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- Feb 22, 2011
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Dear forum members:
This manuscript is comprised of poems I wrote during the two years following a diagnosis of ulcerlative Colitis (and during a two-year Canadian Studies degree). It has appeared in print form minus the subtitle, but in very limited distribution within Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. For more information on myself and this text, please see the post below.
I'm new to this forum, so I thought posting this would be the best method of introducing myself. Please read thoughtfully and respond. Thank-you!
eating thistles
colitis poems
by Peter Gibbon
DIAGNOSIS
she thanks me for swallowing toothpaste
before we kiss
because it’s garbage day
and although fluoride
can be deadly
in small doses
it’s good for you
ii.
two pills every morning, two more before I go to bed
make my breath smell like Grandpa’s armchair right before
he stopped breathing
what I’ve learned by now:
easy answers are for cowards; prescriptions only lead to more
prescription
Eeyore song
though I am a donkey
there is mule inside of me
when I lose my tail
my sawdust body trails behind
laced with gore
from eating thistles
on my birthday
I cry
pray
while I shit,
try to keep my circulation
low
hide my pink bow,
sleep deep
in my outfit
Minority Government
Politics is the skilled use of blunt objects.
Lester B. Pearson
i.
I think too much
of what we have in common
is probably a mutual insecurity
an incapacity
for punctuation.
When you’re home, you scratch my belly
like your dog
out of esteem
(your parents like your dog).
When you are not home, I scratch
myself.
ii.
I can only imagine what
pisses you off about me
is pretty close to what
pisses me off about you.
You would think we could be civil
but given the circumstances,
I’m afraid we’re running out of time
for pragmatics. Domestically
we are tumid,
the CBC says
an election is imminent;
from the outside,
we are regarded as North America’s
prorogued parliament.
iii.
Motive tells me
what I tell you shouldn’t register.
If there is a problem
of language,
if there is a sub-text to everything, what about
what I mutter
in my sleep?
I lie:
I said I love you
when I meant to say
I trust you. My narrative
is yours.
iv.
You were the girl from the class
I was too nervous to talk in
that focused on the sexual frustration
of the Late Victorians.
Our handsome T.A.
assumed you spoke
no english. That winter:
after the equivalence of weeks in Mike’s Place,
slipping on the balcony ice
on the way back in from trying to phone,
the automated voice message says
this number is long distance
v.
In many ways
I think we are both just
vitamin D-deficient
spawn of sun kings
after all,
terrified
that our worst mistake
was our first. Our heritage:
to settle
where we cannot stay;
two complete blunderers, together
absolutely
apart.
AS IS
there is a drunk inside
getting used to me again
wanting to be a wonderful mess because
we must all reconcile how much we love a person
with who they are. I have been
not well, not consciously not eating
and drinking every night,
picturing a shade of dawn on the stumble home...
I would forget my own age
were you not here to humble me, being far younger and more smart
missing fiercely
my belly-grumble sweetheart
BROKE
the plum trees
in our backyard have tumours
limbs hanging off
the clothesline this year.
summer, cancer
chewing up
the branches, black
knots
growing out
~
raspberries,
disease. I am cleaning blood
out of the toilet.
Toronto incontinent
the sanitation workers union
leader says
the concession
is garbage. the TTC
union leader says
stop spitting on us
as you board the bus.
you are on the cusp
of nothing to say,
swirling down
~
a warm
shoulder of hair, shorn
Delilah with fake nails
an adam’s apple,
caught.
pills, June. call me
profoundly confused
two eggs,
timid boiling water
hot coffee, coughing,
ghazal / photo booth with bed head
I would spend all
our money
on Tim Horton’s
dates
to get
you back
~
Marian Engel
to Timothy Findley:
I don’t know
aboutyou
but I’minfinitely
suggestible
[sic]
and my interior voice
is very weak.
