The light of the heavy meadow

How can a heart be so light and heavy all at once? Like a meadow that's just been drenched by a hard fall of rain only to be followed by such radiant light.

I spoke with you tonight--we spoke to each other--and where there was dark wrought through light. We each must foray into dark places alone, grow. But somehow knowing our paths are separate yet similar is comfort to me. And knowing there is love still is at once heartwrenching and sweet, so sweet. I will stay the path forward and send what energy I can toward your own journey. I hope and I love. You are special to me, as is what we were.

Invest in loss.

Thank you for this phone call.

I love you.

tea and oranges

I give up.

I don't want to try to feel better, busy myself with new activities or go to bed early. I want to be with you.

But I have failed, we have failed, at that very thing. And there isn't any time for tea and oranges. The tea leaves are turning to brown, the oranges wither in the cold of my refrigerator.

I heard your two messages today, trying to help me through my difficult/failed herbal experience. One upbeat, the other, when you couldn't reach me, deflated. Both made me sad and I longed for you by my side once more.

Why, I continue to ask. It seems so unfair. So ridiculous. But then, I am having a difficult day today and my body feels unusually weak. I shall sleep, then.

I love you.

the anatomy of quiet spectacle

un petit mort.

I thought of you today. you reminded me of something sweet and warm, of love perhaps. such began this:

oh silent night
how not unlike death you are, your solid
figure thick like fog,
a mill or press
a containment.

we travel in paper planes
slip through love
are soft in air, so soft,
and then we land.

Pathetic little poem, but there it is nonetheless. Still, a sadness permeates. Still, a fear. But I am meditative and reflective. Am on the path toward.

my love.

On Graduating

This is for all of you who may not have had the best graduation day, like myself, and perhaps forgot to celebrate the amazing achievement of making it through a challenging university degree. Because, damnit, we should celebrate.

when you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you free yourself.

now to tackle the in-between...

Marzipan dreams

I'm off for 4 days to a cottage, kindly invited by my friend Celeste, and it couldn't have come at a better time. Thanks Celeste!

Otherwise, I'm spent.

goodbye now.

If only

you could open your eyes. Be brave. Love without fear.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rq0apHW6Ezw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dj8ZYSH3JXc&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jg_9FQk6UnA&feature=related

Dear George.

I carved our names in the wooden bridge on the mountain today. Unlike you, I want a record of our love and the realness of our relationship.

Dear George.

You have completely broken my heart.

And I haven't any more energy.



PS. The George and Wanda combination has been done before. And worked. http://www.myspace.com/452199798

You of little faith.

Overcast, or, Singing in the Rain?

Who can tell.

I fall in love with you more and more each day, as my memories are revived of our times together. I do not seek such reflections, only ponder the intricacies which ended our true love. Is it man's fear of himself that stops him in his tracks? Or perhaps it is fear of death after all. You did so strive for immortality. They say one should never retire, that it is a sure path to dying. Perhaps men fear being with one woman then, as it is an end to something, or maybe some men see it that way. It is also a glorious beginning, an enriching life to have a like companion. They do say like cures like, in homeopathy. Oh dear George, have you paid such little attention to your naturopathy lessons?

Still miss you, but the rain somehow is helping tonight. Washing away and bringing such fresh fresh air. The sunny days are the ones that seem harder somehow.

I will go to the Botanical Gardens, the place we frequented last summer and frolicked with the small foxes--comparing ourselves to each wise and concentrated gaze--and try to reclaim it my own. It will be difficult, as many memories of closeness, companionship and love are amongst those trees, herbs, and stones. But claim it I must if I am to survive. It will likely not be anytime soon, however.

I know you must be alone now to contemplate your own life path, and I am willing to let that happen without interference, although am dreadfully sad to not have found you at a place in your life where you had thought of a definitive answer to your ever burgeoning question--What is my passion? What should I do? And might I suggest, What am I always running away from?

Your Tai Chi might help you discover the answers, however, I would caution you to not rejecting a thorough look within. Therein lies your mystery and the clues. You may heal yourself through the looking glass.

When I have the strength to do it, I shall plant our tree "Alberta" on the island in a special place, and let you know where you may visit it. Might it be a symbol of our love, friendship, and determination.

I love you. It will always be.

