Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin, A Review

Are you looking for something to read this summer? This book is not brand new but maybe you haven’t heard of it yet. I learned about, Something Borrowed on the Don’t Keep Your Day Job Podcast. (I highly recommend this podcast, which stole the motto for my life btw.) Host Cathy Heller recently interviewed author, Emily Giffin, and I knew I had to read the book.

For me, while I enjoy the heck out of them, a little chick-lit goes a long way. I like my stories darker and more domestic. The focus on youthful attraction to courtship to commitment feels icky to middle-aged me but Something Borrowed was a refreshing surprise.

Most love stories have triangles and this book has a doozy. The narrator, Rachel (why are all the twisted-sister heroines so aptly named Rachel?) is lusting after the man her best friend is about to marry. In fact, Rachel is the maid of honor. Ouch. Talk about conflict.

Giffin’s treatment of the best friend character, who is kind of a bitch but likeable anyway, is deftly handled. The two women have much to be in friction over including the suspicion that the bride-to-be has been dishonest and in competition with Rachel for their entire lives. Rachel has the typical low self-esteem of a chick-lit heroine but not obnoxiously so. The two women ring true for me. I could identify. I don’t know which one I’ve been in my life, probably both.

Emily Giffin took the risk of alienating us readers with a heroine who commits such a despicable act so early in the story. What kind of person cheats with their best friend’s fiancé? Call me a prude, but that is a big-big-no-no. On the other hand, in the heat of passion, have I done despicable things to other women behind their backs? Yes, I have, and I’m not proud of it. But I would argue, like our heroine that I couldn’t help myself. The desire I felt was stronger than all my own arguments, morals, and ethics. Call it mating instinct, call in phenylalanine, whatever it is, it’s kryptonite. Have I had it done to me? Yup. The grievous feelings of the betrayed are hiding in my heart as well.

Giffin does an amazing job describing the attraction, jealousy, and desire of our two lovebirds. It was palpable and visceral and for me it excused Rachel’s terrible behavior. I am currently putting the finishing touches on a coming-of-age story about a teenager trapped in desire and obsession. I’m also in the process of planning another book about a middle-aged woman trapped in a bad marriage and tempted out of it by a sweet-talking colleague. This topic is of endless fascination to me so it’s satisfying to read a novel that touches on the same crazed emotions but with a lighthearted and oftentimes comical perspective.

I’m looking forward to the next books in the series, in fact, I will read everything Emily Giffin writes. She’s that good. (If you’re already a fan, you’ll be happy to know she has a new book called All We Ever Wanted.)

Let me know what you think of Something Borrowed in the comments.

 

 

 

More like the Worm

Today we raked. The fallen maple leaves from last autumn, and the previous year underneath like a slick black shingle.

I raked right through a fat earthworm the girth of my baby-finger. Cut it in two with the grill of the rake. A worm can still live when cut in half, right? I seem to recall that from Grade 2 when earthworms were more plentiful, or more under discussion, or maybe I was just closer to the ground back then.

I flung the earthworm-half back toward the woodpile and wished it well. But it was still lying there, numb and unmoving when I came back for another load of leaves.

At the top of the driveway, Suze tackled the green-bin that had been tucked behind the fence all winter. Its handle is broken so I’d left it out for garbage pick-up last fall but the garbage men had ignored it. Next time, I’ll leave a note.

The green-bin was half-full of water when Suze tipped it on its side. A gush of water escaped along with a putrid smell. Five lumps of black plastic-wrapped dog shit tumbled out. Suze shrieked, jumped away, and retched into the bushes.

 

The green-bin is still on its side at the end of the driveway, and the dog shit. Maybe I’ll buy some kitty litter to dump on it, dry it up before I shovel it into a garbage bag. If it ever stops raining.

Suze has taken it personally. A dog walker’s laziness is like a slap in her face with a small black poo bag. I’m more like the worm. Stunned by the world’s indifference. Willing my own heart to beat again. Hoping to grow more limbs for escape.


 

For more stories about Suze and I, click here for your FREE digital copy of An Empty Nest: A Summer of Stories.

Sibling Day

In April, some sadist invents a new holiday called Sibling Day. Friends on Facebook post photographs of their brothers and sisters lined up in rows, Polaroids and black and whites, the old days, affection and attention.

