's shoulders, an anchor that causes them to droop and stumble, looking for all of the world to be sick at heart
Many adults have drooping shoulders, premature graying, lack of composure at the end of the day when they've had their fill of difficult questions
(Social security, finance, bills, taxes, Coke or Pepsi, now or later, employment, education, what is your opinion)
As if they need the night to let these thoughts leak out
(I picture wisps of words scrambling out of their eyes and ears, desperate to get out of where they were crammed into)
The following morning will restart all the anxiety, open the door to a whole new world of important papers, bloody numbers, sad truths, quiet lies, vicious facts and their conscience will be shutting down in order to survive
So tell me
(Whisper into my ear when no one else is paying attention)
What is the secret to blocking out the world
When you've already been exposed to things you never dreamed of
Do the tabloids get less shocking?
Does the guilt become normal?
Please tell me
What to do now that I'm aware

Nasser

lisa — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 20:15:43 +0000

These days I can’t but remember Gamal Abdel Nasser. The Arab people are now finding unity in demands, hopes and aspirations, real unity from the bottom up not from the top down.

Was this his vision? Even if it wasn’t, he sure would have been happy and proud to see it.

English translation below original Arabic poem. Audio of me reading the poem (Arabic) can be found here:
http://www.ece.mcgill.ca/~elotay/lotayef/poetry_A.html

ناصر

من بعيد لمحته في وسط الميدان

باين عليه تعب السنين

رافع العلم بإيده اليمين

وفــ إيده الشمال خريطة وطن

نظرة رضا مليا عينيه

باينه حقيقي الفرحة عليه

ما بيهتفش مع الهاتفين

بس الناس حواليه سمعوه

بيقول : ثورتكم جواكم

ما إتوأدتش سنة سبعين

***

مهما حاولت أقرب منه

أبداً ما قدرتش أوصل له

لكن غيري كتير لاحظوه

مش هنا بس في التحرير

في سيدي بوزيد

من فترة شافوه

وفــ صنعاء قرب الجامعة

وعند الدوار في البحرين

وفــــ عمّان والدار والبصرة

وفـــ ساحة أول مايو في العاصمة …

قالوا الأمن هناك ضربوه

وفــــ بني غازي

فـــ الشارع اللي إسمه على إسمه

المرتزقة هجموا عليه

لكن ما قدروش يأذوه

شابين جريوا عليه وحموه

أخدوه … خبوه

***

لـمّا الصبح طلع

سألوه :

شكلك مصري يا أستاذنا

ومصر دي دايماً بتعلمنا ،

الفقرا لو ليهم الجنة ،

في الدنيا دي نصيبهم إيه ؟

قال لازم تاخدوا حقوقكم منهم

وإبقوا إتحاسبوا هناك في الآخرة *

الثورة

حتفضل مشتعلة

طول ما قابيل

ظالم أخوة

وأخد علمه

وخارطة وطنه

وقام يمشي مع الملايين

_______

إيهاب لُطَيِّف

مونتريال ، 18 فبراير 2011

* مستوحاة من خطاب لجمال عبد الناصر أبآن التأميم في الستينات.

Nasser

From far away I spotted him
in the middle of the square

Age apparent on his face

Carrying a flag in his right hand
and in his left,
the map of the Arab world

Calmness in his gaze

Content on his face

He wasn’t yelling with the masses

But those close by, heard him say

Your revolution was always in you

It didn’t die in nineteen-seventy

No matter how many times
I tried to reach him

I never could

Yet many others saw him
not only me

And not only here in Tahrir

He was in Sidi Bouzaid
some weeks ago

In Sana’a, near the university

At the roundabout in Bahrain

In Amman, Casablanca, Basra

In the Square in Algiers
(where I was told a soldier beat him)

And in Benghazi
–on the street that bears his name–
mercenaries chased him
but couldn’t hurt him

Two young men whisked him away
and billeted him for the night

At daybreak over tea,
they sat chatting:

Respected elder, you look Egyptian
and Egypt always was a beacon
if the poor own the hereafter

Do they get nothing in this world?

