DAY 30: TWO #BOOKSPINEPOEMS AND A DRUM SOLO

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Day 30...where has the month gone? Once again, I'm amazed at some of the stuff I've managed to produce, and I have a whole new respect for #bookspinepoetry which, as it happens, is how I'm going to round out this month. 

I wrote a couple of poems I like and will work on (get ready, Roombas!) 

Roombas, you ask? That's what we call our little poetry group that meets about once a month. We even met via Skype when I was in Mexico. Why Roombas? Because one of us, might have been me, said they loved it when it was their turn to host as it meant the house got vacuumed (or at the very least, the room in which we meet)! 

As well as blogging daily this month, I also read a lot of really good poetry. I read Silvija, by Sandra Ridley. If There Were Roads, by Joanna Lilley. On Not Losing My Father's Ashes in the Flood, by Richard Harrison. Last night I started reading Adrienne Gruber's buoyancy control, and it's marvellous. 

Poetry titles are unsurpassed when it comes to finding #bookspinepoems. Here's what I got today, during a quick trip back home to Castlegar for an appointment. (I'm house- and pet-setting in Nelson for my son and his family while they're away for a couple of weeks). 

Drum Solo
(because why not?)

This one captures Poetry Month for me: 

An anthology #bookspinepoem thanks to editors Lynne Van Luven, Kate Braid and Sandy Shreve, David Fraser and friends, and Paul Nelson, George Stanley, Barry McKinnon and Nadine Maestas

And this one takes a hard look at the state of the world today, thanks to some politicians who think they're God and shall be nameless. 

You know who I'm talking about.

With the assistance of Lionel Kearns, bill bissett, Margaret Atwood, and George Bowering

It's a wrap! I'm going to commit to writing a little review of something every month for the rest of the year. Stay tuned!

And a heartfelt thank-you to everyone who commented on my poems this month. Whether on Facebook, Twitter, the NaPoWriMo site, or right here on my blog, I appreciated each and every one of you. You're what keeps poets going, and I think we can all agree that's a good thing!

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DAY 29: NEVER NAME ANYTHING AFTER A SUICIDAL POET

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It's the penultimate day. The penultimate poem for 2018's Poetry Month. Glo/NaPoWriMo's pulled out an interesting prompt: "Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way."

Don't you just love things that begin with "simply"? I was all over this website last night and deciding which Plath poem to riff on wasn't easy. I first read her when I was in my early twenties and thought I might turn out to be a poet. I was into the confessional poets then—Anne Sexton, Sylvia. 

I was born on her sixteenth birthday. My mother wanted to name me Sylvia but somehow I ended up as Linda. Once, I named a kitten after her using her nickname "Sivvy". My Sivvy was a sick little cat who didn't last long. She had constant diarrhea and had to be cleaned up after all the time. She wasn't a friendly cat. After she was gone I said I'd learned never to name a pet after a suicidal poet. Oh, and the name of the love of my life? Ted. Plath's story fascinated me then and continues to. This, this may be the poem for today. Let's have a look.

Never Name Anything After a Suicidal Poet

We share a birthday, Sylvia and I— 
Two Scorpios on the lookout for Hallowe'en.

My mother wanted to name me Sylvia 
But somehow I ended up as Linda.

Once, I named a kitten after her
Using her nickname, Sivvy.

My Sivvy was a sick little cat— 
Couldn't catch a rat. Threw up in a hat.

She had constant diarrhea—
Had to be cleaned up after all the time,

Bum in the sink,
Filthy as ink.

She wasn't a friendly cat. 
No lovely pussy oh pussy my love lost there.

After she was gone I swore never to name
Anything else after a suicidal poet.

And the love of my life who I took to my bed? 
Ted is his name.  Ted. Ted. 

Sivvy, the no-tail diarrhea cat, Thornhill, Ontario 1979

It being National Poetry Month, I picked up four poetry books at Otter Books in Nelson, BC last week. (Yay, independent bookstores!) Coincidentally, one of them is Sina Queyras' My Ariel. 