My sisters remain silent, and I don’t possess any pictures to post. I know there is one, somewhere, of the three of us—Natalie, Suze and I lined up with Mom and Dad—but I don’t have a copy. Besides, I am painfully aware that there wasn’t much sibling love in that photo, or in our lives. My sisters were close in age but I was an alien, born several years after they were. My father thought it was funny to suggest that I was adopted, as though he doubted my paternity. Then he’d say that when I was born I looked like an ancient old relative by the name Effy Smellie. That was her actual name.

My sisters didn’t warm up to me though I revered them and tried to tag along. Suze was often downright cruel and unless she needed me for something Natalie ignored me. Until I was older and noticed other people’s families, sibling closeness was something I didn’t know existed. There was no cheery closeness among us. No loving strokes or tender murmurs. No hugs. No sisterly cuddles.  No love. Our parents didn’t model love—I never once saw them kiss—so my sisters and I didn’t learn to love, at least not by showing affection.

One time, possibly the same year the missing photo was taken—I was swimming in the lake with my cousin, Hannah. My sister Natalie was playing lifeguard—standing on the end of the dock in her flip-flops and skirted two-piece bathing suit, with a whistle hanging around her neck. Hannah and I were up to our armpits in water, our bare feet sliding around on the slimy stones on the bottom of the lake. We would have preferred to swim farther out at the sandbar but Natalie insisted we play lifeguard or swimming lessons or some bossy game of her choosing.

Natalie had a hard, round, life-saving ring tied to the end of a long yellow rope. She was swinging it back and forth, preparing to launch it toward us and then haul us back to the dock through the water.

It was a breezy summer day. The wind was blowing sideways and the lake was choppy. A seagull flew over caw-cawing. Maybe I was looking at the seagull. Or maybe I was looking through the water, scanning the bottom of the lake for those horrible green leeches that sometimes adhered to the stones. But whatever I was doing I didn’t see the heavy, round, life-saving ring sailing through the air toward me.

Thwump.

My cousin Hannah must have saved me. She must have pulled me up and out of the water and towed me to the dock.

I don’t remember that part. All I remember is waking up on my towel on the lawn with a box of pink Elephant Popcorn beside me. I remember wondering if I’d fallen asleep in the sun, and where the popcorn had come from. I remember wondering why Natalie was being so nice to me.

Scrolling through Facebook on Sibling Day is like looking at exhibits in the zoo—intriguing, amusing, but foreign and somewhat preposterous.

And then I start to cry and I cannot stop.

###

From An Empty Nest: A Summer of Stories.

 

My Teacher

In grade two, Miss Lennie handed out slips of paper. On each was written a few words. She instructed the class to write a story about the words on the slips of paper.

My slip said, “My Teacher”.

Of all the topics in the world, Miss Lennie wanted me to write about her? Was this some kind of trick?

I decided to teach Miss Lennie a lesson. Rather than tell her the truth, which she obviously expected, I wrote about her buggy green eyes, her fat knees, and her streaked hair—like a skunk’s is how I described it.

I wrote comments that were partially true, but were not compliments. I wrote, not knowing how a woman in her twenties or thirties might react to remarks about her personal appearance. How they might hurt her feelings. How they might reverberate every time she looked into the mirror for the rest of her life.

I was seven years old, and I had a pencil like a chainsaw.

I gleefully wrote the piece knowing that the last line was going to be the clincher. The last line, after all my insults and jibes, was going to be, “but everybody loves Miss Lennie, because she is so wonderful.” Which was the truth.

I knew that the last line would pardon me from all the sins I’d committed in the rest of the creative writing exercise. I smirked that it would probably be the last time Miss Lennie went fishing for a compliment from her Grade 2 class.

 

A few days later, Miss Lennie handed back our pages. She’d written in red pencil across the top of my story, “Very interesting” and given me an A. I was accustomed to A’s. But she also said, and she told my mother, that she’d like me to do the exercise again.

So I did. And this time I played it straight. This time I wrote that Miss Lennie was pretty and delightful and taught her students so well that there could never be another Grade 2 teacher as magnificent as she was.

This time I got an A+.

 

What did I learn?

I learned that I had observational powers that, with only the slightest provocation, could be summoned to record a multitude of details. I was astounded at how quickly and precisely the specifics I needed flooded into my mind when I decided to portray Miss Lennie in her worst light. On the other hand, when I was writing to an expectation, rather than my own mischievous voice, I noticed how phony and inferior the words sounded.