God is the man
in the bushes:
watching. all
of us, living well
beyond our means
SHEDDING
(a suite)
frame
Dad is eyeballing it all, bent over
notice
his white hair (started turning grey at my age)
is thinning at the top
I tell him, you can’t build a foundation on shimmies, Dad
he says it will settle in
floor
36¾ inches diagonally one way
35¼ the other
he is a mumbler, a straggler like me—
(said once he’d never considered marriage
until he met Mom)
traveled seven hours to be here
watch him curse, measure warped wood
roof
I am visiting home
she mends my pockets
weighs me on their electric scale
old 34 inch waists
don’t fit anymore
hide frayed boxer tops
when I amble out of the shower, pink skinned
cheeks sunken more than I thought
after a shave
caving in
windows
lunch with Big Sister
who convinces me you can be creative & successful
although you’ll complain your whole life about being treated like a professional in Canada
(in the ministry of culture, a poetry magazine cheque bounces)
can feel the early thirties bitters
setting in
doors
it is spring here, but cold
at night, William Hutt’s ghost cloaks me
the first time I came home from University,
found a picture of our old orange cat on the woodstove
having died that autumn,
my old room: the carpet
the fur stuck between my bed and floor
the space between the last shed and the fence torn down now,
some stray littered kittens
this morning I leave and the roof isn’t finished
but the doors shut
drape my arms around Dad inside,
tell him I’ll call more
beating the shit out of Robert Kroestch
(a battery in three parts)
i.
our online Prime Minister Harper (unfortunately still
off-key) bleats the Beatles
which makes it okay
for a couple shirt & ties
to belt I get high with a little help from my friends
at Mike’s Place karaoke
where I drink with my friend, who,
while on academic leave for depression & anxiety
was asked to refrain from appearing in the Department
(for propriety’s sake)
(via email). until now, assuming (in the actual)
that authority did not preclude dignity,
believing there was work of Death
to undo, not just self-preservation tactics, not just
your prerequisites
are insufficient
ii.
she accuses me
of blanket-stealing
I contend
the problem is systemic
and there would be no need for blanket-stealers
if not for comforter-hogs
iii.
I wait in the outside hall
till his little mole eyes are fixed on the opposite wall
jump, gag & force him around the marble corner
(but sure being delicate
him being fragile, being 58 years of poetry between us)
I whisper to his head, take a phenomenological approach to this, Kroestch,
gaining his shoulders, asking where your friends are now—
mostly dead I’m sure (which isn’t funny) but I’ve been told we aren’t designed to function after 60
you get old, vote conservative
develop back pain or tooth ache & get prescribed
Kroestch: you’ve done all that now,
so I’ll go, leave you one last spectacle (maybe even monument someday!)
sitting piss in the urinal, Library / Archives Canada
for some janitor or poet to discover
where desire ends
Notes:
Edited by Cameron Anstee.
The following poems have appeared previously in earlier versions in In/Words Magazine:
“SHEDDING” (9.1, Fall 2009); “DIAGNOSIS” (9.3, Winter 2010); “AS IS” (9.3, Winter 2010).
Mike’s Place (mentioned in “Minority Government.” & “beating the shit out of Robert Kroestch”) is Carleton University’s Graduate Student association-owned bar. It was named after his honourable Lester B.“Mike” Pearson, a Prime Minister who lead Canada through the minority government parliament of 1963-8 and is Canada’s only recipient of a Nobel Peace Prize (1957).
The italicized phrase in section iv. of “Minority Government” is borrowed from a letter by Joseph II (1741-1790) to his older brother in reference to Marie-Antoinette & Louis XVI’s initial difficulties conceiving offspring. Although there were rumours concerning Louis XVI’s virility, he concluded that they were both merely sexually naive.
The italicized phrase in the final section of “BROKE” is lifted from a letter by Marian Engel to Timothy Findley, dated 27 October 1982, published in Marian Engel: Life in Letters, edited by Christl Verduyn (Toronto: U of T Press, 2004).
Thank you to Jenn Huzera for finding the title for this collection.
Thank you to A.A. Milne for Winni(peg) the Pooh and Eeyore, his loyal ally.