Tough Love

I saw you yesterday coming out of the metro. We may have been in the same car, as you were ahead of me. As usual, I was wrapped in a book of no importance--simply a distraction from my longing to be back with you, as time is my greatest friend at the moment. I'm taking our separation quite hard. It was difficult to see you, and then, to speak with you. You seemed cold to me, and yet your eyes still contained a softness. It was enough to give me hope, even when your words provided little comfort of reunion. You said you'd call in a couple of days. Of course I cried into your shoulder in the metro entrance. Of course you couldn't motion to exit the place. I know you didn't know what to do. Neither did I. So awkward, after so long in sync.

Or maybe you did. When I mentioned this was tough for me, you simply told me to take it one day at a time. When I said I thought of you every day and asked if you did, your first response was to say you tried not to, but then added, of course after three years it is hard not to.

And I wonder constantly how, with such obvious love we have and such laughter, such similarities and desires, such care and friendship, how you can just cut me out of your life. I imagine that it is difficult for you, that it must be harder than losing a limb to open yourself up to someone, as we've experienced in our occasional talks time and again. Did I push you too hard? Is this my fault? How you offered such love and affection to me--even a day before the ending--such care and friendship, only to take it immediately away is incredibly painful. George Cotsomitis, I will always love you, and I know I must let you go. Only I cannot at this moment, as I have yet to believe this is real.

I only hope that one day you can let your trust be opened to someone so that you can truly love without fear and experience the joy of companionship. I really do believe that can and could happen for us. I wish you could see that too. I was ready to set aside marriage and children and wait for you to be comfortable to move in together. I only wanted to spend my life with you as my friend and my soulmate. I truly believe we are, you know. It may sound foolish, but I've only just thought of it and, well, it just fits.

I love you. So passionately and intimately--how many things I could name that I love about you, and about us. You were the most incredible person to have had in my life, however, you were also the most difficult man to communicate with and sense the real truth from. So many times we talked about the future together--why didn't you ever tell me you could never commit to one woman? Or is this merely another of your uncertain moods that took a wrong turn? That you are uncertain about your future is understandable, given you have such difficulty communicating with others, let alone yourself. I hope that you will find peace through exploration of that self. I wish you were brave enough to allow me to help you in that journey. I was fully willing.

I would beg you to take couples therapy but know you would reject that too, as you have put aside my love, my affections, my care and desire. That this is truly over, I cannot believe or want to believe. I really don't know how to manage this loss. I had so many dreams that involved you. We were so often on the same page. How will I ever trust again.

I miss you and wish you could read this, and yet the anonymity provides me the courage to write. To grieve. And I simply need to write as you will not allow me an audience.

I will walk now and let the moon speak to me, as he sees you too this night. I ask for comfort now, and reassurance that I will too find the peace I so desperately need at this time.

This all just seems so wrong, George. I long to fix it and be with you again. But you are so stubborn and lack trust in others, even in your best friend. I am so sorry for us that this is over. I wish it were not.

Love Letter part deux

Fixing my gaze to the moon, I am struck. That sliver of moon--Tolkein's "white rind of moon"--is but an indication of wholeness to come. It's lack isn't swallowed, only awaiting its time to reveal itself as complete. In this I see you. As well as myself. And I desire that day of full revelation for us both. I only hope that we two can share the experience.

I miss you terribly. But I remember your maxim of "invest in loss" which is ever present in my mind. I am slow to the full revelation of maxims, however few things have already been revealed to me. How the centre must hold. How in loss can come a soft understanding of oneself and the realities of truths/experiences.

Do you remember laughing? I suppose you laughed today, you love to do so. After three years together your laughter became easier, somehow less uncertain, as you embraced our union and companionship. If only that ease could be as unsheltered now, an ease which burned into our skin like the warm sun.

I am sad that our lovemaking can no longer continue. That you desire other women, seek something you can not find, something that we had already and perhaps you were too frightened to embrace. I am torn to imagine your lips caressing another woman's cunt. But it is all so, such things in love and loss. I shall move on because I must. Because I must have hope.

No poetry tonight. Only lack. A presence too expansive to complete with words alone. Alone.

Is it good? Is it bad?
Who can tell.

My love for you emminates still. And tomorrow I shall move toward once more.

Love Letter

To my love,

I couldn't bear to be rejected once more from your soft gaze, the hand's gentle caress against the hair I grew for you. However,

I must send you this poem. This passion and urge. A need to fulfill. Otherwise, I shall die. I just know it.

Please do not respond. Only know that I am hopeless. But only for you... otherwise, there is hope still.

A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep
in the plaza with moon of your forehead,
while through four nights I embraced
your waist, enemy of the snow.

...