I learned I had the power to rebel. I had the power of words. The power of prose. The power of interpreting the observable world in my own unique way. I was a writer. I was seven years old. I was a writer with a voice.

 

 

Small Talk by Theresa Sopko, A Review

Recently I came across a charming book of poetry by a young writer named Theresa Sopko. Small Talk is her second collection of poetry.

The book is quirky, and compelling – titles are often included at the foot of poems, striking ironic tones, sometimes hitting like punch lines. Because of the inclusion of script typography, I felt almost like I was reading the poet’s sketchbook.

The subject matter may be “small talk” but the poet takes these mundane subjects, familiar experiences, and magnifies their significance. This is my favourite poem in the collection:

Like a sweater
I get snagged on some jagged
Edge and begin to unravel and that
Loose thread is
Tug     
Tug
Tugged
By some unknown weight, by the elements
And
 
What I want to do
What I try to do                       
Is to sit with it
Be alone with it, brood over it
Because I know there’s something
Just under the surface
Between my threadbare skin and
The scratchy particles of wool that is trying
Crying            
To be addressed and I want
To confront it, rock it to peace
Though
 
What I end up doing is
Playing dumb
Ignoring
Taking that loose thread and
Tucking
Tying              
Trying
To stop the unravel in its tracks
But
 
The next time I put that sweater on
My body will stretch it
The elements will reach with prickly fingers
And that thread will get caught
Again              
Because I never stitched the hole I only
Patched it

The tone of Theresa’s poems is conversational but the language is refreshing and original. She expresses the agitated ennui of the mid-twenties so well that I wish I could tell her that it all gets better and that she is “tough enough” for the writing that is to come.

Many of the poems address an invisible “you”. Throughout the book, the poet plays with the notion of dating/loving herself and I sense that the nuggets of advice and philosophical musings are messages and reminders for herself. She wrestles with living in twenty-first century America (the small talk) while her poetic soul longs to soar to higher realms. The poet is anchored in the world of school, and boyfriends, sisters, parents, coffee shops, and tattoos but writing, an overwhelming urge, is an undercurrent in many of the poems. A poem about tattoo ink could be a metaphor for the exposure the writer feels when writing and publishing confessional type work, such as poetry.

Everyone asks if I’m concerned about regretting the ink
in the years to come
I’m not
I’ve made myself a walking story
A living picture book
And even if the illustrations are not relevant to
60 year old me
They were to 23 year old me
 
They are a part of my story
And, even wrinkly, that is beautiful

 

The poet is very young, only twenty-three years old. She writes:

I find that I can’t write about the relationships most
important to me
The ones that are embedded into my bones, a part of my
every breath
 
I have yet to find the words to encompass their enormity

As a writer, I am familiar with that experience. It takes a lifetime to express a worldview created within a family. The poet is aware that something is germinating inside of her. That is exciting and lets me know that much more will come from this talented young writer.

 

 

Spinning

I have been spinning
my poor-me’s into gold
for all the days
I can recall.
And using that gold
to buy everything
that I can hold.
But there is more to spin
each night
Rumplestiltskin.

I am standing in the rain
wondering when
you’re going to show up?
Cold, and soaked,
with all this gold
in my pocket.
And I am only going to wait
another hour
or two
then you can go
and get your gold
from some other soul.

To all you fools
who didn’t buy,
my outrage is screaming
from the tallest tower,
naked and bullied
and ashamed.

There
I’ve told you,
now you know my name.

~

From Poems from the Chatterbox

photo credit FreeImages.com/Ear_Candy

Resolution

resolution

My lips shall not speak a resolution this year.
Instead they will whisper a prayer
kiss a hand
press it to my cheek.
Bereft and longing
but I cannot resolve a path –
Will not resolve a path.

I pick my way through the orchard
stepping over ancient fallen branches
and rotting fruit corpses.
The sun
sinking into the horizon
blinds me, though there is a tree in the distance
a silhouette
black and invisible
and I am pulled forward
even as it disappears.
I say to Adam,
get out of my way,
you’re blocking my view.

I am mesmerized by that tree.

I hear my beating heart
a serpent hissing
a bird in laughter.
Trust that God does not mock us.

Turn over the hand
kiss the palm
let it happen
without resolution.