He sat up and replied:

Go and fight for your rights
and let them challenge you in front of God

There will be uprisings always
as long as Cain abuses Abel

Saying this
he picked up his flag
reached for his map
and took off
to march again
with the Millions

—

Ehab Lotayef

Montreal, Feb. 18, 2011

The Journey, The Market & The Manuscript

lisa — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 19:00:11 +0000



The Journey

I marched through thick
snow until leaves began
to reappear on deciduous trees,
pine needles protruding from toes
Dragons scuttled across walls
dented free forms,
shapes through cloud patterns
against the canvass of azure

Before it was all swirling colours
and neon lasers in aurora's land

I was under the impression
that no forms were fixed
until I came to the southern sea
and discovered the waves came in patterns

***

The Market

On the outer aisle everything was ordinary -
saffron spice,
ivory and diamonds, red hued
Philippina wives: green eyes and Spanish hips
West African kola nuts
baobob trees and tours across sands

The great market was covered by blue tarp,
an uneven dome over economic madness
Tables filled with flamenco clapping
Exotic love on scented incense smoke
Laughter cheap in bulk, the same in all languages

Fresh bottled water taken from the tap
with iodine additives,
aged to perfection
Land on the moon
Empty space or wisdom by the gram

Third world working hands,
souls and dreams revoked for convenience
Buy politics or witticisms
Rent family, happiness by the hour
Aromas of pheromone soap
and the smell of the sea

Dirt for sale from nimbus clouds
Swamp smoke -
speak to alligators and eat seasoned tree bark
All Atlantian delicacies
Religions, sects and cults -
pay your soul's membership fees

Watch fabulous spectacles and cruise mud-sleds,
vacations in Balinese water temples -
the papal suite
Rent your own stall and sell your work ethic
Trade family members in free markets
for sacred pillar of individualism
anything but a bowl of rice 

***

The Manuscript

Automated typewriter ticks letters,
paragraphs,
stanzas spelled out by ghostly author
Or archaic bird-bone quill
moving like swordplay on scroll,
edges burnt and decayed
Phantasmal inspirations
clamoring together
overlapping in palimpsest
Epic journeys and extended metaphors
Developed characters and intricate plots
unpublished, legendary
Unread by waking eyes and
dreamt by untold literary giants
A flawless manuscript -
the ideal of subconscious perfection

3 Poems

lisa — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 19:30:28 +0000



De Maiz…


  Everyone is igualdad 

  Said the man of the wise mind 

  And the old hands 

  He told me 

  We are getting lost 

  This is the way to find ourselves 

  You grab this maiz 

  You use the coa of free will 

  Put it in the hole of hope 

  Cover it with your feet well put on the earth 

  Forget about quimico 

  Take care of your happiness 

  And send your voice in prayer 

  For these 

  They will give you strength 

  Here 

  There 

  Wherever you make your field 

  Dance, sing and smoke 

  For the water 

  And this will arrive with life 

  And smiles of the little ones 

  You’ll see the sprouts 

  You’ll feel the fiery sun 

  And the challenging wind 

  But if you are one with all 

  You will be true 

  And will grow to be 

  And harvest Corn… 



 

Sending my voice to my departed elders


  You are no longer here 

  But your words 

  Dreams 

  Examples

  Manifestations of love 

  And compassion 

  Are 

  You are no longer here 

  But you continue to work 

  With the maza of life 

  With your roots of corn 

  With ajenjo medicine 

  To make all the hard to digest pass 

  You are no longer here 

  Yet, we live 

  And remember who we are 

  The spirit of the ones like you 

  Teach us how to dream now 

  You are not longer here 

  But you are not gone 

  We recognize your blessings 

  To help us walk 

  Dark skinned 

  Barefooted 

  Long haired 

  And with dignity in our hearts 

  You are not here 

  Yet, in beauty you walk 

  Through the sierras 

  Through the desert and jungles 

  And show us 

  To find light 

  With sage, tobacco and copal 

  In the dark places we have inside 

  I am you 

  And you forever will be me 

  The ones ahead Will be us 

  You are no longer here 

  But the we 

  That includes us 

  Are… 





The living-walking dignity


  This is dignidad 

  Said the grandma 

  With long silver hair 

  Callused hands 

  An iron will 

  And a coyote’s stare 

  She stated eloquently I am brown

  Like the earth under my feet 

  And that of which I am a daughter 

  My back is strong 

  From carrying a thousand sacks 

  Filled with slavery, genocide 

  Gold, iron and oil I have a wounded left knee

  It aches with pain and joy It reminds me of injustice 

  Yet, it tells me that I am bold 

  And that we all can be strong I have pierced arms 

  That can move mountains 

  And bend political wills I have an aching chest 

  That prays with song 

  My hair is long and braided It carries our story 

  Honor 

  And reminds us 

  That we are corn 

  Here 

  Our hearts are open

  Out there their ears are closed 

  Their voices are empty 

  They have lost their road Here 

  Our mouths say our own word 

  And our legs Make our own path 

  This is what the wise one say 

  And does 

  While she continues to wave 

  Her people’s history 

  At the caracol….