In honour of Plath I've grudgingly capitalized all the lines and thrown in a little bit of her signature repetitiveness at the end. And a couple of rhymes. And a couple of em-dashes,  because Plath liked to use them. And she does mention a cat in The Other. I'm just going to leave Never Name Anything After a Suicidal Poet as my Day 29 poem work-in-progress and go read some of Queyras' work. 

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DAY 28: WHAT THE WOLF THOUGHT

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Glo/NaPoWriMo: we challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard. 

Postcard? Did somebody say postcard? Thanks to the annual August Postcard Poem fest, I've got scores of postcard pix, give me a minute, ... 

What the Wolf Thought

There I was, minding my own, shaded by dappled light filtered by cedars, sound of my steps inaudible on the pine needle cushion beneath my feet, the wind carrying such delicious scents to my nose—remains of a coyote kill behind the rock I used to stand on, a rabbit's lair nearby. That same wind ruffled my coat, made my ears stand at attention, and suddenly there it was, small humankind covered in something so bright it hurt my eyes, coming towards me. In front of it was a basket made of forest things, I could smell them. We drew closer to each other, now I noticed a scent like that of a ferret just before I pounce, or a deer that shrieks as I close in. I wasn't going to hurt it. Ancient wisdom passed down from my ancestors tells me it's too skinny to make a decent meal, but I was curious about the contents of its basket. Next thing I know I, the hunter, am being stalked for the kill. I lose my rightful place in the forest. Something about its forebears, an ancient in one of those dens humankind likes. Now I'm to be executed. Everyone thinks I'm to blame. 

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DAY 27: POPPY GOES OFF-LEASH

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Glo/NaPoWriMo's prompt today is to pick a tarot card and write a poem inspired by it. Well, I'm not going to do that because it's already nine o'clock and I'm tired. This dog-walking thing twice or more a day is exhausting! Today I found out how to access the off-leash area and Poppy is already passed out. She went swimming and sniffed everything she could sniff and ran like the wind. I didn't go swimming and sniffed nothing and didn't run, but nevertheless I'm pooped, so something short and sweet will have to do.

A word on yesterday's poem. I was somewhat hesitant to post it as the subject matter is, obviously, very sensitive, and I just want to thank all of you who read it and got where I was coming from. Thank you.

Poppy Goes Off-Leash

Sunset paints low-water sand copper

dog wades in, exults in unexpected swim

even the wind can't catch her

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DAY 26: TORONTO'S IN MOURNING

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Wow, April 26th already. When I began this I was in Mexico and I wasn't at all sure I'd make it through the month. But so far, so good.

This just in from Glo/NaPoWriMo: "we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear." 

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Toronto's on my mind. 

I love that city, even though I never want to live in such a big one ever again. I lived there for eight years. I fell in love in it. My son was born there. When I left, it tore me apart. 

I love my country life now, my back to my roots, my family that's mostly here, my husband who I'd never have met had I not come back. But I still miss my Toronto friends, a couple of whom I called the second I heard, and as is the case with proper friends, even though we hadn't spoken in ages it was like no time had passed at all.

Toronto's in mourning, and so am I.

Photo by Linda Crosfield, taken during a fabulously long walk with my friend Alan in 2014

Toronto's in Mourning


She's mourning the scatter of crushed bags of groceries, 
for crackers and cheeses and chocolate and lettuce,
the citrus-fuelled scent of oranges bought 
to be peeled into segments of sweetness for lunch. 

She's mourning the bitter salt tears in the mouths 
of those left to pick up the sunglasses, take-outs, 
the backpacks, the paperbacks, iPhones and headscarves,
the briefcases, strollers, the coffees, the bikes.

She's mourning the bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers
meant to bring beauty to somebody's kitchen. 
She's mourning the silence that's broken by sirens, 
she's mourning the bystanders trying to help. 

