these words by Justin Million were inspired by the work of Nick Liefhebber
they were written at KEYBOARDS!, a live-writing poetry event in Peterborough, Ontario
Category: poetry
“A Guide to Bringing Me Back” – Nahomi Amberber
when i tell you that i can’t get out of bed today
i want you to whisper to me
in the greens and blues
of the backyard of my childhood.
i want you to speak to me of safety,
of rolling down a hill
that will always catch you at the bottom.
tell me how the leaves will come out again in march
and fall in september
and the sun will never be more than a few hours away.
please just
lie to me—
and say that i can be that happy
again.
these words by Nahomi Amberber were inspired by the work of Nick Liefhebber
“Natural Behaviours” – Ruth Daniell
On Wednesday you find a white-crowned sparrow
dead on the front step. On Thursday a halo of grey
feathers on the front lawn. You think mean thoughts
about the neighbour’s cat. On Friday you see him,
a handsome silver-coloured fellow dashing
under the wet cedars. He has no collar or bell
and he probably kills for fun. Studies report
that cats don’t only kill when hungry
and they are the number one killer of wild birds.
You have been watching the sparrows for weeks,
cheered by their haphazard foraging, their hopping,
scratch-scratching on the ground. You listened
to their thin, sweet whistle. You admired their black-
and-white heads, their pale beaks, their bodies
chubby and energetic. Wednesday’s dead bird
seemed diminished: suddenly slimmer, elegant,
none of the pleasant enthusiasm of breath and noise.
Thursday’s halo of feathers just felt unfair, obvious:
You hate that birds die. You hate that cats kill them.
But you do not hate cats. No, you hate how difficult it is
to feel good about the ways you love the world—
selectively, prejudiced towards the beautiful
and the gentle, towards the ones that remind you
least of yourself, or most. It is nesting season now
and the birds are tending quietly to their young
and you think, If they can do it, so can I.
You rub your rounding belly and you wonder.
Some conservation experts recommend all cats
be kept indoors. Yes, you think. Save the birds!
Let them all return to their carefully hidden nests.
But what do you know of feline happiness? It is
only an accident of desire that you love the birds
first and foremost, that you have spent so much time
imagining their lofty fealty to the sky, learning
their modest dedication to twig and egg and song.
It takes very little for you to feel guilty about the cats
allowed only limited natural behaviours, felt mice
and braided yarns, chicken-flavoured snacks.
When you see a cat looking out of a sun-filled window,
you do not know if you witness your own longing
or the creature’s—if you fail, as you so often do,
to forget your own feelings, to see the world
as another soul might: all that exquisite light,
that darkness, the life fluttering in the trees.
these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the work of Nick Liefhebber
new prints in the shop!
check out our new prints in the shop by khatira madhavi, nahrin youkhanna, jess goldson, nailah king, charlotte joyce kidd, and josh elyea, with the art of mairi timoney and usamah khan!
“The North Star” – Shagufe Hossain
We wake up
and walk streets
comforted
in fit-in-or-leave boxes
disillusioned into belonging
but You
my dear
were born to wage wars
simply by virtue
of your existence
on all cages with bars
made of traditions, rituals, and values
none.
You
are like the North Star
shining light on the path of the misguided
navigator
looking to find his way
back to values.
You
burn in passion
and desire
and love that conquers all
so the rest of us
can see light
head home.
So on days
when you feel lost
and losing
sight of north and south
east and west
right and wrong
remember
you are the compass
that burns brightly
in the nightly skies
to shine light
to guide home
the rest, lost
and the North Star
knows no direction
for she does not need one.
Remember my dear
you shall be your own
compass,
light,
guide,
so the rest of us
can find home.
these words by Shagufe Hossain were inspired by the work of Shanna Strauss
“An Ode to My Vibrator” – Fiona Williams
Blue may be the warmest colour, but Purple is what makes me cum.
Many have come and gone and it is only you, my love, which remains constant.
You are
my confidant—never have I known a greater intimacy
You are
my paramour—you listen to direction well and never disappoint me.
I am Thankful (to all the gods I don’t believe in) that the stars led me to you, my love.
It has been a journey of self-exploration and
You have taught me the importance of learning to love myself.
these words by Fiona Williams were inspired by the work of Sylwia Kowalczyk
“Displaced” – Jess Goldson
Golf balls
Clamour away in my stomach
Creating a burdensome, sinking feeling.
A stillness
Brings the collision of emotion to a halt.