This manuscript is comprised of poems I wrote during the two years following a diagnosis of ulcerlative Colitis (and during a two-year Canadian Studies degree). It has appeared in print form minus the subtitle, but in very limited distribution within Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. For more information on myself and this text, please see the post below.
I'm new to this forum, so I thought posting this would be the best method of introducing myself. Please read thoughtfully and respond. Thank-you!
eating thistles
colitis poems
by Peter Gibbon
DIAGNOSIS
she thanks me for swallowing toothpaste
before we kiss
the morning
all the gulls are outbecause it’s garbage day
and although fluoride
can be deadly
apparently
in small doses
it’s good for you
ii.
two pills every morning, two more before I go to bed
make my breath smell like Grandpa’s armchair right before
he stopped breathing
what I’ve learned by now:
easy answers are for cowards; prescriptions only lead to more
prescription
Eeyore song
though I am a donkey
there is mule inside of me
when I lose my tail
my sawdust body trails behind
laced with gore
from eating thistles
on my birthday
I cry
pray
while I shit,
try to keep my circulation
low
hide my pink bow,
sleep deep
in my outfit
Minority Government
Politics is the skilled use of blunt objects.
Lester B. Pearson
i.
I think too much
of what we have in common
is probably a mutual insecurity
an incapacity
for punctuation.
When you’re home, you scratch my belly
like your dog
out of esteem
(your parents like your dog).
When you are not home, I scratch
myself.
ii.
I can only imagine what
pisses you off about me
is pretty close to what
pisses me off about you.
You would think we could be civil
but given the circumstances,
I’m afraid we’re running out of time
for pragmatics. Domestically
we are tumid,
the CBC says
an election is imminent;
from the outside,
we are regarded as North America’s
prorogued parliament.
iii.
Motive tells me
what I tell you shouldn’t register.
If there is a problem
of language,
if there is a sub-text to everything, what about
what I mutter
in my sleep?
I lie:
I said I love you
when I meant to say
I trust you. My narrative
is yours.
iv.
You were the girl from the class
I was too nervous to talk in
that focused on the sexual frustration
of the Late Victorians.
Our handsome T.A.
assumed you spoke
no english. That winter:
after the equivalence of weeks in Mike’s Place,
slipping on the balcony ice
on the way back in from trying to phone,
the automated voice message says
this number is long distance
v.
In many ways
I think we are both just
vitamin D-deficient
spawn of sun kings
after all,
terrified
that our worst mistake
was our first. Our heritage:
to settle
where we cannot stay;
two complete blunderers, together
absolutely
apart.
AS IS
there is a drunk inside
getting used to me again
wanting to be a wonderful mess because
we must all reconcile how much we love a person
with who they are. I have been
not well, not consciously not eating
and drinking every night,
picturing a shade of dawn on the stumble home...
I would forget my own age
were you not here to humble me, being far younger and more smart
missing fiercely
my belly-grumble sweetheart
BROKE
the plum trees
in our backyard have tumours
limbs hanging off
the clothesline this year.
summer, cancer
chewing up
the branches, black
knots
growing out
~
raspberries,
disease. I am cleaning blood
out of the toilet.
Toronto incontinent
the sanitation workers union
leader says
the concession
is garbage. the TTC
union leader says
stop spitting on us
as you board the bus.
you are on the cusp
of nothing to say,
swirling down
~
a warm
shoulder of hair, shorn
Delilah with fake nails
an adam’s apple,
caught.
pills, June. call me
profoundly confused
two eggs,
timid boiling water
hot coffee, coughing,
ghazal / photo booth with bed head
I would spend all
our money
on Tim Horton’s
dates
to get
you back
~
Marian Engel
to Timothy Findley:
I don’t know
aboutyou
but I’minfinitely
suggestible
[sic]
and my interior voice
is very weak.