She's mourning survivors whose lives have been shattered.
She's mourning the hand closing somebody's eyes.
She's mourning the shoes that are waiting forever
for feet that will never return. 

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DAY 25: HOW MUCH BETTER COULD YOU HAVE LIVED YOUR LIFE

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"Today," says Glo/NaPoWriMo, "we challenge you to write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself!" 

How Much Better Could You Have Lived Your Life


You smoked—nicotine, that is—at fourteen.

Your first hangover happened three years later.


How many times 

        have your wings been singed by the flames of addiction?

        have you lost/gained/lost/gained/lost/gained weight?

        have you wished you'd done things differently?



No matter what you're doing, you're distractible.



        Can't put an old head on young shoulders.

        Too soon old, too late smart.

        There are not enough aphorisms to save you.

Here I am with a deck of Aunt Nancy's smokes. I'd have used this photo had I found it first!

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DAY 24: I PROMISE MY MOTHER A POEM

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Today Glo/NaPoWriMo would have us "write an elegy that has a hopefulness to it." 

So without further ado, let's get writing!

Mom last week. I would have used a photo of her at the place referred to in the poem but poor Goldie Laptop is still trying to download some 50,000 (I know, I know) pictures so I can't access the one I'm thinking of. The poem I read her is one I wrote right here at the beginning of the month. Regarding the last line in this new poem, she's tickled pink!

I Promise My Mother a Poem


Yesterday, after I got her to put her hearing aids in,

I read a poem to my mother, 

a poem about her and me, 

the time we swam naked in the river, 

and after I was finished 

she asked if I would read it at her party,

should she be around for her hundredth 

in a couple of years.


I told her I will, and not only that, 

I'll read it at her funeral.

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DAY 23: IS ANYBODY LISTENING

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Goldie, my sweet little laptop, had to be rushed off to Emergency yesterday, so I didn't manage to post anything for National Poetry Month. After an intervention she was discharged late this afternoon. She's currently busy trying to recreate herself, but we've managed to get this far so...

I think I'll just try to play catch-up here.

Yesterday's prompt from Glo/NaPoWriMo was to write a poem based in sound. "It could incorporate overheard language" or "a song lyric" or "language from something often heard spoken aloud (a prayer, a pledge, the Girl Scout motto)".

Yesterday the unthinkable happened in Toronto. Ten people dead, people who were out walking in the spring shine, buying groceries, hurrying to appointments, doing what people do in a day. Like many of us, I'm both angry and sad.

Supertramp is one of my favourite bands, ever. When I get home (still house/pet sitting) I'll take my own photo of my own copy of this album. Meanwhile, this grainy, no doubt illegal screenshot will have to do.

Is Anybody Listening

All the world's a stage
still, there are bad actors
may we stop a minute 
appreciate what's good in the unthinkable
find heroes in places you'd least expect
pull hatred up by its bootstraps 
and still have time 
to squeeze a tear from a desolate eye
listen to a neighbour
hug a friend.

Crisis? What crisis?

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Addendum, May 15, 2018

Just realized I did post something on the 23rd, only I did it from my phone and without realizing I put it on the blog page of my Wordpress website which is only supposed to have a link to this blog. 

It looked like this:

DAY 23: WHEN COMPUTERS GO ROGUE—#bookspinepoetry

Pardon my learning curve. Apparently I can post from my phone. I’ll try not to obsess about the sans serif font I can’t seem to change.

My sweet little laptop is sickly and has to spend the night in the hospital under observation. I was going to make a thoughts and prayers comment but, but, Toronto happened and I’m just sad. And angry. And so, so worried about our planet.

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Phew! Glad I got that sorted out. I liked this #bookspinepoem, too.

As you were. Over and out.

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DAY 22: IF YOU DON'T WATCH OUT, SAID MOTHER EARTH

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Another double hitter for you today. It's Earth Day, so first, here's a #bookspinepoem to honour that, this one thanks to books by Julie Bruck, Kate Braid, and Emily Kendal Frey:

"Today," says the wonderful word maven at Glo/NaPoWriMo, "I’d like you to take one of the following statements of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens:

• The sun can’t rise in the west.

