by Daphne Marlatt

     Note: These poems are from a series called “flights” written
     about not only my childhood in Penang (& the feeling of
     being both here in Vancouver, & there) but also my dad’s
     early years there in the 30s based on letters he wrote home to
     his mother in England.

what this body enters thick heat monsoon jetties’ harbour
mud smell deep in

                            mee and nasi fragrant concept–free
it’s coconut oil and garlic–rich and salted ikan bilis

where no one pisses now in not–so open drains exhaust
where city market’s reno stalls the heart by stainless steel
counter sinks awaiting fewer fish no durian no mangosteen
south african apple talk instead by stalls the garland boys
thread saffron mum heads swift rose petal discard
                                                                              still

the becha maker’s skill adept in shrine–lit interior steady
focus fits a silvery state–of–art new wheel to cart it’s his
own place

                          and out of ? me? whose memory’s sudden
jolt knows George Town Dispensary still and mother / Mem
slender in white cotton fresh from the Hill ordering
worm pills or calamine then off to Whiteaways or maybe
Pritchard’s ice cream table curlicues from tiered tray this
child in tow allowed to choose vanilla slice not kueh mueh
or ais kacang not then not there

this porous body’s deep Vancouver–grown  yet here
familial history steeps imperial sites Bank Chamber’s
long arcade no war amp beggars squatting in its shade by
Tuan’s office door no syce no King of Heaven shrines to
grace Edwardian pillars now British culture’s gone and yet
it’s advertised: George Town heritage restored

by Daphne Marlatt

     Note: These poems are from a series called “flights” written
     about not only my childhood in Penang (& the feeling of
     being both here in Vancouver, & there) but also my dad’s
     early years there in the 30s based on letters he wrote home to
     his mother in England.

almost downtown, certainly eastside in early morning’s transparent light
from the tip of a fir, above rooftop streetside murmur repeat mourning
or calling, collared and intimate. coo and bill, coo. COOO the where–
ARE–you dove.

in a stand of trees at the foot of a Wisconsin field with baby son in
my arms, listen, listen, the owls are calling, the only bird of poetry
Duncan said. for v–ow’l breath sings through open sounds or spirit
holes in the small chitter of everyday field creature gossip.

so I said to Cid visiting with Shizumi, come hear the owls as we walked
to that stand of trees. Cid never said or didn’t know (so urban we were)
those are wood doves calling, owls don’t flock. we talked about Lorine
who wasn’t well, they were on their way to see her on Blackhawk
Island, this poet who knew birds and water, flocks of, flecks of light.         

so how had I forgotten the doves? Malaysia’s spotted one, singing its name
terkukur from the durian tree, one in a drench of song we would wake to
liquid notes around the open verandah then . . .

but now is now, a raptor sound these collared doves emit, ghost pterosaur
staking its territory diminished scale, hissy fit, and predatory. for our time.

by Phil Hall                                                                                                                  

This year’s escape      is to the west coast

BC      Victoria      a sojourn alone      at Mile 0
the stink of the shore      & an empty fridge      like in 79

3 months      the pens I brought      are still writing
I’m surprised      they are cheap pens      grabbed in a hurry
I’ve only had to throw one out      Park Town Hotel

it’s true I’m not using them obsessively      or maybe I am
what I write      in my Chinese notebook from John’s Convenience
is mostly a record of the weather      not so great

I’m OK      sad      a friend back home is dying
I don’t have many poems to show for my time here
though it seems an achievement      this morning

to trust enough ink is left      to take on the past tense
the pens I brought     suited me      & the journey
I had 3 sisters      was married 3 times

& had 3 children      seminal / aortal / connubial
was abused      had an early hernia operation
a late circumcision      the vasectomy

was in love 7 times      no      8
my violence / was silence      to disappear      I drank
bottomed      & reappeared      contrapuntal

I undressed my mouth
at the intersection of Niagara & Government

My insides are not where I’m from originally

by Phil Hall                                                                                                                                       

After horses      trees were our horses
they grew harness–collars      around holes
where limbs had been cut      or had rotted off
thanks to bark beetles      Curculionadae

trees pulled      the long furrow
of the laid–open book      & of the part to the tresses
breath      it is all breath      down into us      & our lungs
fed leaves      the wild blue oats      of an exhale

trees stood      our lives–long      balancing
as they waited for      our gee or haw      all we had to do
was say Elm      Baobab      Hawthorn      everything
likes to hear its name      spoken      as a direction

but we thought metaphor      was only metaphor
now there is only      metaphoric air

.

It won’t go the way you paid into or planned for
you can’t have the procedural dignity you think is your due
0 there will be mishaps      velvet bungles      a wrong entrance
no groundskeeper on Sunday      a slipped rope’s whisper

what do you care anymore for vaudeville or decorum
done with all imagining      you are only a stage
being taken apart      & packed away      with its gaudy costumes
these props      they always look so heavy      but never are

passive passive passive      sing the busy stage–hands      to & fro
they are insects now      but they used to be your relatives
I says the bark beetle      I rocked her cradle      till she fell asleep
I says the spider      no one was prouder of that kid than me

I says the worm      I will teach this fallen form      again
to spell      worm      backwards

My son D’Arcy is an artist      he draws zombies
one time he took me to an art show      by a friend of his
it was in a comic store      on display were SARS masks
each painted      Manga      Kabuki      Slasher

eventually      I got the drunken phone message
he thought I was shit      he was going to sue me      for writing
these little      ruthless      guilty poems      about him
no one reads      but me      & him apparently

that was 10 years ago      I want to say
He & I      must look almost the same now      immune
in our demon –masks     inherited muzzles
but that’s a bad poem right there      we always fail

if we get too smart with metaphor
we’re better off drawing zombies

. Not shy      not red      not rare      a robin
heralds      grey & green      shell & rain      egg & worm
its song      a brief soliloquy      variates      its verities
fly home      all ye      undiagnosed cancers      in Economy

to awake      in a B & B      at dawn
Grendel      naked      alone      & simply      listen
bleached sheets      white      crisp      bleached sheets
is almost      a breakthrough      into      holiness

but it is the almost     that carries      what primitive
wholeness      there can be      close to us      as hollowness
clean sheets      a cough next door      & robin–song
here is early evidence      of a Merlin factor

by every hymn–list denied      though still at weave
in the middle–grounds       on our behalf