 


 

from Poems from the Chatterbox

Baby Zombie

baby-zombie

 

 

 

 

 

I am trapped
can’t escape
banished to the cellar steps
examining my shoes
through my tears.

Living in this house
moving room to room
unnoticed
singing behind the curtains
floating in the bath.

I am a baby zombie
invisible
bumping into walls
while everyone
goes about their day.

How can I know
what I missed
if I never knew
it was missing?
My heart knows.

I am broken.
Need a doll doctor
to sew me up,
clean these eyes
bend back my leg

And walk out
the door
and keep on walking
til this house
is far behind.

But I am trapped
by the fear
that there is nowhere
but here.

Chew my arm off instead.

 


from Poems from the Chatterbox

Clementine

clementine

 

 

 

 

 

I peel a clementine
and contemplate the world.
My world.
Soft little peel
spongy, barely clinging to the fruit
gives way easily
like a thin chemise.
He handed me this orange
so perfect and round
absolutely quenching
sweet and bursting in my mouth.

The sky storms
winter falls
the sun obscured
by a million miles of frozen tears.
I know what I want
what my heart wants.
The lingering bitterness of citrus on my fingers.
Hungering
for more of this magnificence
this sun in the palm of my hand.

Pray for wisdom.
Fill me up.


From Poems from the Chatterbox

Yes

yes

 

 

 

 

 

I say yes
to this gift
on my knees
fumbling for words
yes
yes
yes

You want me this way,
this madly?
Then I am yours.
And I say yes
to this gift

I didn’t see to read
I couldn’t find the lock
I wouldn’t turn the key
I didn’t hear
what I could not say
it was there in my mouth,
yes.

The light pours in
the early morning
I feel a whisper
and it wakes me
my first thought is of him
your prayer on my lips
lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil.

I say yes
to this gift
this prickling quenching numbing
and humbling
gift.
I am blessed.

I say yes.


From Poems from the Chatterbox

The Apple Tree

apple-tree

Gnarled old thing
with twisted limbs
and thick grey bark.

I lean on the fence
watching
as birds fly in
disappear into the leaves
reappear
flustered,
flutter off drunkenly.

The fruit glows
dark and shining
like eyes across a room.
I wonder
for I’ve ate apples
sweet and new
but I’ve picked apples
wormy and dry.

Such a divine old tree.
Somehow so familiar.

This fence is falling down.


From Poems from the Chatterbox

Hello Winter

jack-o-lantern-hello-winterThe winter is coming
the colour falls from the trees.
Soon the boughs will be barren
outside the window.
The light goes faster,
the day is gone before I know it,
and the candles want lighting.

I carve a pumpkin,
numbing my hands
in frozen pulp.
Stabbing eye holes
and a maniacal grin.
I light the jack-o-lantern
and watch it giggle
at the darkness, flickering
and cooking
its own brain.

A scarecrow
comes to life.
He stands before me,
plaid shirt, cocked head.
Makes me follow him into friendship
with his sad stupid eyes,
fools me down
a long, long path.

While he’s sleeping.
I find the matches.
Light his shoulder,
watch it smoulder.
Watch him blacken,
curl up and, fry,
Goodbye.

Hello winter.


From Poems from the Chatterbox

Thesaurus

book-863418_640On the way to writing workshop I pass a book sitting out on a planter as though waiting for someone to take it. People do that these days; instead of keeping things forever as in olden times, they throw things away; purge, recycle, declutter. And someone, on this fine October day, decided to place a hardcover Roget’s Thesaurus, red, yellow, and black dust jacket intact, out on their planter for someone to pick up.

The collector in me wants to take it. I’ve never owned a hardcover thesaurus before, and my old yellowed paperback is barely holding together with crackled masking tape. But the lazy, sore shouldered pragmatist in me says, don’t be silly, you don’t need more to carry, and besides, you never use a physical thesaurus anymore. It’s true, now when I edit I keep thesaurus.com open on my browser.

I walk a little farther. At least I could take a picture of the thesaurus among the fall colours on the planter. I could post it on Instagram where I like to put my anonymous pictures, pictures without people. Is it sufficiently ironic to find this orphaned book on the way to writing group?
But I have already passed it. And to take a photo now means stopping and going back, aiming and shooting, and maybe someone will be watching me and I’ll feel foolish.

It’s then I remember the prayer I prayed this morning: please Universe, show me, give me a sign; am I meant to be writing?