God is the man
in the bushes:
watching. all
of us, living well
beyond our means
SHEDDING
(a suite)
frame
Dad is eyeballing it all, bent over
notice
his white hair (started turning grey at my age)
is thinning at the top
I tell him, you can’t build a foundation on shimmies, Dad
he says it will settle in
floor
36¾ inches diagonally one way
35¼ the other
he is a mumbler, a straggler like me—
(said once he’d never considered marriage
until he met Mom)
traveled seven hours to be here
watch him curse, measure warped wood
roof
I am visiting home
she mends my pockets
weighs me on their electric scale
old 34 inch waists
don’t fit anymore
hide frayed boxer tops
when I amble out of the shower, pink skinned
cheeks sunken more than I thought
after a shave
caving in
windows
lunch with Big Sister
who convinces me you can be creative & successful
although you’ll complain your whole life about being treated like a professional in Canada
(in the ministry of culture, a poetry magazine cheque bounces)
can feel the early thirties bitters
setting in
doors
it is spring here, but cold
at night, William Hutt’s ghost cloaks me
the first time I came home from University,
found a picture of our old orange cat on the woodstove
having died that autumn,
my old room: the carpet
the fur stuck between my bed and floor
the space between the last shed and the fence torn down now,
some stray littered kittens
this morning I leave and the roof isn’t finished
but the doors shut
drape my arms around Dad inside,
tell him I’ll call more
Southwestern Ontario
Spring, 2009
Spring, 2009
beating the shit out of Robert Kroestch
(a battery in three parts)
i.
our online Prime Minister Harper (unfortunately still
off-key) bleats the Beatles
which makes it okay
for a couple shirt & ties
to belt I get high with a little help from my friends
at Mike’s Place karaoke
where I drink with my friend, who,
while on academic leave for depression & anxiety
was asked to refrain from appearing in the Department
(for propriety’s sake)
(via email). until now, assuming (in the actual)
that authority did not preclude dignity,
believing there was work of Death
to undo, not just self-preservation tactics, not just
your prerequisites
are insufficient
ii.
she accuses me
of blanket-stealing
I contend
the problem is systemic
and there would be no need for blanket-stealers
if not for comforter-hogs
iii.
I wait in the outside hall
till his little mole eyes are fixed on the opposite wall
jump, gag & force him around the marble corner
(but sure being delicate
him being fragile, being 58 years of poetry between us)
I whisper to his head, take a phenomenological approach to this, Kroestch,
gaining his shoulders, asking where your friends are now—
mostly dead I’m sure (which isn’t funny) but I’ve been told we aren’t designed to function after 60
you get old, vote conservative
develop back pain or tooth ache & get prescribed
Kroestch: you’ve done all that now,
so I’ll go, leave you one last spectacle (maybe even monument someday!)
sitting piss in the urinal, Library / Archives Canada
for some janitor or poet to discover
where desire ends
Notes:
Edited by Cameron Anstee.
The following poems have appeared previously in earlier versions in In/Words Magazine:
“SHEDDING” (9.1, Fall 2009); “DIAGNOSIS” (9.3, Winter 2010); “AS IS” (9.3, Winter 2010).
Mike’s Place (mentioned in “Minority Government.” & “beating the shit out of Robert Kroestch”) is Carleton University’s Graduate Student association-owned bar. It was named after his honourable Lester B.“Mike” Pearson, a Prime Minister who lead Canada through the minority government parliament of 1963-8 and is Canada’s only recipient of a Nobel Peace Prize (1957).
The italicized phrase in section iv. of “Minority Government” is borrowed from a letter by Joseph II (1741-1790) to his older brother in reference to Marie-Antoinette & Louis XVI’s initial difficulties conceiving offspring. Although there were rumours concerning Louis XVI’s virility, he concluded that they were both merely sexually naive.
The italicized phrase in the final section of “BROKE” is lifted from a letter by Marian Engel to Timothy Findley, dated 27 October 1982, published in Marian Engel: Life in Letters, edited by Christl Verduyn (Toronto: U of T Press, 2004).
Thank you to Jenn Huzera for finding the title for this collection.
Thank you to A.A. Milne for Winni(peg) the Pooh and Eeyore, his loyal ally.
