Sunday Poem

SHAKE'N BAKE BALLAD

In 100% surefire arsenic
in snowwhite lye
in lepers’ bathwater
in strychnine buttered with lead
in scrapemash off soldiers’ bootsoles
in 7 cities’ drainmalt
in snot pastry
in wolverine toad and turkey gall
and in viler things
shake’n bake their envy-schooled tongues.

In pencilpaint and braspy mulepiss
in rabid dogdrool
in long peels of oven grease
in wormpie and roachpaste
in cigarettesog of tavern urinals
in rats’ sewer water
in coffinslag and maggotmatting
in plasters of runover skunk
and in viler things
shake’n'bake their envy-schooled tongues.

In battery acid and engine goo
in egglacquered ragrot
in soapfoam and mosquito spray
in flubbery diaperslop
in stiff dishwater
in surgical mustard (morgue scraps)
in cat toad snail and tire wipe
in dead fish and ulcer ooze
and in viler things
shake’n bake their envy-schooled tongues.

Prince
push all these into a crush
and if you haven’t got a strainer handy
use the back of your pants.
And make sure there’s enough batter––
roll on pig manure––before you
shake’n bake their envy-schooled tongues.

From Mountain Tea (2003) by Peter Van Toorn

(Painting by Roland Hicks)

Samuel Menashe 1925 – 2011

Anxiety Attack

Christian Wiman writes a tough, bold, searching and at times radiant essay on the problem of anxiety.

"THERE IS A DISTINCTION to be made between the anxiety of daily existence, which we talk about endlessly, and the anxiety of existence, which we rarely mention at all. The former fritters us into dithering, distracted creatures. The latter attests to—and, if attended to, discloses—our souls. And yet it is a distinction without a difference, perhaps, and as crucial to eventually overcome as it is to initially understand, for to be truly alive means to feel one’s ultimate existence within one’s daily existence, to feel one’s trivial, frittering anxieties acquiring a lightness, a rightness, a meaning. So long as anxiety is merely something to be alleviated, it is not life, or we are not alive enough to experience it as such."

Advanced Praise for Daniel Griffin's Debut

Stopping for Strangers, Daniel Griffin's short story collection is due this Fall, under the Esplanade imprint. Griffin's story, The Last Great works of Alvin Cale, was a finalist for the Journey Prize in 2009; and he was published in Coming Attractions 08. His debut collection has garnered some high wattage advanced praise:

"This fine fine collection evokes echoes of the plain and piercing voice of Raymond Carver. These stories upended me: they are strong, surprising and full of heart. The size of the soul looms large in Daniel Griffin’s writing." — David Bergen

"Griffin’s at his best when he explores the intricacies and heartaches of family relationship and crisis. Here, in Stopping for Strangers, I believe we’re witnessing the emergence of a future master. " —Gail Dargatz Anderson

Sunday Poem

A NIGHT

when stars come up
diluted; glaze the lake
from underneath, glinting
like fish.

A sultry moon
humpbacked and sour,
fills the horizon with pale light,
a wall of vapours.

I used to be wary of
approaching a scene like this, though
not anymore. I welcome anything
that reminds me of you, the broken pieces

of moon and stars walking in the dark lake;
unstable lights quavering in diverse directions like
your tongue in my mouth, that intricate melody;

even the lucid water with its
silver scales, sliding
through my fingers
much too quickly.

From The Invisible Moon (1988) by Carle Hartsfield.

Nice Leetle Poet

Mark Abley wonders if the times have caught up with the "Tigger-bouncy rhythms" of 19th century Montreal poet William Henry Drummond.

Today almost nobody reads William Henry Drummond. In the literary world, he's close to an embarrassment. Devotees of Canadian literature prefer not to admit that Canadian literature once sounded like this: "Dere's a beeg jam up de reever, w'ere rapide is runnin' fas', / An' de' log we cut las' winter is takin' it all de room ..."

More here.

Glen Goluska 1947 – 2011

Andrew Steeves pays tribute to one of Canada’s great typographers.