Last Whisker

How can it be?
I strain to see
and pluck and pull –
futility –
and feel the prickly
little wire
poke through again
each week, each hour,
growing
like a menopausal weed
upon my witch’s chin.

And then
the old man, afraid and spent,
fingers frail as chicken bones,
pulled down the shades,
lost his stones,
bid goodbye,
death by poverty,
alack, alone.

And as I stroke
my soft new chin
in pleasant contemplation
I feel no more
the stubborn prick
of days of sin.
My inner whore delighted
to be free and faithful
gorges on gingerbread,
little boys,
and wild boar.witch-1461961_640

The Riding Lesson

stallion-422110_640As the car drove onto the gravelled parking area I was suddenly reminded of the Freiderich’s farm, the crunch of the driveway, the slam of car doors.

My sister would strap on a velvet hard hat and hop onto a horse for her weekly riding lesson. The other riders and horses walked slowly in a circle around the sawdust ring. The instructor, her fiery red hair loose and wavy to her shoulders in a white turtleneck, jodhpurs, and tall black boots stood in the center of the ring, a whip in her hand, giving instruction, and smoking cigarettes.

I waited with my mom behind the window. An hour, an interminable weekly hour. The farm’s owner, Mrs Freidrich, collected horses and everything in the waiting room was a precious antique rendered worthless in my opinion by the horse in its composition. There were horseshoe ashtrays and paintings of thoroughbreds, rearing Lipizzans with clocks embedded in their stomachs, but the piece that drew my attention over and over was Lady Godiva. She was solid black metal, smooth except for two raised nipples, Godiva and her mount, frozen in iron, bareback and bridleless.

I hated waiting but only sometimes did I dare venture out of the waiting room into the stable. The horses’ names were tacked above their stalls and they stood with their giant round rumps to the aisle gazing out of small dirty barred windows except for one, the stallion, Perusso. He was jet black and had a long unkempt mane. He stamped and snorted, pacing in his box stall, prison cell. If I stood on a straw bale I could look in through the bars, into the darkness, and sometimes catch Perusso’s wild white eye.

I dreaded the horses getting loose. Breaking down their tethers and galloping around inside the stable. I feared that once free their first task would be to kill all the humans.

I was trapped there too. At the riding lesson. Not that those killer horses cared but I was trapped there too.

Green Stone

lake-996634_640 green stone poem

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am hopeful.
It comes in waves.
Hopeful
you will discover
you love me.
My despair
keeps crashing
battering at the break wall
says you won’t.

But I am as hopeful
as the large sky
and blue lake
that filled my eyes
today
and the tiny green beach stone
I pocketed
on this
St. Patrick’s Day.

Casualties

Mildred 2
Mildred Crosby

At the mid-day meal, for the second day in a row, they celebrated the Armistice. Grandma had attempted, and succeeded, in baking a light and fancy Angel Food Cake. The mood in the house was joyful, even if Viola thought her cousin Ethel was acting a bit sulky and withdrawn. Viola guessed it was difficult to celebrate anything when your brother had been killed.

In the afternoon after lunch, Mildred knocked at the front door. Viola flew to open it and escorted her cousin in from the cold. But Mildred was not her usual flibbertigibbet self. She was solemn as she removed her gloves and hat and laid them on the vestibule table.

Mildred sat on the couch and waited for the family to assemble. “I’m afraid I do not have good news,” she told them. A telegram had arrived earlier that day at the Crosby home. Flight Lieutenant Edward Crosby, just twenty-five years old, had been killed.

“But the war is over!” Viola cried, looking around at the shocked and grim faces of her mother and grandparents.

Ethel folded over onto Mildred’s lap. Mildred smoothed her sister’s hair and relayed the details, as she knew them. A training accident in England, just eleven days before Armistice.

Viola felt a wave of guilt for the celebrating and joy she had felt earlier. So much death. She wondered if any of them would ever be allowed to be happy again? Her cousin, Gordon, another of Mildred and Ethel’s brothers, had been killed the same way just six months earlier. Brave soldiers, her cousins.

 

Cousin Ethel was inconsolable. She lay face down on the bed with her boots on, her pillow soggy with tears.

But it wasn’t long before Mildred had pried the truth out of her.

Ethel, Mildred’s baby sister, was, unbelievably to Viola, in the family way.

