"manitoba" poems - Hello Poetry

I thought I heard Canadian slang from the opposite bed-side Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face. Inner space bleeding outward, deep red, a nosebleed, angled points on white of The Maple Jack. A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel. Grab your runners and toque, it's warm, but not forever and these legs are sore. Polar bears on the sweater you wore in the Fall-- Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws. Awoke and wanted warmth lacking. I thought I heard Canadian slang. I thought I heard "it'll be okay" from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling. they whisper and screams sink deep behind eyelids closing. A sentence unfinished, sinking in flesh in time sinking in snow and ice sinking in water in Summer sinking in memory. I thought I heard plans being made and shy laughter. I heard it 5 times. Didn't I? Days fade, ears dull* Walking on streets, in the cold towards her home I thought I heard laughter-- heard something like laughter-- I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water. I thought I heard laughter. I thought I heard wax melt. I thought I smelled fairness. I thought you wanting more time to bleed and blur tenses. I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring their battle cries-- --asserting their presence. I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime and late March walk along bridges. I could swear I heard something Like Canadian slang, sweet water light laughter. Something.

0

Jun 28, 2018

Jun 28, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC

kyle-kulseth

Canadian Slang

I thought I heard Canadian slang from the opposite bed-side Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face. Inner space bleeding outward, deep red, a nosebleed, angled points on white of The Maple Jack. A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel. Grab your runners and toque, it's warm, but not forever and these legs are sore. Polar bears on the sweater you wore in the Fall-- Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws. Awoke and wanted warmth lacking. I thought I heard Canadian slang. I thought I heard "it'll be okay" from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling. they whisper and screams sink deep behind eyelids closing. A sentence unfinished, sinking in flesh in time sinking in snow and ice sinking in water in Summer sinking in memory. I thought I heard plans being made and shy laughter. I heard it 5 times. Didn't I? Days fade, ears dull* Walking on streets, in the cold towards her home I thought I heard laughter-- heard something like laughter-- I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water. I thought I heard laughter. I thought I heard wax melt. I thought I smelled fairness. I thought you wanting more time to bleed and blur tenses. I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring their battle cries-- --asserting their presence. I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime and late March walk along bridges. I could swear I heard something Like Canadian slang, sweet water light laughter. Something.

57

A day recedes, I'll chase down one more night A lamed and hobbling Spring tries to outrun the tide of all the misspent months and all this wasted time The northern breeze sings cold, it sighs through tattered topsails sea of questions waits. schools of unanswered voicemails My footfalls share the sidewalks, steady, sure. Still young but glimpsing old and stumbling Walking outside soaked lungs need some new air I'm nervous and shaking fold the map, don a blank stare my days wearing on fill 'em up with a fool's words I'm saltwashed, stuck and peeling paint off my memory for now. A day's been seized-- a metered length of life Can't place a price on Fall and can't outrun the tide of these layered seasons as his time unwinds The eastern wind comes hard and shreds through mended mainsails river of answers dried so ask the waving cattails. His footfalls know the sidewalks leaking down sidestreets' asphalt tributaries Walking around A hitch in his slow gait A ghost of our town shuffles on with a fixed gaze, his days playing out, As he strides down the sidewalks his life plays a film, flashing bright on glazed eyeballs And I'm southbound, 4 p.m. driving Orange Street completely drowned-- --swore I woke up in Gimli, Manitoba January seared into my youthful memories I'm freezerburnt Autumn heat, don't leave me I'll hold your hair if you're feeling sickly, then drive back home. Autumn heat, don't leave me now. ...Autumn heat, don't leave me now.

0

May 12, 2014

May 12, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC

kyle-kulseth

Always Summer Bed & Breakfast

A day recedes, I'll chase down one more night A lamed and hobbling Spring tries to outrun the tide of all the misspent months and all this wasted time The northern breeze sings cold, it sighs through tattered topsails sea of questions waits. schools of unanswered voicemails My footfalls share the sidewalks, steady, sure. Still young but glimpsing old and stumbling Walking outside soaked lungs need some new air I'm nervous and shaking fold the map, don a blank stare my days wearing on fill 'em up with a fool's words I'm saltwashed, stuck and peeling paint off my memory for now. A day's been seized-- a metered length of life Can't place a price on Fall and can't outrun the tide of these layered seasons as his time unwinds The eastern wind comes hard and shreds through mended mainsails river of answers dried so ask the waving cattails. His footfalls know the sidewalks leaking down sidestreets' asphalt tributaries Walking around A hitch in his slow gait A ghost of our town shuffles on with a fixed gaze, his days playing out, As he strides down the sidewalks his life plays a film, flashing bright on glazed eyeballs And I'm southbound, 4 p.m. driving Orange Street completely drowned-- --swore I woke up in Gimli, Manitoba January seared into my youthful memories I'm freezerburnt Autumn heat, don't leave me I'll hold your hair if you're feeling sickly, then drive back home. Autumn heat, don't leave me now. ...Autumn heat, don't leave me now.