• A circle can’t have corners.

• Pigs can’t fly.

• The clock can’t strike thirteen.

• The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.

• A mouse can’t eat an elephant.

If You Don't Watch Out, Said Mother Earth


you'll see an elephant turn to jello 
as mice creep out 
from holes in the sky the stars leave 
when moved by music
of a clock striking thirteen times 
and just as the sun rises over a western hill
a pig will abandon its precarious perch
high in a kauri and soar to ground 
cornered at last as the bellowing elephant
sinks to the ground beneath its jello-y feet  
while mice tie on their tidy bibs, dig in
for what will be their final feast 
—a square meal made of madness.

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There you have it. Not sure how a New Zealand tree wound up in there, but that's Poetry Month for you. (I think I like the #bookspinepoem better). 

My trusty laptop is feeling quite unwell and has to go see the doctor tomorrow which means I may or may not get something posted over the next few days. (I'm away from home for a couple of weeks). But I'll be reading a number of your NaNoPosts! Over and out for now.

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DAY 21: WATCH ME WATCH

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Today, Glo/NaPoWriMo would have us play with the myth of Narcissus. "After reading the myth, try writing a poem that plays with the myth in some way. For example, you could imagine that imagine the water is speaking to you, the narcissus flower. Or you could write a poem in which the narcissus berates the Kardashians for stealing their neurosis. Or a poem that comments on the narcissism of our time, i.e. beauty and body obsession, etc."

Weird enough for you? Here goes...

Watch Me Watch

You want for nothing
yet feel empty, lost.
You have no clue 
how hard I work
to make you look as perfect
as you think you do.

I watch you watch me,
you with hair 
that begs a finger-comb
or at the very least, a flick.
Do your hands turn blue
in this nightfall cold?

When the sun goes down,
and my surface sheen turns black, 
you can no longer find 
yourself in me. 
You weep and moan,
how lonely that must be.

The look of consternation
on your face
when you lean in
and I allow the wind
to stir me as it does,
quite takes my breath away.

Come closer, little one,
come down to where
our lips might meet. 
In fact, come step inside.
Come in, come in—
my arms are open wide.

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DAY 18: MOTHER TIME

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Glo/NaPoWriMo's needs more time than I had to give it today. 
Drove to Nelson, which proved to be a bit of a challenge as a mudslide came down just past the Brilliant Dam this morning so traffic had to go via Pass Creek. Given the amount of snow up in the hills I expect this is just a start on interesting weather-related events. 

Nearly forgot to do a poem today! Here's another #bookspinepoem, brought to you by moms everywhere, as well as poets Joanne Arnott, Julie Bruck, Di Brandt, Evelyn Lau, David W. McFadden, Barry Dempster, Lesléa Newman, and Allen Ginsberg. 

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DAY 17: NOVEL NARRATIVE

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Today's prompt from Na/GloPoWriMo: "...write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time."

So I've been wondering what sort of #bookspinepoem I could get using fiction/non-fiction titles. Would they be very different from the poetry ones? And tonight I further wondered if I could get a #bookspinepoem to tell a family anecdote, however vaguely. 

Let's call this one Novel Narrative. Thanks to writers Terry Griggs, Shaena Lambert, Jane Rule, Bonnie Bowman, Thomas Moore and Barbara Gowdy for helping out with this one. Here's to vague! 

Novel Narrative

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DAY 16: GAMES PEOPLE PLAY AND BOOK SPINE POEMS WE FIND TO OUT THEM

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Glo/NaPoWriMo says, "write a poem that prominently features the idea of play. It could be a poem about a sport or game, a poem about people who play (or are playing a game), or even a poem in the form of the rules for a sport or game that you’ve just made up."

Well, once again I'm slacking off and found you a #bookspinepoem instead. It does examine the idea of play, though.