What’s forward
But terrifying uncertainty
The impossibility of backward motion haunts me
A cry for help:
Find me
Hold me
Release me
these words by Jess Goldson were inspired by the work of Sylwia Kowalczyk
“glass” – jesslyn delia smith
i can will what
will come
in here
where
i’m some
how better
left
to breathe
what remains
of air,
where the
time stops, where
we’re left to know the
season
only by the light
this room is cold
and i am cold
but it is
mine, the
coldness too,
and though the perfect
light is warm
it’s some
thing better
left
to burn
these words by jesslyn delia smith were inspired by the work of Sylwia Kowalczyk
New Poetry: “Guðrún, blind daughter of Louhi,” by Ilona Martonfi
Old Norse folktales
depicted in the Saga of the Maiden
the blind daughter of Louhi
living in Pohjola, a forever cold land
at the North Pole,
below the North Star
region of darkness
her mother becoming pregnant
after eating a lingonberry,
giving birth to Guðrún
powerful and evil queen
weaving enchantments
ruling over Winter
the world formed
out of eggshell shards.
Betrothed to Sigfrøðr
god of the sky and storms
the ice of the seas
encircling all lands
Sielulintu, raven soul bird,
protecting fair Guðrún
from being lost
on the paths of dreams:
“The stars are there,” it said.
Tuonela the land of dead.
these words by Ilona Martonfi were inspired by the work of Daphne Boyer
“Basic Aid for Minor Scrapes,” by Finn Purcell
CW: trauma, child abuse
The end of March smells like fresh wounds.
I wake up with wasps in my lungs, thorns at my feet,
the heat bleaches through my window
and I am back there but I am not back there.
It will take ten minutes of stillness
before the threat of the sting ceases,
before I can ease the air to my lungs.
In that nervous quiet,
I remember
I forget
✢
I was born a week too soon, the only on-time I’ve ever been.
You are rushing down the hall to get this shoe and that card —
“Come on, can’t you help me here?!”
My small fingers stretch over the table, clamp around your purse strap, and I pull
until the sack lurches and thuds and spills.
You are in the doorway, noiseless and on fire,
I am on the floor, tangled in handles.
“Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck are you doing?
Look at this fucking mess! I can always count on you!”
In my uncle’s car, he is laughing. “What took you so long?”
“Well, you know this one,” you say, waving at me.
✢
I was fresh skin and tripping rocks,
wholly infant, tender and wild,
what did I know? what did I know?
✢
A shower is just a shower until a shower is
a white noise sanctuary
to drown you out, to drown me
until you become thunder
banging at a cracking door,
muffling demands, shimmying
a steak knife through the lock mechanism
to get me, to get my attention
again and again
23, I forgot.
24, I remembered.
✢
I am fourteen and I am asking why you hate me.
You are hurt, indignant, asking
“when am I so horrible to you?
when I buy you clothes? when I cook you dinner?
when I let you have friends over?”
I am fourteen and you are right
and it’s only me, ungrateful.
(I am ungrateful still
and maybe I should be better.)
and when we fight, you are saying “let me guess,
you’re going to make me the big bad wolf,
you’re going to twist me into a monster
when you’re the monster!”
so I am being quiet
and I am on the floor
and already my skull is a pulse in a spin cycle,
bleached for nine more years.
✢
A recurring nightmare started at six:
me and several others, shadows creaking,
trapped in a house we couldn’t leave.
A monster slips and slithers the halls
while I hide in low corners.
Sometimes, someone disappeared
and the courtyard statue would bleed.
Sometimes, people would visit the outside
and I would scream from the upstairs window.
They never heard.
✢
School pictures, grade four. I am ten.
You are showing me how to put on concealer
because this is what happens when I won’t stop crying.
I stop crying.
✢
One of my exes stopped coming over the day you threw a plate at her.
“I was aiming for you” you told me,
and “What’s the big deal? It’s just a plate”
so I told her the same.
✢
The ashes I have become
will carry, will scatter,
will soot all they touch.
✢
I’d been moved for months before anything came out,
before “that’s just my mother”
became “oh” and “wait” and —
Now I am mechanisms, symptoms.
Now I am “what else have I forgotten to remember? what else have I? what else?”
Some scars have exact stories,
others appear in the morning, throbbing without explanation.
✢
Do you remember the time
you and Dad removed the training wheels
and I, overexcited, took to the sidewalk,
sped up and down the street from one corner to another?
Hot July sweat tickled, stuck the hair to my neck.
Black leaves willowed against one another in the sun.
The spokes whizzed and my legs churned
until I hit the rock.
The handlebar seized, I flipped,
and you came running.
You cradled me
while I held my scraped palms to bleeding knee.
Soft, warm tears.
You rocked me back and forth, pet my hair, sang to me,
and Dad rummaged for the First Aid.
I wished I could scrape my knee every day.
If I remember you are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
will I forget the skies are grey?
✢
The end of March smells like fresh wounds,
smells like eggs cracking and butter on toast.
In the midst of the spatter, I am shivering.
My hands are not my hands.
I am the nest, the keeper of the wasps, only the container,
the bodily visceral memory
that I can’t remember,
I can’t forget.
I am crying over eggs and I don’t know why.
these words by Finn Purcell were inspired by the work of Daphne Boyer
wordandcolour 
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