4 Poems

lisa — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 19:25:00 +0000



SAND PLAINS, 1848

When deer are mating:
The clatter of antlers.
Sound of the drum beating-
Log house where the family lived.
Planted maize, sunflowers, and squash.
Plum-red forest berries, wild rice.

To woo a yakon:kwe-
A woman of the Mohawk village.
Warrior playing oboe music.
Outside the well.
Circle dancing and singing.
Under the pines
girl in long buckskin dress.
Beaded tiara, fringed shawl.
Shell earrings, shell necklace.
Deerskin ankle moccasins.

"Grandmother how could you sell our land?"
The Saint Lawrence River
choked, stagnant.
My grandfather's house
behind the church.
A ron:kwe, man,
ohne:ka, water,
- dunes.
Wild sage. Apple trees.

"Who are we really?"
People of the sand plains.

Mohawk graveyard at the pinewoods.
My daughter Kateri died from smallpox.

A mother cutting off her braids 

in mourning-



MI'KMAQ VILLAGE, 1920

White ash beating time on a drum-

voice of a storyteller:

Great-grandfather, Agamok, ill and abandoned.
in fur robe, elk hide moccasins,

inside a wigwam covered with skins and bark,
across the Restigouche River.
Listuguj tribal district Gaspé.

A dirt road under the pines,

dogs killed as sign of grief,
singing and dancing:
Feast to celebrate Agamok's funeral.
Before he died.
It was the beginning of the hunting season,
semi-nomadic Mi'kmaq moving camp.
Moose, caribou, beaver, and muscrat.
With the onset of winter,
deadfalls for predators, fox and bear.
Villagers using snowshoes, sleds and toboggans.
Great-grandfather saying his final farewell.
Dying and injured left behind.

Inside Agamok's teepee:

Birch-bark box decorated with porcupine quills.
Purple glass beads. Dyed spruce roots.
His bride, Kesik, came with her fringed buckskin shawl,
the symbol of her clan.

After the wedding they lived on the Listuguj reserve.
Agamok had nine children: Five were sons.



MOJAVE DESERT, 1984

Along the edge of the desert:
Yucca tree. Salt-crusted dry lakebed.
Iguana. Rattlesnake. Coyote.
Purple cactus pear. 

Three-week family trip
across Canada, West Coast USA:
Harsh sun and wind.
Squatting Navajo selling jewellery,
birch bark baskets. Sheep wool rugs.
Woman in velvet skirt, fringed shawl.
From the window of the train, red earth.
It is not far from here: And I am on this train.
Station stop in Flagstaff:

Your gift, a clay bead necklace-
turquoise, green, aqua.
Get angry, when I undo the silver clasp.

Along the edge of a railroad track,

it is not far from here: The Grand Canyon.
Clusters of hogans mounded from vermillion clay-
Kayenta, a trading post for Hopi,
has one grocery store, a police department,
and one women's shelter.
Along the edge of the railroad track,
it is not far from here:
dune marram grass. Coral pink sand.
Crinkled, white prickly poppy. Rock hibiscus.
Nine minutes train stop-
Where several rail tracks come together:
coaches and an orange caboose.
Bleached saguaro skeletons.



THE ASIAN FLU

Along a ridge of granite, Laurentian foothills.
Two rows of houses line the gravel cul-de-sac.
Twenty arpents wooded lot.
The cottage with an iron stove and no running water.
Magyar immigrant family.

The first winter we live on rang St-François,
the farm village of Blainville,
father calls a doctor to the house. 

My two younger sisters are sick in bed.
A couple of days later, I wake up dizzy. Vomit.
I remember father stroking my forehead.
Grandmother Kisanyuka cooks hot cereal topped
with raspberry marmalade. She takes care
of everyone. In the end, she falls sick. 

A nine-year-old Native girl, Tula, dies
from the Mohawk Reserve.
At the place of a beaver dam, Mille Îles River.

Her sister is in my seventh grade class.
The Rosemère Catholic School taught by
Marguerite Bourgeoys nuns. 

Winter 1957, thirty-eight people die from the
Asian Flu pandemic, in the Province of Québec.