pondering Pablo, I stretch time
at Timothy’s on Sherbourne Street,
with you making entries in your journal
this bright April Sunday morning

the time we have slips a little each day,
each moment

trees, still bare, give hope
of new bloom, new blush,
(like a teenager learning to smile)
to gravely inform us of
this new time – reminding
us of the passage of the old!

time slips by the second


Bonaventure Saptel

memories unfold and roll around on the
corner of Parliament and Bloor

people walk by the tall windows
at Timothy’s World Café, reminding
me of others from past

memories, long-forgotten, spring to life
experiences, half-hidden, step out
from behind trees covering the ravine
leading down to Rosedale Valley Road
far below

it is late morning in early April
at Parliament and Bloor, and the day is
moving faster than Sunday mornings
are supposed to


Bonaventure Saptel

I have discovered
I am a blackmailer
trying to win you
with extravagant gifts
and pronouncements

black pearls to cling
lovingly ‘round your neck

hummingbird pendants
carved by northern artists
proclaiming you to be
“bringer of joy”

long drives to exotic places
where I photograph you,
protesting at first,
then warming up to it
deliciously engaged

delicious photos
selfishly taken
to delight me
when I feel the need of you



Bonaventure Saptel

did I live in that place?
was there a time when we were joined?

in that photo in my mind
you are caught in motion
you, straining towards me,
arms outstretched,
a cypress, leaning,
waiting

did my heart ever throb
to the staircase of your laugh?

in that place we have abandoned
our children never hear
the sound of their laughter
echo up the hall

their feet never tamp
the grass down in that garden
we had planned,
where now the lilies lie,
lush in some places,
stark in others

no-one lives here now,
in this place, overrun
with hospital smells of Dettol
and creaking floorboards

“I’m sorry to have come here,”
I tell my lagging shadow

the broken sky
lets go and finally cries
down on this
long-abandoned place



Bonaventure Saptel

“that’s a Simpson’s sky,” you say,
pointing to the fluff strewn across the highway sky,
I smile and nod, concentrating on the music

we’re driving to Cornwall in the curb lane,
pointedly avoiding what’s uppermost,
halfway there from Toronto

“driving makes me think,” I think to myself
and turn up the volume on Buddha Bar III
and talking fades into the rearview mirror

black Firebird, racing stripes, eager to pass me
I hold steady – he should know how to use the passing lane!
he bobs and weaves and nips at my fender

it washes in waves over you so palpably
I feel it crash on my shoulder -
your father passed away yesterday

rolling the window down slightly, you light a cigarette
I roll down mine and light up, too
our ritual – one feeding off the other

we’re driving to Cornwall, to family,
to mother, alone now among children
“what will you say to her?” I ask you silently

we’re driving to Cornwall
towards loss, towards hope
with a black Firebird close behind

I move the wheel slightly
to avoid a can of Pepsi rolling in the lane
the rear-view mirror catches the firebird

deliberately swerve to hit it and exlode
its contents in a little puff of vapour -
highway music



bonaventure saptel

today I caught a leaf
while walking in the park
with your mother and you,
rain falling, weeks after your father
died in Cornwall.

walking through the slight drizzle,
leaves clinging to the front of my shoes,
and yours, and your mother's,
made us look like
foot-soldiers for autumn.

gusts of wind blowing up from the
sheer drops to the Don River
shook more leaves
from the arms of mothertree
which first argued them into life.

the great Niobes of maples
and sumachs and oaks, now weakened,
cling to themselves and shiver.
I resolve to maintain
the memory of their grief.

a breeze shakes loose
a few more leaves -
my hand snakes out
like a wagonmaster's whip
and catches one, to cradle

I put it in the side pocket
of my car door, little knowing
one windy day the following week
it would be gone
as intended


bonaventure Saptel

the coast
belongs to land
not sea

land consents
to share
not so much
from philanthropy
as from circumstance

the optics
are marvellous




bonaventure saptel

I have been the Buddha
heavy-lidded, bald
refusing the world
access to me

I have been the Buddha
leaning against the tree
of wisdom and duty
and all-surrounding beauty

I have been the Buddha
rejecting the body of me
rejecting the body of you
nearing the body of all

I have been the Buddha
re-entering where I left
tumbling around in a clothes-dryer
ridding myself of samsaric moisture

I have been the Buddha
bereft of kith and kin and kind
soaking my toes
in the enjoyment of nothing



Bonaventure Saptel

my joy has found comfort
in its own routine

it has a smartphone,
a tablet and an email address

mornings, it drives to work
then smiles at the computer
all day long

evenings, it returns the smile
to the freezer and goes
walking in the neighbourhood
avoiding droppings
left by reverent dogs

it stays awake nights
muttering -
it argues math and logic,
yet comes to no conclusion

it drinks heavily
at the Ferret and Firkin,
falls down insensate

it awakens at 2:30 a.m.
creates websites
for non-profit organizations,
registers email addresses
at hotmail and yahoo
just to read the spam

that joy which hummed
and gambolled inside of me
(exploring and lighting candles
in each delicious
undiscovered corner)
now hides in its cave
rocking itself

my joy is considering a name change



by bonaventure saptel

“Rice ball!” Her voice, though soft,
works its way through my haze.

“What?” I ask. “Rice ball,” she says petulantly.
“Sorry,” I say, as I envelop her small, cold hand in mine.

We walk almost every night. If she had her way,
it would be twice daily. Perhaps more.

Walking is good for me and she makes sure I go.
This means she must come with me to make sure.
“Good for your diabetes”, she says.

Cold weather makes her shiver.
Cool weather makes her shiver.
Even summer nights out walking necessitates
a long-sleeved shirt to cover her arms.

“Rice ball?” She asks.
I have been silent for longer than usual and my fingers
have loosened since the last time I rice-balled her hand.

I close my hand gently around her curled-up fist.
Squeeze once, so she knows I’m still with her.




Bonaventure Saptel

I try to write a glass of water
but end up thinking that if
I were drowning, the one
to dive in and rescue me
could only be you

I try to write the sun,
like a tanner, beating down
on my nakedness, but before
my skin embraces cancer,
you cover me with shade,
sooth my silt



Bonaventure Saptel

across the seas a whale lets loose
his mournful song in frequencies
so low he can’t be heard by ears
of either you or I

‘neath ocean waves his love responds
sends saddened sounds to calm his fears
and make him sing his odes of joy
just like in like aeons past

they ache across the great expanse
and here I lie, sing arirang
my frequencies rebounding ‘round
my cold and distant beach





bonaventure saptel

if you fed it to me
water would transfigure into wine

the raisin would burst
back into glorious grape

and the heat within me
would show all the effects

of that very volcano
which obliterated its own island

from all memory



bonaventure saptel

it was so simple
you and I
for life
together

yet now
you and I
for life
apart

simple



bonaventure saptel
8 July, 2014