LXXXIII: The End

by Matthew A. Wilkinson
(from The Crooked Trees of Hafford Saskatchewan)

The morning after the dance Susan slept in. I left her in bed and went for an early morning walk to think about John Simmonds. Petesabooty tagged along. It's warming up around here so there's an optimism in the air. At least for me.

We ended up, inevitably, at the Trees. I sat on their wooden walkway and stared out through the canopy of twisted lines into the grey-blue sky, imagining what it must've looked like for Mr. Simmonds so many years before. The contorting branches split the air like a shattered windshield. Petesabooty was sitting beside me sharing the view.

"What do you see, Pete?" I asked. "Just some trees? Or something more?" His eyes didn't seem quite as soul-less as they had before. He wore the same stupid grin all dogs are burdened with, but his careless gaze into the Trees got me seriously contemplating his perspective. His and Mr. Simmonds'. And Susan's, Clarke's, Mrs. Scurfield's; what did they see when they came out here?

The exact same thing as me. And yet not.

When I got back to the house two hours later Susan had coffee ready for me. "Your little seedling looks good," she said as I stepped through the door.

"Yeah. I'm almost becoming fond of it. Almost."

"I know. It sorta snuck up on you, didn't it?"

"Yes. It's completely absurd."

"Why?" she asked with a smirk.

I smirked back. "Don't you think it's odd?"

"I don't know, Matthew. I sorta think the Trees are wonderful."

"Wonderful? Really?"

"Yes. Frightening too sometimes, of course. But mostly wonderful."

"I think I'm beginning to, I dunno, understand that point of view," I said slowly. Susan's eyebrows lifted and she lowered her head, looking ready for a punchline to arrive. "It's just that," I stammered -growing self-conscious, "well, maybe they mean something a little different than I thought they did." I waited for Susan's reaction. She was motionless for a while. Expressionless too. Then her shoulders dropped all their tension and she stepped toward me smiling. The entire house seemed to shiver.

Social Studies

by Erika Luckert

Colour the map,
label the places,
and make sure that you stay
within the lines. Any white spaces
will result in
lost marks, so look out!

I look out
of the window, map
the playground in
my mind, and pick the place
where I'll hide at recess, calculate the space
so I'll have enough room to stay

invisible. If you would all just stay
focused, I might let you out
early... The classroom space
is small, but my map
of the world is smaller. I place
a dot for home and imagine squeezing myself in.

I colour Canada in
red, even though the instructions say
to make it pink. What kind of place
is bubblegum-coloured? You will be marked out
of ten, and your map
is due Monday. Don't forget to leave space

for a legend. I find a space
in the South Atlantic, in
the place where Africa curves and the map
looks like it was torn, like Africa wasn't allowed to stay
beside Brazil. It looks cozy out
there in the ocean, the sort of place

I'd like to go some day, a place
that's cupped between worlds, space
enough to stay without
coming in
after the bell - I could stay
so long they’d have to make me a dot on the map.


When the bell rings, I place my pencil crayons away in
my desk, in the space on the left side, but I stay
in my chair, looking out the window, a hand on my map.

Landmark

by Forrest McGregor

Trees squeeze closer
we walk silently, feeling shadows burst.
The gate and its phantom black angus are still ahead and yet,
our shoulders are the first to know it is time to turn back.
Head back up the hill, slip into our shoes.
Kick a pine cone ahead of us down the driveway.
Come back another time

Terminal Incompatibility

by Sarah Wilton

They greeted the Dodge
like one of their own
barelling down the cliffside
like fevered sea
they salt licked us madly
and their wiry hairs stood tallest to
the sun
though we towered over their hairdos
we call 'horns'
kind of like some Victorian heiress.
So full of grace and poise,
I extended one finger to touch her
brocade flank.

Tried to show him
the most beautiful place on Earth
but the sun did not
make it through his pupils,
he did not sing like the crickets
or move like the Clearwater River.

The Battle Lines are Drawn

by Richard Palm
(from God and Alcohol)

At first, we drank late at night in locked bathrooms, behind a wall of impenetrable caution. We smoked in nylon coats that never held the stench of stolen drags. We huddled by fans cribbed from old computers that pushed our fumes outside. At first. But now that I had regained the marginal trust of the dorm parents, I began abusing that trust with aplomb. We drank in the bars of the forbidden parts of town, we smoked over-sized cheap Cuban cigars on streets that the authorities used, we played the nickel-slots in the casino right next to the most popular mall in town.