To see you naked is to see the concern
of rain searching for a fragile waist,
or the feverish sea’s immense face,
not finding its own brightness.

...

Night approached us, with a full moon.
I began to cry, and you to laugh.
Your contempt was a god, and my whinings
a chain of doves and minutes.

Night left us. Crystal of pain
you wept for distant depths.
My sadness was a cluster of agonies,
over your fragile heart of sand.




Compliments all of Lorca. How I miss you. How I love you. How I do not exist in this world.

I am built like a river.

w

Life is good

I was just awarded the SSHRC for graduate study. It's such an incredible thing, the award being highly competitive, and if I can use it, it'll pay my way through life and school costs for one entire year. As a result, I'm quite in shock and reflective about my journey up to this point. I'm reminded of a little girl stalled in sand which shifted beneath her feet continually, never finding sure footing until later in life, the constant moving and series of events which shaped her already shy demeanor, turning too often to despair. But I always knew there was hope, that even when no hope was sensed, there was never 'not any hope.'

So here I am. What an incredible 4 years I've had studying waves of material from Classical civilization, ancient languages, archaeology, ancient philosophy, history, ancient prose and poetry, linguistics, modern poetics, American and Canadian poetry, literary theory, existentialist philosophy, and Canadian writing... I have learned much about the world, our histories, and even more about myself. What a breaking point is, what desire is, what doubt is... and how to persevere through incredibly difficult moments. I've also experienced pure moments of epiphany, have had incredible conversations, and have read literature that will forever have an effect on my journey through this life. Never give up.

The richness that is at our fingertips in terms of knowledge (and applied knowledge at that) is incredibly inspiring. I will continue to attend lectures and enroll in courses, spending my free time traveling, writing poetry, and tending my garden--and of course working... at something yet to be determined. There's a small yellow house with a decaying barn somewhere out there with my name on it. Not sure how I'm going to get there, but it's where I'm aiming. Somewhere near my ocean, with goats. And SSHRC will undoubtedly help me move towards that vision.

On June 7th I will be receiving my Honours Degree in Classical Literature and Languages, Major Creative Writing, with Distinction. I can hardly believe it, that I'm that same girl who left a well-paying job in Ottawa 4 years ago to pursue an education in subjects I'd never before given much thought, subjects which have changed my life incredibly and enriched my future existence on this planet. To that shy little girl who was dealt such a hard hand early on, congratulations. You did it.

MissWanda is happy to report

an A+ on my Honours thesis! Stay tuned for posting of said thesis.

A caged bird, once freed, returns to beat its wings against the glass.

Manon (opera, Massenet)

Incredible Edibles

Can I just say that my Long/Serial poetry workshop this semester rocked? Of course I can. It was different than other workshops I'd taken in the past at Concordia University as the long poem is a process. Something that needs space to breath and room to grown, reshaping voice, tone and narrative. Or at least it "felt" that way for me. I learned quite a lot about my own poetic voice this semester, thanks to the helpful suggestions of my talented and capable classmates, and to the wonderfully encouraging and detailed comments from Stephanie Bolster herself.

I may be biased, but what the hell. Thanks to one of the students, JP King (layout talent extraordinaire), we were able to compile all of our long poems into an anthology, entitled "Extended, Sequential, Serial, Lengthy, Longish, or Otherwise Self-Limiting Poems," after an essay on the Long poem by Sharon Thesen.

The book was made in a limited edition, but we are super happy with the result! And the talent, again, is superb in this collection. Perhaps someone will want to pick it up and publish it with their press...

So, to all my classmates of ENGL 429E/672B, I salute you. Bravo. I hope to see your work in the future, and to share once more with you all.

HEADLIGHT 12

Thanks to the folks at the Headlight Journal for a great launch of volume 12, and for including me as one of their chosen poet-folk. It was a pleasure to read and hear what others are working on--we even enjoyed some folk melody from Ksenija, one of the gals in my long poem class, and a lovely gal at that.

And, doesn't the book look great? Terrific cover. Thanks Larissa Andrusyshyn!

The more things change...

As "communication" increases, literacy declines. When language is slighted and abused, wounds are inflicted on our social body. As our ability to use language degenerates, we become increasingly impoverished--socially, intellectually, artistically, and morally. As concision, grace, concinnity, and elegance decline, the country grows shapeless and barbaric.

John Metcalfe, from Kicking Against the Pricks (1982)

Failure.

What now?

Sometimes the song you write is better performed by another.

The world is full of dinks.