to make a river proud —
i do not have the tools for this.
river says yes, you do, child. yes
you have eyes, ears, strong hands
and a fine heart. you are my beloved
and i will always be proud of you.
there is a bridge covered in locks
some with no keys, some sealed with long-forgotten combinations
some quietly closed with ribbons, with twine
there is a cathedral owned by gargoyles
pigeons and peasants
there is a tomb covered in small stones
flower petals, metro tickets, teeth, candy, gratitude
another tomb queerly smothered in lipstick kisses
still another dares us to break on through
to the other side
i got pooped on by a bird
while gazing up at the bell tower of notre dame
there are few times in a life you get that lucky
so i took this as a great and good sign
there is an art store on blvd. edgar quinet
right beside cynthia’s house of croissants
and confiture and catacomb secrets
the five-spoked wheel of montparnasse will never be solved
there are names that will forever soothe me
raspail. vavin. les gobelins.
place de la concorde. sacre-couer.
gare du nord. austerlitz.
this place felt like home the first time i breathed
in its sexy hot metal tang, its pink-grey scaffolding,
its sour-sweet sewer pong, its metro b.o.,
its cafe au lait, its legendary light
its arrogant smirk
the louvre. d’orsee. marmattan. pompidou.
l’orangerie. champs-elysees. l’arc du triomphe.
roland garros. louis quatorze.
piaf. monet. manet. dufy.
vincent slept here, and pablo.
ernest. gertrude and alice. toulouse lautrec.
all the genius ghosts.
rue mouffetard. the latin quarter. les halles. defence.
it’s shakespeare & co., stained glass and merlot.
it’s vervaine & lemongrass soap, striped marine shirts
and blue ascots. it’s berets and bastille,
brie on a baguette, pain au chocolat
steak-frites and pickpockets and a plethora of bad smells.
and it’s love.
it’s love and romance, this city of light
this city of forever light in your heart, your essence
amour mama, not cheap display
you either love it or hate it,
this infuriating frustrating glorious
demon-angel of a city
it’s bonne mama abricots on a still-warm,
it’s slinky underwear and stilettos and a million androgynous scarves
it’s drinking wine from the bottle on your tiny front step
perfume and tulips in the tuileries
fountains and bees, creperies and gauloises
veuve-cliquot and trains and bonjour, allo, d’accord, d’accord
it’s anguish and liberte and fraternite
it’s haughty and magnifique and cold
it’s paris and it’s gorgeous
it’s paris and it’s burning
it’s a man on a street piano playing imagine
nothing to kill or die for
no religion too
imagine all the people
living life in peace
to a broken
(source: online newsalizm headlines and good ol’ yummy e-spam)
you wrote that you looking moped rental and chicago
here you have all what I found:
put down your brush
comet holds the secret to life
cup of tea the answer
why women really love wearing shoes
(what message are you sending with your shoes?)
tori spelling’s dress: sad, limp and purple
guaranteed to be the most hilarious thing you have ever seen
how long does meat keep in your fridge?
five things that should never have been pumpkin-flavoured
kim kardashian denies causing stench on airplane
discovery hints at real aliens
my septic guy told me
bad foods that are good
four steps to a better shave
five things never to put in a dishwasher
twenty-five easy party dips to make before you die
twenty-nine life hacks guaranteed to make you cry
angelina jolie is turning shiloh into a boy
dakota fanning shines in $30 dress
natalie portman pigs out on pasta
post this for one hour if you believe
in hipsterz miraclez LOLcatz mansplainin’
zombie outbreak likely to lead to collapse of civilization
unless dealt with quickly, university of ottawa students conclude
My second book, Kissing Keeps Us Afloat, was honoured with a Golden Crown Literary Society Award in the poetry category in July. I was not able to attend the awards ceremony in July in New Orleans, so this afternoon Frontenac House publishers Rose and David Scollard have invited me to crash their Quartet 2015 preview party (2 p.m., Harcourt House, Edmonton). I’ve been asked to kick off the readings with some selections from KKUA and my debut collection, White Shirt, which also won a Goldie in 2011. The event starts at 2 p.m. and will be hosted by Quartet editor Micheline Maylor.
This year’s four-pack features:
And when I say lovely, I mean fan-fucking-tastic.
kissing keeps us afloat is a sustained torrent, a laughing rush, a relentless scream/yodel of passion. This red boat has no oars as it crashes against the shores of love, breaks up on the rocks called desire.
Fearless, charismatic, funny, elegant, eloquent and frequently so horny you’d think the sky was falling before her final possible hump. Laurie MacFayden has done something wonderful in the dazzling kissing keeps us afloat.
And we love, love, love the joyous title. Around the office it won the poll for best title this spring.
This collection is a “page-turner.” You really can’t wait to hear what MacFayden is going to burn up and turn red next.
(A poetry page-turner? Blush.)
What MacFayden has done over the course of kissing keeps us afloat is to romp ribald, I mean Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Erica Jong rutting – and like those excellent writers, reach so much more of the reader than simple erotica ever could. In these poems love does not always win, passion is not always requited. That’s not the point. It is the celebrations, the joy you remember that gets you through the dark. The promise of joy that brings us to the threshold of another dawn.
All that jazz and more is in the keen, crisp kissing keeps us afloat.
That Laurie MacFayden, she’s a howler. An Allen Ginsberg howler, celebrating hope and hard love.
(Takes one to know one, methinks, MD)
Today’s book of poetry thinks MacFayden’s kissing keeps us afloat steps up and delivers big time. Love isn’t all sweetness and light, she knows everything.
You can read the full gorgeous love letter here.
(Michael Dennis, can I offer you a ride in my red boat?)
her holy hands scorch me
that effervescent grin
the laugh that went into the candle wax
those splashing eyes
her fingers a myriad of vowels, of consonants
that eclectic thing she does when she breathes me in
her winsome writing dress
introspection is where she stepped onto the bus
murmuration is where she got off
our trinity involves flannel, soft grass, omelettes
i made her mulligatawny soup for breakfast
she sang vespers for me in the bath