“Pregnant?” she whispered.

Mildred shook her head and bemoaned. It had been a mistake after their parents died to board Ethel out to Aunt Rose. The girl had gone wild. Ethel did not possess the self-control and reserved conduct of Viola. And Aunt Rose had not been keeping close enough track of Ethel, obviously.

Down at The Dominion Bank, a group of men, who somehow saw fit to sit this war out, had welcomed young Ethel into their quarters above the bank. Apparently, Ethel had been flouncing down there and entertaining the bankers, one in particular, upstairs in his bedroom, drinking whiskey and carrying on. Really! Viola didn’t know where Ethel had learned such shocking behaviour. Now Ethel would have to be sent away. Her life was ruined.

Mildred lamented to Viola as they left Ethel crying on her bed, “I’m running out of family.”

Viola and Ethel 2
Viola Claughton & Ethel Crosby

 

~

For a Remembrance Day post from another year please see, “Fruit Flies”.

Gluttony

Yesterday I pondered: Why is gluttony considered a sin? Or, why would God, if there is such a being, care whether I overeate? In other words, is it not God’s will for me to enjoy the edible abundance and bounty in my world? And if not, why not?

It didn’t take long for Mr Google to inform me that abusing the temple (my body) which houses my spirit is rather wilful of me. If my task on Earth is to fulfill my soul’s purpose it’s hardly a good idea to court the health risks associated with chubbiness. Being unhealthy makes me unprepared for whatever the Universe holds for me today. Okay, I get that, it’s better to be healthy in case God calls on me. But there’s more.

It turns out gluttony includes being fussy, decadent, and ungrateful. Gluttony means taking more than my share, and eating carelessly and mindlessly. It means adoring food, and it means obsessing about weight gain or weight loss, distracting me from my soul’s purpose. Uh oh.

So, I asked myself, how could I eat differently to signal to the Universe that I am willing to have  gluttony removed from me? Answer: In addition to making simple, nutritious, and smaller food choices, I could pray. People have been saying Grace or a blessing over food since the invention of the God switch. My grandparents held hands and blessed every meal they ate. I could easily add this simple gesture to my life, or so I thought.

Today, I went to a restaurant for lunch with my kids. As we waited in line for a table, I remembered that I intended to say Grace over my food. No one needed to know. I could do it as soon as I sat down so I wouldn’t forget, but my mind said, No, wait until the food is in front of you.

I ordered sensibly, even though I was hungry and my stomach cried out for french-fries and chocolate chip pancakes. I requested no home-fries with my omelette, and asked for the salad dressing on the side. But when my meal came, there was a mound of home-fries crowding the omelette, there was pink stuff on the salad, and a piece of cantaloupe garnished the plate, ew. I said nothing but when the server left the table, I muttered under my breath, “Thanks for paying attention, Girly.”

I was not grateful for the food before me. I forgot about saying Grace. I felt self-righteously annoyed. I ate the salad and the grilled tomato; I ate the piece of pineapple which travelled over a thousand miles to reach my gullet; and I ate the delicious omelette without a thought for the lobster that gave up its life for it. The only thought in my head was whether the drizzle of raspberry vinaigrette was worth more than one Weight Watchers point.

My gluttony only occurred to me after lunch. On a full stomach, I became aware of my lack of gratitude and humility, my absolute unconsciousness when presented with the unexpected. God, forgive me. And thank you. At least I noticed, eventually.

Illustration “The Fat Women” by Igor Grabar, 1904

Odd Ball

blue moon

This moon
this changing mood
am I waxing
am I waning
am I full?

These empty ovaries
twin moons
white nodules in the sea
of me
fireless
stony and silent.

My mood slithers from orbit
like a cracked egg
sliding
down my thigh
I’m moving
toward uselessness.

My mother
assures me,
the time beyond this time
eclipses
this night’s passage
these moonless days.

Last night
a shine penetrated
my sleep
and when I drew aside the curtain
to curse my neighbour
it was the moon!
Cold
and glaring
a full spot light of insomnia
burning through
my stony odd balls.

© Sandy Day 2013

Fishing

b&w fish single

I’m fishing
in a fathomless pond
reeling in six today
no seven
piscine quicksilver so easily
forgotten
dragged from depths below
I remember.
The water tranquil
mere ripples across the deep
dark green
a verdant vast pool
of whispers and secrets.
I pull them gasping
for life
breathe into them
they don’t die
dancing in the pail
spider web tails.
I write their weight
and tip it
escape
to be caught again.