The poets whose books provided the playful titles for this are Susan Andrews Grace, Leslie Greentree, Margaret Atwood, David Fraser and Pat Smekal, and Elizabeth Bachinsky.

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DAY 15: GROWING SEASON

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Glo/NaPoWriMo says maybe we can "write a poem in which a villain faces an unfortunate situation, and is revealed to be human (but still evil). Perhaps this could mean the witch from Hansel & Gretel has lost her beloved cat, and is going about the neighborhood sticking up heart-wrenching “Lost Cat” signs, but still finds human children delicious. Maybe Blackbeard the Pirate is lost at sea in an open boat, remembering how much he loved his grandmother (although he will still kill the first person dumb enough to scoop him from the waves)." 

Should I pick a politician? The world has a few who might reasonably be considered villains. 

No. Not a politician. I'm picking an alleged murderer, a man charged with seven counts (so far) of first degree for killing men he met in the part of Toronto known as the gay village and putting their remains in planters (he worked in landscaping). The gay village — a place I've visited more times than I can remember, a place where kind and beautiful friends live, a place that's always treated me well. 

Detail of plaque on the Alexander Wood (1772-1844) bronze statue. Wood was a magistrate who, when a young woman reported that she'd been raped and had managed to scratch her assailant's junk in the process, insisted on examining the bits and pieces of several young men deemed to be potential perps. He also was quite wealthy and bought up a lot of what is now downtown Toronto, including the area around Church and Wellesley known as the gay village. Hence, the statue and plaque. Do read about him, it's an interesting story. You'll notice a discoloured area on the exposed right buttock. It's considered good luck to touch it. I wonder if any of the seven men who've been identified as murder victims ever touched it. I wonder if the subject of my poem did. 

Growing Season

he places the planter 

on the terrace 

tamps down soil 

that cradles so gently 

bedding plants 

whose tiny roots 

stretch and stretch 

beneath the surface 

seek shade and sustenance

settle in for the long haul

but the unrelenting ruin

of a hot Toronto summer 

proves no match 

for gentle coaxing

new growth withers

dies of exposure

no longer responsive 

to his touch

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DAY 14: YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT

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Glo/NaPoWriMo says, "Pick one (or more) of the following words, and write about what it means to dream of these things": 

Teacup  Hammer   Seagull   Ballet slipper  Shark  Wobbly table   Dentist  Rowboat

Taken in Scotland. Because boat.

You Never Know What Will Happen Next


dream seagull 

stealing bread flung out to sea           

a shark appears 

regurgitates a ballet slipper

or a dentist

— the remains too far gone 

for casual glance to know 





dream top-of-the-roller-coaster 

poised-to-plunge 

upraised hammer 

watch it begin its inexorable descent 

towards wobbly table 

that secretly wants to be kindling





dream cadence and caricature 

circle and swear — 

        dream this, and you're the next victim of loneliness

        whose name will erupt from strangers' lips

        unexpectedly, like roses in January 

        lava on a regrettably manicured lawn 





dream teacup in a rowboat

or rowboat in a teacup

and just like that you're Disneylanding with your boy  

and your friend from Montreal 

your boy fell asleep 

his head on a plate of spaghetti 

after a day of rides and Magic Kingdom magic

and a Pirates of the Caribbean blunderbuss to take home

(his first gun toy not made from Lego) 

years later, boy's grown up, 

friend's gone on to whatever happens next —

        dream this and you're secretly in love with a republican


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DAY 13: CELESTIAL SALVO

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Back to writing a new poem today with the trusty Na/GloPoWriMo prompt: Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended. For example, if you chose the phrase “A stitch in time saves nine,” you might reverse that into something like: “a broken thread; I’m late, so many lost.” 

Can you tell which phrase I used?

Celestial Salvo

Obnoxious cloud  

conflagration rises

dark spirals drill holes 

where stars gather

pin light 

on a sky 

bereft of rain

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