Woe …. I dozed off there for a bit, Anything happen while I was out?

Donald Trump is President of the United States? Holy crap.
(note to self – stay awake, Jim)

There, I’ve put on a pot of coffee. Now, down to business.

First, I put out another book of poetry. It’s called BLACKBIRD, WHITEBIRD: MANORDALE POEMS 1969-1974.

I threw a party on Nov. 11 to launch it like a boat pushed out into the dark, rolling abyss. It was a blast, a success largely thanks to cold beer, hot chili, and the cool jazz-slash-rock-slash- psychedelia sound of Valencia’s bright new band – Paisley Shades.

Given the chance to reach back to the 60’s and my time growing up in Manordale, reciting poetry with a bassist at places like Le Hibou in Ottawa, some of it written at that time … remembering old friends from Manordale … and hearing my daughter, Kaytie, share in that moment, singing with such an amazing band… was magical….. I am truly blessed….. thank you all.

Special thanks to Paisley musicians Jonathan Eastly (bass) who was nice enough to accompany me on two rambling poems – ENGAGEMENT & NEIGHBORS IN ALYMER, QUEBEC – making them both lush and green and alive …and Will Luster (guitar) for what felt like a searing version of WORK DAY from the new book. And, a special thanks also to Ryan Anderson for having provided such an amazing sound.

photo by Jay Stallings (who bought 3 books)

TRUE LOVE

by james arthur holt

shouldn’t Vince
have sent an eye and not an ear?
I mean, you can’t
listen to a painting.

—
I wrote this in Toronto Jan. 22, 1982.

True Environments

By James Arthur Holt

To be blessed,
God-given blessed days
without metaphor

clouds as clouds
sky as sky

blessed am I
blessed am I

—-
I wrote this in Toronto Dec. 30, 1981.

Passion for the world

by James Arthur Holt

I am sleeping with the world
tonight,
if you go to the washroom
we will be here
when you come back.

——
I wrote this in Toronto March 29, 1979. I took this photo at Burning Man this year. It’s of my art.

The law degree

By James Arthur Holt

All brave architects,
who lay their pale bodies down
in straight linen:

– your maths were all wrong
– your dreams, however, embroider
your loose and fading fabric

the illusion of straight lines
haunts you/astounds me.

There was never any princess.

a leopard kills a tired chimp
and the fruit grows fat above them.

—-
I wrote this in Toronto on Oct. 1, 1989.

Birches

By James Arthur Holt

So lightly buds stiffen
under rasp and tooth and bark.
The full wordy breath
of March gusting, here ….

they sway,
arc away,

The swollen promises of summer,
such furtive hands, child-like,
boundless and upstreaming
in their fumbling, falling …

Peel back the young,
taut, bone-white bark
for the salmon-pink flesh
waiting …

Under the winking, graying stone-
blue gaze of sky,
open, judgeless, unbridled …

their leaves about.

—
I wrote this in Hamilton, Ontario, Jan. 3, 1992.

A room to reap

By James Arthur Holt

Climb up to me, please …

I am a butterfly harvest of silk
scarves hanging from the ceiling …

You’ll see.

Lie down before me, please …

I am a reindeer herd of furs
piled polar and Kodak deep …

You smell their slaughter.
Ignore them

I am the only balance of nature you have to know

Let the furs move you like wheat,
let the scarves tickle you to sleep.

——
I wrote this in Toronto Aug. 15, 1979.

On writing ’89

By James Arthur Holt

The wrist bends, the man waits

penning, waving,
hesitating for no awkward
intention.

The elegance of freedom
is the boasting of its being free

Rostropovich,
Chopin/preludes,
Grosse Fuge

The wrist lilts,
bent down bones
tiny trucks of flattened cartilage
bumping to meet the paper,

knuckles strapping
on the old braces
for that abrasive art
of wrestling in and out
of armor.

—
I wrote this in Toronto on Jan. 10, 1989,

Crying for the archaeologist

By James Arthur Holt

Come look for me, slowly,

show me,
show me,
show me, slowly,
that time means nothing now.

I’m buried under rubble of the same old wars,
lost in the seconds that upset our lives,

I’m tired
of looking for the same old ships,

I make all the wrong moves,
by moving too quickly.

Come look for me, slowly,
but find me.

——-

On Sept. 30, 1974, I read my poetry at Le Hibou coffee house in Ottawa, accompanied by my friend, bassist Steve Murphy. This was one of the poems we performed, written that fall. And, yes, I was on stage wearing this robe (pictured above) …. It was the 70’s.

Ability to adapt

By James Arthur Holt

I’ve heard tails
that fish grow wings to fly;
and, I’ve heard wings
of birds that don’t fly south.

So, when I have gathered my logic
and my expedition
and drilled through the past
to find sedimentation
you will understand
the wings of my youth,
the tails of my adolescence
you will understand
why I lay on your couch
like a mineral coal deposit
and
why I speak of love as oil lamps.

—-
i wrote this in Manordale in 1973. It appears in my 2nd book of poetry, Axle My Youth, illustrated with a wood cut of a very cool sketch done by another Manordale poet, Terri Gauvreau. I love this wee drawing.