idhren glîr odo: autumn I

Here’s a little bit of stream-of-consciousness poetry that just happened.  It makes no sense and is probably very pretentious and silly.  The line breaks are especially silly but I was playing with rhythm, so… Also, here’s a lovely photo that doesn’t really go along with the poem but does go along with the slightly existential feeling I have coming out of that brief writing spell.


this photo comes from this gorgeous tumblr blog that I just discovered


a stiff breeze
shuffles the leaves
(dry, frail, papery, thin)
against my

from my mug
the glass
to frost.

pen on thin
coming to terms.

of the cat
from his perch
on the arm

tick tock.
tick tock
tick tock quiet tick tock
breathe out.

on motivation (part 1)

If I don’t write this right now, perhaps I won’t write again, ever.

It’s been three months since I posted anything (and that was just a poem that I wrote earlier in the year so does it even count?) and it’s not that I haven’t had ideas or the desire to write them down–I have.  But every time I wanted to write about something in particular in the past… since the winter really… I said great, I’ll do that tomorrow.  And then never did it.  Obviously.

I was going to make a post on the last day of school in April, about the feeling of ending after five years of being in that place where I grew so much.  I was going to make a post a couple of weeks later about my insecurities and fears about becoming a teacher.  I was going to make a post in June about graduating.

I was going to make a post about Mom near her birthday–I actually wrote a lot in my journal that day and was considering just typing that up for a post.  But then time flew by, and I didn’t.  I was going to make a travel post about my trip to Halifax with my cousins and how I fell in love with Nova Scotia, but I didn’t do that either (maybe a poem, later? we’ll see).

I’ve been trying to write a post about motivation for over a month.  I’ll do a proper, full post just about that… perhaps in a few days.  Ha!

This is what I wanted to write about last weekend:
I was thinking about things Mom has missed out on (like Buffy Sainte Marie at Summerfolk in 2014), and things she would have been surprised and proud to see me doing if she were still alive today, and I thought wow, Mom would have loved the fact that I decided to join a slo pitch team this year, since she used to play in the annual slo pitch tournament back in Walters Falls when we were little.  I was at an end-of-the-year party for my team when I was thinking about this, sitting by the fire, and one of my team mates reminded me of my mom in some funny ways, and I know Mom would have gotten along well with a lot of the ladies on my team, and would have enjoyed that party immensely.  And then I realized, if Mom was still alive (and well), she wouldn’t have just been happy that I joined a team, she would have wanted to play slo pitch again too!  She could have joined with me.  That could have been something that we did together.

I didn’t, of course, write a post about that last week, while it was fresh in my mind and aching in my chest.  I did write about it in my journal, so I suppose that’s something.

Should I make a little post about Halifax now, or is it too late?  Should I pull up the things I wrote in my journal around Mom’s birthday and make that post now, two months late?  Should I go back and make that post about saying goodbye to the York University dance space, with all of the photos I took in anticipation of writing?

You know what, maybe I’ll just turn all of those things into poetry.

Then again, maybe I’ll do nothing for another three months or longer.  But we can hope.

And this, my friends, is what is known, in technical terms, as a “thought splatter”.

poetry in movement IX

Part 9 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.  This is the last one!

March 22, 2016

it’s easy to believe in magic in your mind
in your mind, there is no concept of weight
of gravity
(nothing is heavy in dreamland)

in your mind you can float, untethered
drifting through currents of slow-moving air
toes just brushing the tops of the dream-grass
and the dream-flowers

it’s easy to believe, until you open your eyes
and feel your real body, the weight of it
sinking into the floor.

but… suspension is not impossible
it may be hard to let go of that concept of heaviness
but if you do
if you let go
if you keep in your mind that dream space, that dream-grass
you can begin to believe in the magic again
and drift away,

poetry in movement VIII

Part 8 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.  This is probably the most literal of all of these reflections, so it’s not my favourite–but it’s free writing, so it is what it is!

March 15, 2016

I am a coiled spring, my hips wound tight, held
immobile with rust, and creaking.

But today is about opening, waking up
it’s not as simple as unwinding, relaxing
it’s a deep focus, a reaching thought to
eyes opening on the inside.

Change the shape:
first imagine, then build, then feel
as the rusted coil melts and lets go
the muscles breathe and float
and hips shift and jump and dance of their own accord.


That inner eye remains open, building more shapes
opening new spaces
the windows in the spine, to see outside and connect
to the cavern in the base of the skull
and the curving wind-tunnels between the ribs
and the valley spaces in the hips, unwound, open
clean, breathing, and free
free to pick up the feet, to jump and twirl
all holding forgotten
all tension lost
in abandon.

poetry in movement VII

Part 7 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.  This is one of the less poetic and more scattered reflections I wrote… trying to articulate the my own hesitation in dance and improv and how that is difficult to break out of.

March 8, 2016

tentativity, is that a word?
tentativity, activity
activity that’s… not passive, per se…
but not all there.

a slash, with tenderness
a party, with… sleepiness.

tentativity is not a word
it is a lesser activity, a quiet one
slow, swaying, apologetic

a jump, with silence
a shout, without breath
out of the air, lost in the surrounding

hemmed in, spaced out, tender, quiet, loud
for a while
a dwindling activity
like falling, slowly, to sleep.

poetry in movement VI

I missed posting one of these last weekend because I was busy moving home from university!  Maybe I’ll post another one tomorrow to make up for it.  Anyway, here’s Part 6 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.

February 23, 2016

(we gather)
we choose a place, a point, arbitrarily, independently
but still we gather in strips of sunlight
like moths to a flame

scatter and gather, scatter and gather
we are loose, we are free, we are surrounded by each other
and ourselves
so much space, within and without

little gatherings
in a bigger whole
a spacious whole, gathered in the sunlight
like so much shining, dew-spun web
flutter and scatter and float and gather
together: brushing past, leaning, lifting, learning
follow and lead, lead and follow

find the little spaces in between
where hands touch
where eyes see
where light and air and breath peek through
bending around and lighting up the points we choose
independently, arbitrarily, individually
(we gather)

poetry in movement V

Part 5 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.  This one seems to be somewhat about temperature…

February 9, 2016

today I am noticing, thinking about, feeling
temperature: the weather of the room
the cool surface of the floor
except in those places where a body has moved,
where feet and hands and backs have carried weight.

today I am noticing the warmth of palms in moments of effort
against the cool softness of fingers, gently brushing muscles into play

today I am wondering if the heat leaves a trace
a spiderweb of warm paths across the floor, telling where people have been
trailing echoes of coolness on the surface of the skin
on my shoulders

together in the space, maybe, dancing patterns of warmth and cold
left over from the living bodies that leave,
the weather in the room carrying the echoes of the dance
for just a little while longer.