At the fish & chip shop
I watch the greasy cook
smoking in the kitchen
something sizzles
the pimply limp girl says,
that’ll be fourteen ninety-five
and I believe her.

From Poems from the Chatterbox

Nouns

If I were to lose my nouns now
as many women do
what would become of my poetry?
It would blow into nothingness
a silent storm waving beyond air-tight windows.
But I am blessed.
As the hormones rearrange my brain
and life, my nouns stick to me
like magnetic poetry on the refrigerator.
I am still able to summon a fleet of words,
flutter them down onto papers
like fighter jets to air-craft carriers.
I am not bereft
of nouns
just melancholy and moony,
wishing for certain aspects of the past to return,
not many,
just some.
I am still forging on with my flotilla of nouns
feathering and peppering the words in my arsenal.
I am still bleeding, breathing, scribbling
in the heat of this aging, flashing,
summer in winter.
I am hot with the change,
sleeping long and longing for a safe hearth
a peaceful heart
comforted in the scrawny arms of my cats
candles aglow.
I’ve begun building a house out of gingerbread.

Losing You

I did not love you well enough
or deep enough.
I held back,
disdained.

And now regret
rains on me
for there are no further years
to fill with opportunities
for sunny affection
or daisy days.

I cared.
I took care.
I tended
but I did not love.

Today
I crack open and leak
from these wicked eyes
because I hate myself
for my lukewarm neutrality.
Why did I withhold?

I know the answer,
but wish not to reveal it,
for it sounds like blame,
but I was taught it.

Grief
is irresistible.
There are no fences.
It slips into my blood
like a snake into a river.
I am flooded with a gnawing gloom
a distracted inertia
a sore this and aching that.

It compounds.
Piling up
like flotsam on the shore
tamped down
like heat baked sand.

I sway
between the remorse
and the grief
of losing you.
Losing you now
to time
I can’t recover.
And to love
squandered
unredeemed.

Blooms

Pink rose in full bloom.
I am weighted down
by the beauty of the full-blown bush.

Once upon a time
I grew a rose
but snipped its buds
in their rolled and soft perfection.

I prefer the unbloomed rose
before it opens
and begins
to drop its petals.

These bushes sag,
burdened by their aging beauty
it is too much!
And too plentiful for me to look upon too long.

I wonder
of the mistress of this house,
with shiny parked Mercedes,
she is
secure enough and loved enough
she needs not
risk the thorns
shears in hand
and sweaty cotton gloves
to offer her own
unfurled heart
a clutch of roses?

And then
there are the peonies.

It sinks in today, I’ve been dumped!
I fought this sad truth for so long; made excuses for my own and his bad behaviour; dismissed the obvious as unhealthy doubt. Ha! Today I laugh. I’ve been dumped!
Yesterday I felt unloved. I envied everyone alive because I thought you were more loved than me. The one I hung my hopes on, and whose specific love I need, is gone.
I am not asking for pity. He left me; he had his reasons, and none of them was me. What is pathetic is I persisted for so long. But believe it or not, this is an improvement. I once clung to hope about an ex-boyfriend for over ten years, right through marrying Mark.
I have no time to waste. I am almost a half-century old. I have much to give and I am open to everything. I am the rose bush in full bloom, almost obscene in my aging beauty, Ha!

From Poems from the Chatterbox

Q-Tips

Because
the insides of my ears are wet
I put down my chore
and heed the Q-Tips’ call.

I must
swab out my canals
while the wax is soft,
and dry them
so the wind no longer
tingles through
cooling them.
Listen.

Some people, I’ve heard,
see their livingroom askew
and rush to dust and straighten,
vacuum and pick up.

The only whistle I hear
is soft-headed
from hundreds of perfect white soldiers
lying pom to pom
head to toe
like cotton drones
waiting to fly
into my glistening
ears.

Sexopause

Sandy Day at the beach

Have you ever had a phase in your life when, in spite of being open to a sexual relationship, your romantic universe just doesn’t collide with the universe of Mr. A&A (Attractive and Available)? I call this, Sexopause. It can last a few weeks, a few months or, as in my current case, a few years.

