CanCulture presents a series of poetry from wordsmiths with a fondness for writing pen in hand
Curated by Luis Ramirez-Liberato
There is no greater sense of angst than that which comes from a writer confronted by a blank page. The bounds of creativity, then and there, reach infinites without the obstructions that have emerged from the digital age. There are limitations in battery life, adherence to perfection through spell-checks and a litany of notifications all cluttering the writing process. In an attempt to find peace and true self-reflection, writers have remained loyal to the tried-and-true pen and paper to hone their craft.
CanCulture is delighted to present the works of authors with a love for their personal writing books and insights into the significance of that bond.
Megaphone
By Ella Silverman
terrible karaoke in a
dank bar room
glass with tequila and
a couple drips of ginger ale
we scream it raw then
live to tell the tale
you catch my plans when
they fall through
we’re in the same
shifty old place
I’m in over my own head
I hear you call me queen again
at any open mic night
I can’t help but think of you
yours is the only
voice worth listening to
Whenever I’m clicking the keys of a computer, I long for the scratch of a thin-tipped pen against a thick piece of paper. Nothing is more enticing than a crisp, blank page. Writing longhand is an age-old practice. When dealing with creative blocks, I like to write out my favourite poems—my hands mimicking the moves the poets made.
I love the look of words sprawled across an entire notebook page, filling every corner of the white space. Writing in pen means I can’t get rid of anything. It allows me to see my entire process in front of me, from beginning to end. I can hammer out fresh, new ideas while still remembering where the piece started. I feel more connected to the poem when I write by hand. Every edit is intentional; every word is sketched with great care.
tendon
By Dylan Thomson
i’ve decided that tonight
i will not rest.
nor shall i kiss
the salted brow of tomorrow,
never see the sun rise again.
this morning i arose
in the concrete kingdom
the ravaged dog,
settled in a bouquet nightmare
only a fragment of skin,
feints the idle streets.
my body has not stopped aching
since the summer ceased.
so let me live in the evening forever.
and if my eyes somehow shut,
do not let me wake.
i hope the music is loud
in the so-called “afterlife”
that the dance floor never ends
that the sea of sodden bodies,
never seems to break.
When you put pen to paper, you are relieved from the rulebook of language. It is just you and the page. Writing physically can be a daunting task, a reminder of every gap in my knowledge: everything I still have to learn, all the words missing from my vocabulary. But I try to remind myself that writing, like most mediums, is a craft, a muscle that must be exercised for it to be strengthened.
I find myself turning to my notebook when I have too many thoughts or emotions to continue to keep inside. For me, poetry is a way for me to express myself with language that I don’t use in my everyday life. All I can hope is that my work can resonate with at least one person, who perhaps themselves has difficulty finding the right words to use.
untitled
By Gray Moloy
do you like that trumpet blare?
does it live up to it all?
mumble questions, white knuckle
crossed out with uninterrupted
slow pull aways
you mean everything you say,
don’t care for push back.
I always keep some sort of notebook in my bag. I like being able to write down my thoughts whenever they come up. Usually, I’m jotting things down while commuting somewhere on the TTC — I guess that’s when my inspiration strikes best.
I feel freer on paper; I can do anything. There’s no spellcheck or dying battery; I can really do whatever comes to mind. My notebooks will always be a weird mishmash of interview notes, comics, poems and diary entries.
U6 Gerlingen
By Anna-Giselle Fe
Waiting for my voice to drop
I’ll confess to anything.
Whatever you want to know.
I’ll be the writer with the moleskin
And I’ll spend the last pages on you.
I can’t help it.
I’ll confess to anything
Tell me what you want to hear.
I could tell a good one
I could spin a sad one
I’ll confess to anything
I keep saying I know how to speak
And now there’s so many people I know how to tell the truth to
I lie wearing shoes 2 sizes small
But I’ll confess to anything
Do you want a page?
Would you like a line?
Say something again and I’ll take it down.
You won’t have to take a number.
You wouldn’t have to bother asking.
I say what I mean now, I say what I need to.
I reach the last pages like the end of a ledge.
No one’s pushing me off
I’ll be lucky if something reminds you of me
If you’re walking around sometime and something
catches your eye that makes you think
Will you tell me?
I’m not afraid of what I might have to feel
But I’m afraid I’ll be out walking next
week and want to reach for your hand
And I’ll remember all the times I didn’t
And I’ll feel my shoes are 10 sizes too big
But I’ll be lucky to be reminded
And think of you kindly
That’s something I can confess to.
I keep saying it’s a strong thing to be soft.
That it takes more to feel and not take the piss
I’m down to the last pages, last days, last bit of ink in the pen.
They’ll all run out, gone by Wednesday too.
I could write about you, write to you and not get it right.
Sometimes I feel the only thing I can do about anything is write. Sometimes it’s just more satisfying to grab whatever paper is around and pen vomit onto it. There’s a sort of urgency in writing on paper; at least there was with this poem I wrote in my journal on its last two pages in July. I wrote it on a German streetcar and had to get it down before my stop.
The promise of editing is that you don’t have to get the writing right on the first try. But I like the messiness of paper, a stream-of-consciousness that is allowed to exist as-is. In the same way handwriting is imperfect but a personal testament to the moment you wrote it down, I like this journal poem as a time capsule.
Gabriel’s Trumpet
By Zanoah Plummer
There’s no penance for the scapegoat,
He dared bask in the saltwater of the sea.
Laid out empty in the ashes,
Never wailing a guilty plea.
Crying morality for unbelievers,
Sparing compassion for the passionless.
Wading past the parted line at no one’s behest.
Drowning in waters unblessed.
No absolution for taking absolutes.
Raze fruits from the tree of life.
Who will make their nightmares mine.
Who will carry until it’s time?
Forsaken forgotten ones, left out in the sun to prune.
Saltwater down the mouth, never enough blood left to bruise.
Grasping for the shoreline, with fingers pointed to accuse.
Ridden of the devil, but will never ascend.
Nary find a sinner who will ever repent.
Writing poetry physically is cathartic. It allows me to scribble and to doodle where a mouse and keyboard cannot. When I write, my calligraphy tends to move with the wording. It gets sloppy where I am more melancholic, and sharper when I am enraged. I can feel the words flow from mind unto paper through writing, which is a sense of poetry within itself.
Writing a poem rife with Biblical themes onto paper felt especially euphoric, as it took me back to my days at Sunday school. It reminded me of filling out worksheets about the Bible, and anxiously raising my hand to share what I thought of the teachings of that week. The noise the paper made as I flipped through my sketchbook reminded me of my church’s rickety frame, and the thick scent of frankincense and myrrh.