My dorm was split into two floors, I had duped the authorities on my floor but those on the other floor increasingly questioned my continued good behaviour. They made their feelings known more and more, giving me looks of suspicion, probing questions, circumscribed allowances. Here we had it, adults two levels removed from biological imperatives who still lorded paternal authority over me. They suspected I was drinking, I knew they suspected, the danger was there, their glances and aspersions were justified. Christ, I hated that.

But even so, we ate our meals; smiles and cordialities. I inclined my head in prayer's repose. My Potemkin Village, my self-conscious hypocrisy.

So we reached an impasse, a detente which stood as I ended the tenth grade. I had enrolled early in AP Lang (a college-level English class) and picked up a group of books to take back to Peru to get ahead. My personal revolution, fueled by hidden cigarettes, stolen swigs of cheap liqour, and whispered blasphemies now found its heroes in my youthful misapprehensions of French existentialists, Russian radicals, and German social theorists. God, and the dorm parents who were his representatives, now had an ideological enemy.

In the Beginning

by Dave McNeil

Made from dirt,
excavated from the lake.
The first public consultations,
on the city center redevelopment
start next month
The firm’s proposal also includes
a project described Wednesday
as “unique in Canadian history.”
With a seven-story tall hill
on the north
surrounded by a park
a large storm-water recreational lake.

Poems, Out of Place

We have had some difficulty getting submissions in these first few weeks of our blog.  So now we would like to hear back from you.  We are accepting any poems about the place you call home and how it affects your daily routine, whether that be a design class, an office job, or anything.  It doesn't even have to be what would traditionally be considered poetry.  Perhaps if we get enough submissions, we can create our own notebook in the style of Chris Nieters'!

Tower of Babel

The notes take an interesting turn this week.  We can assume the "poem" on the first page was written around Christmas time.  A hand-drawn picture of the Edmonton Public Library (from 1931) is glued to the page and the poem surrounds it.

On the bottom of the second page, we have a poem entitled "Tower of Babel" written underneath notes on the history of architecture.  If we take into account the line breaks, the poem would appear as follows:

Tower of Babel

We chew on these specs, these latter-day

concepts of structure, from desks

more bored than our pencils, praying

to build a lasting mark, an eternal

summer that shall not fade when

the reality is the greatest monument

that the best of us could possibly muster

will stay erect less days than the Tower

of Babel.  It’s clear that my English

is already Greek and Hebrew to my fellow

drones when they speak of ventilation and

girders as mandated means to a clone-

worthy end that I see as brush strokes

on the skyline canvas in an art gallery

city.  How great the painting if the workers

suddenly spoke 100 different aboriginal tongues

and created an unliveable totem.  Edmonton

could breathe spontaneous art once again.

This week's call for poetry: Send us a poem inspired by one of the architectural time periods listed in the notes!

Not Good Lettering

Two pages for this week's post on which there appears to be three poems.

The call for submissions this week is Haiku inspired by the design notes on these pages.

Codes

Last week's post had some interesting formulas.  Does anyone know what they were?

Page 3 of the book once again appears to have a poem written along side some lecture notes.

The poem at the bottom:

Personal freedom restricted
by codes.
There are conventions related
to construction.
A code to enter.
A code to exit.
Codes limit
what can be done with a wall of wood.
Places are built by rules.
How wide is the portal?
Permits must be purchased,
before admission is granted.
Means of Egress,
refer to table 4.7.
Doors must swing
a certain way.
Consider the rise and run of stair.
No falls.
Consequences are severe and long-lasting.
Compliance, not creativity.
Prevent risks.
Reduce hazards.
Follow code.
Ensure safety.
All conform.



Has anyone else ever written a poem while taking notes that they want to share?

Chris Niehters

*****

Page 2 appears to have a poem in brackets on the right side:

Oh, a festering pity

strength

once I'd left

fainted room

a stricter guilty turn

I fuel fuels

confident if sit-ups

cots

an ace paper

I, at ivy, I'll baa

main canteen

a line tool, fantasies.