Sexopause can seem tiresome. Our world abounds in not-so-subtle pressure to couple up. Books, blogs, movies, advertisements, songs, all urge you, entice you, advise you, to find a screwing partner, pronto! Life can feel frustrating when, despite your best efforts, you find yourself single on Valentine’s Day. This is all perception – there’s no need for Sexopause to be tedious or exasperating. This year I celebrate Sexopause by sharing with you some of its many benefits.

1. Hairy legs in winter. No one is going to see or rub up against your legs, armpits or crotch during winter, so unless you love doing it, why shave? I rather enjoy turning into a cave woman for a few celibate months.

2. The only dirty socks and clothes lying around are your own. Ditto flatus, toothpaste dribbles, and curly hairs in the tub.

3. The remote control is where you left it. And guess who decides when the TV set goes on, when it goes off, not to mention what shows get watched or flicked through? I revel in no more televised MLB evenings, no more Hockey Nights in Canada.

4. Dick Flick Hiatus. During Sexopause, when you head out to the movie theatre it’s to settle back and lose yourself in a romantic comedy, or a drama starring some brilliant female actress or gorgeous, hunky man. One of the most enjoyable movies I’ve seen during my Sexopause is Toy Story 3. I know I would’ve missed it on the big screen had I been coupled up at the time of its release. Will you notice the absence of car chases and explosions, the “action” plots and scantily clad female love interests/male fantasies? I think not.

5. Serenity, composure, and calm. These are your states of mind when you settle into Sexopause. Conversely, when I’m in a romantic relationship my attachment mechanism (which is anxious, thanks Mom, thanks Dad) is triggered. Unless I’m feeling secure, I’m in a state of perpetual low-grade anxiety – trying to play it cool when he doesn’t call or return messages; trying to ignore his wandering eyes and new Facebook friends. On a bad day my attachment mechanism fears losing him and I have been accused of paranoid suspicion. Hmm. Serenity or fits of jealous vulnerability – which do I choose today?

6. In Sexopause, the only possibility for you to contract a STD or STI is via a toilet seat. And that aint gonna happen, sister, so case (and toilet seat) closed.

7. Self-care. As Alvy Singer put it, “Hey, don’t knock masturbation! It’s sex with someone I love.” Women’s health experts recommend sex a couple of times a week. I interpret this as a prescription for orgasms. And believe me, during Sexopause, you can be as healthy as you like.

8. Dressing for you. No one casts aspersion on your old yoga pants or the comfy torn tee you choose to sleep in. No one eyes your rear end when you pull on your somewhat snug but favourite jeans. No one says, when you wear your new sweater for the first time, “Where’d you get that?” You wear what you want, when you want.

9. No one pressures you to have sex (and I mean no one!). As much as sex can be rollicking good fun, you gotta admit, at times it’s messy, sweaty, smelly, and a bit too action-packed. Seduction is wonderful, but plain old sex when you’re too tired and lazy, well it’s one chore I’m rather glad is not on my to-do list today.

10. A reading room on your bed. On the half which used to be reserved for a snoring, 98.6°F human being, you can keep an assortment of books and reading material. Before you decide to darken your room for a night of undisturbed sleep (okay, that may be an exaggeration if, like me, you have cats or the bladder of a middle-aged woman) you can lie in bed and read as long as you like. I often pause, gaze around my bedroom and smile. I’m happy, I’m content, and like everything else in life, this too shall pass.

photo credit Roxanne McLeod

Silence


The long cold silent winter
stretches out like a thin blanket
on a loveless bed.
I trust
life is breathing –
a barely beating heart
in hidden leaves and sunken acorns
frigid bulbs.
The silence menaces me.
No birds
no dogs
no screen doors slamming.
No ribald teenage calls
at two in the morning
from the bus stop across the way.
No songs
ringing out on six strings
sung with laughter
and too much red wine.

The sun colours the sky as it rises.
The bleakness blushes
and I am reminded
this too shall pass.
The patience taught by winter
cold but not frozen
nor forgotten.

From Poems from the Chatterbox

Fruit Flies

I watch the winged
drown in the cider
trap

feel
a tinge
sorry

for their floating bodies
no longer flitting
annoying gnats
helicoptering the tomatoes
the pears
the compost bucket.

I rationalize that
their last moments were
at least
debauched
for flies.

Then I reflect on
the soldiers
drowning in mud
swatted from this planet
wilfully
so I might eat this fruit
in freedom.