Tag: art

“A Guide to Bringing Me Back” – Nahomi Amberber

Tuscan_Hills
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

Witchcraft

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

“Goodnight (Again)” – Ajay Mehra

The Door of No Return_hires

I’m sad I saw you.

I’m sorry. I’m happy you’re happy. I’m happy. You’re happy.

Old pictures are magic. Memories are magic. Disneyland and imagination and the faces in your messages are magic. Everything is magic except now.

I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I came.

I met a very beautiful woman at bridge two years ago. We see each other often. I should have said.

I wanted to see you.

You walk the same. I think I do too. I saw a video of me and I knew it was me. I miss you more everyday.

You were so beautiful.

Goodnight (again).

 

these words by Ajay Mehra were inspired by the work of Shanna Strauss

“Grandma’s Hands” – Josh Elyea

Bibi_v2_hires

As I sit on the bus, I look to the lady next to me. She has severe hands, crooked fingers with hard knuckles. My grandmother had hands like that. I used to stare at them, gnarled and hooked like talons, as she tried to teach me to play the piano. She used to laugh when I’d play only the black keys, and she’d sing softly, almost at a whisper, when we’d play her favorite hymns. She had a terrific voice, my Gram—one of the all-time greats. It was a voice of contradictions, hers—polite but gravelly, blue collar but lyrical—and she had a funny way of speaking, an off-kilter cadence to her voice that was somewhere between southern drawl and Irish poet. She hated her voice, but it made for the best stories and the best Sunday mornings.

My grandma’s hands used to drop the needle on her old Crosley, and somewhere in the fog of my memory I remain a child, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, awed that such a primitive system of bumps and ridges could summon forth the soul, the smoulder of Sam Cooke with apparent ease. The needle of the record player was hypnotising, intoxicating, but there seemed to be no immediate correlation between the movements of the needle and the sound of the soul music cascading through the room. I couldn’t understand, and when I asked my grandmother why this was, she told me that you couldn’t see soul, you just had to listen for it.

 

these words by Josh Elyea were inspired by the work of Shanna Strauss

“Diaspora Blues” – Nailah King

SHANNA STRAUSS_ Hadithi Njoo_ Mixed media on wood_ 24in x 30''

“Where are you from?”

He was asked this often and the answer was always difficult. What they needed to understand was his journey didn’t start here but a place miles and miles away among lush earth and under a coral sun. Massive ships sailed to the shoreline taking whoever couldn’t escape, headed to the unknown. Those they captured cruised through seas and oceans but many died along the way.

He imagined that his ancestors made a break for it and ended up in the Caribbean. Warm shores, tropical fruit, sun, sand, but far from home.

Some of his friends talked about creating family trees on the internet, talked about their families. Uncle John is married to Auntie Lynn. They met in university in the ’80s. How nice to have an ancestry so clear and defined, despite having robbed others of the same.

He often thought about them.

It made him angry to think about a known point in his bloodline where the stories stopped. He couldn’t get stories about any time before his great-grandparents. Even those stories were limited. His parents couldn’t even remember their names.

They talked about carnival, Kadooment days of the past, in great detail. The costumes, the music and the food. Who they saw and who they danced with. They didn’t want to think about that dark history; about who before them could have been slaves.

What he knew of any place was a story. Even in Canada.

He’d never been to Whistler—or even Banff. He remembers the Rockies from a train ride they took when he was very young. His mother told him that the mountains were beautiful and breathtaking. He just remembered a flash of brown and grey rock and wanting to use the bathroom.

Sometimes, he remembers the beaches. The smell of the sea and the sound of his grandmother’s voice.

He wondered, did she think about them, his ancestors?

His friends often questioned him about his heritage. “There’s no information earlier than your great-grandparents?” they’d ask him.

Depending on his mood, sometimes he understood their incredulity. With modern technology like ancestry.ca, and 23andme, he should have been able to make inroads, progress.

Still, he didn’t want simply names. He wanted their stories.

He wanted to know what Africa was like, what life was like before lives were taken. Before histories were skewed, erased or lost.

It was good enough for them to have their meaningless anecdotes about how their uncles, aunts and whoever else got together. He wanted more.

Each year, a new patch of information came to the fore through old photographs, family connections or new stories.

Still, he wondered about them.

Who did they love, or lose? Did they know it was the last time they’d see their lands and what would happen to the generations that followed? Did they have hope they’d return?

“Dude, you totally drifted off.”

“Oh, I’m from Vancouver.

 

these words by Nailah King were inspired by the work of Shanna Strauss

“The North Star” – Shagufe Hossain

The Universe_hires

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

Lethe for Word and Colour magazine 2017

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

Sylwia Kowalczyk Chicas Blue wall

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

Sylwia Kowalczyk_Chicas_Fox

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

“Little Trophies” – Michelle Kelm

unspecified

I wanted to run to the smaller car, the older model Toyota, its front end crumpled like a paper bag. I wanted to run to the aid of the grey-haired woman who was visibly shaken but not visibly injured, hands over her mouth, unsure of whether to get out of her car or not. I wanted to ask if she was okay, had she hit her head, was she dizzy. I wanted to say don’t get up just yet, catch your breath, does anything hurt, help will be here soon. But I was worried she’d brush off my assistance. I was worried someone else would run faster, get there first, and I’d be left breathless in the middle of a wreck, everyone wondering what the hell I was doing.

I wanted to call 911 and report the accident, two cars, one pulling onto a busy street, poor visibility, a tough spot for a left turn, the other going too fast, but I was sure someone else was already calling, and I’d just clog up the line. I was sure someone started dialling as soon as the tires squealed and the glass fell like ice in a warm front. The operator would be audibly annoyed at another call about the same accident. I might be the third, fourth even. I’d hear it in their voice.

I wanted to help the old man sweep the debris from the intersection. He’d come out of the barbershop with a push broom and worked methodically in neat lines. He was used to pushing hair across linoleum, and the tiny slivers of glass on the rough concrete fought him, springing into the air like mist under a waterfall. He rested often, and I thought about offering a hand, but I didn’t know if he’d be insulted. If he would think I was suggesting him incapable of the assistance that he so freely provided. That he might scowl and shake his head at me, certain I must be too senseless to identify my own way to be useful.

I wanted to comfort the passenger from the other car, the newer model SUV. She was probably the girlfriend or wife of the driver, the tall man who was pacing, concerned only about his vehicle. The passenger, the woman, was now sitting on the curb, shocked and in tears. I wanted to acknowledge her upset, to see what she needed. I could go in the corner store I was standing in front of and buy her a bottle of water, a package of tissues, but I thought maybe she’d think that was stupid or the ambulance would arrive while I was in the store and they’d wrap her in a blanket and give her water and tissues, leaving me to walk home carrying water and tissues that I didn’t need, left to sit on my kitchen table. How many days would I stare at them for? Little trophies of my ineptitude.

 

these words by Michelle Kelm were inspired by the work of Sylwia Kowalczyk