55

the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks. this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us. kee no wahh she spits with conviction, her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction that keeps its ugly head low to the ground in the backwater communities of rural ontario and manitoba and saskatchewan and beyond. purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat. now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel identical to the lining of my **** so ask me how many children have been stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs and i'll stop making references to my ******

0

Feb 22, 2010

Feb 22, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC

kaija-eighty

pow wow grounds

the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks. this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us. kee no wahh she spits with conviction, her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction that keeps its ugly head low to the ground in the backwater communities of rural ontario and manitoba and saskatchewan and beyond. purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat. now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel identical to the lining of my **** so ask me how many children have been stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs and i'll stop making references to my ******

23

Going on a road trip Something for my soul It's gonna take a while But, it's gonna make me whole I'm going to cross the country But, I'll start on both the coasts I've been in too many bottles Have to exorcise some ghosts Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where the dream did end Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where I'll start to mend Greyhound bus out of the east From the Maritimes my son I'll venture through Quebec as well This is journey number one I'll stop and meet the people Get their stories, of the man I'll find the ones who met him Try to learn just what I can Adversity, I've had my share Always tried self medication Now, I need to find myself This will take some dedication I'll head on through Ontario On the Trans Canada Highway route And I'll try lose my demons Give my devils all the boot Brick by brick I'll bring down the walls That over years I've built Bricks made up of hate and rage by love, and fear and guilt From the west, I'll make my way Do the highway he could not Through the rocky mountains Every mile is hard fought I'll learn about the person Who he was and who I am I'll come through the fire stronger I'll be a much better man I will bus across the prairies Through the Manitoba cold I will focus on my endgame I'll learn from what I'm told Two journeys I will travel Neither one from coast to coast But, both are to be ended by that famous mile post Maybe I can find the answer Join myself, go through the door As he joined a nation So many years before Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where my journey ends Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where I'll start to mend

0

Apr 2, 2015

Apr 2, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC

roger-turner

Marker Three Three Three Nine

Going on a road trip Something for my soul It's gonna take a while But, it's gonna make me whole I'm going to cross the country But, I'll start on both the coasts I've been in too many bottles Have to exorcise some ghosts Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where the dream did end Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where I'll start to mend Greyhound bus out of the east From the Maritimes my son I'll venture through Quebec as well This is journey number one I'll stop and meet the people Get their stories, of the man I'll find the ones who met him Try to learn just what I can Adversity, I've had my share Always tried self medication Now, I need to find myself This will take some dedication I'll head on through Ontario On the Trans Canada Highway route And I'll try lose my demons Give my devils all the boot Brick by brick I'll bring down the walls That over years I've built Bricks made up of hate and rage by love, and fear and guilt From the west, I'll make my way Do the highway he could not Through the rocky mountains Every mile is hard fought I'll learn about the person Who he was and who I am I'll come through the fire stronger I'll be a much better man I will bus across the prairies Through the Manitoba cold I will focus on my endgame I'll learn from what I'm told Two journeys I will travel Neither one from coast to coast But, both are to be ended by that famous mile post Maybe I can find the answer Join myself, go through the door As he joined a nation So many years before Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where my journey ends Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine That's where I'll start to mend

56

LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles over our house and whistling a wolf song under the eaves. I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand. A man is crossing. a big prairie, says the poem, and nothing happens--and he goes on and on--and it's all lonesome and empty and nobody home. And he goes on and on--and nothing happens--and he comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse-- and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and empty and nobody home. And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows--he fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder- cry. And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre projectile, I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts of Manitoba and Minnesota--in the sled derby run from Winnipeg to Minneapolis. He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg-- the lead dog is eaten by four team mates--and the man goes on and on--running while the other racers ride, running while the other racers sleep-- Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle of travel hour after hour--fighting the dogs who dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep-- pushing on--running and walking five hundred miles to the end of the race--almost a winner--one toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten. And I know why a thousand young men of the North- west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers --I know why judges of the race call him a winner and give him a special prize even though he is a loser. I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland--and I told the six year old girl about it. And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand.

0

2.3k

Carl Sandburg

Manitoba Childe Roland

LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles over our house and whistling a wolf song under the eaves. I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand. A man is crossing. a big prairie, says the poem, and nothing happens--and he goes on and on--and it's all lonesome and empty and nobody home. And he goes on and on--and nothing happens--and he comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse-- and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and empty and nobody home. And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows--he fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder- cry. And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre projectile, I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts of Manitoba and Minnesota--in the sled derby run from Winnipeg to Minneapolis. He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg-- the lead dog is eaten by four team mates--and the man goes on and on--running while the other racers ride, running while the other racers sleep-- Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle of travel hour after hour--fighting the dogs who dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep-- pushing on--running and walking five hundred miles to the end of the race--almost a winner--one toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten. And I know why a thousand young men of the North- west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers --I know why judges of the race call him a winner and give him a special prize even though he is a loser. I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland--and I told the six year old girl about it. And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand.

49

It's all about the moon the moon knows everything about you and I and them and that! The moon saw the holocaust saw Caesar get stabbed saw a miracle grow in Mary's belly was there on your first birthday puts France and Zimbabwe and Brandon, Manitoba to sleep every night and still has time to shine with the sun some days -Melissa Nadine Flowers

0

Mar 20, 2015

Mar 20, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC

michael-sinclaire

In any case, the moon

It's all about the moon the moon knows everything about you and I and them and that! The moon saw the holocaust saw Caesar get stabbed saw a miracle grow in Mary's belly was there on your first birthday puts France and Zimbabwe and Brandon, Manitoba to sleep every night and still has time to shine with the sun some days -Melissa Nadine Flowers

13

I wanted to die This house This place I can't Tried to drown it smother suffocate deprive ******* life-force I felt feel I belong to some Otherplace I still feel; weeknight dim-dark Streetlamps cities and my eyes swole shut a silly haze No sugar or milk please thank you and could you The owls sound off—or owl they all sound the same don't they One too many passersby Screams far away terrible Wait for prescribed calm to take hold Crows are not like owls are not like vultures No thing is like any other thing This I've come to sense I can't shake this pain from my belly

0

May 30, 2014

May 30, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC

christopher-hendrix

Manitoba

I wanted to die This house This place I can't Tried to drown it smother suffocate deprive ******* life-force I felt feel I belong to some Otherplace I still feel; weeknight dim-dark Streetlamps cities and my eyes swole shut a silly haze No sugar or milk please thank you and could you The owls sound off—or owl they all sound the same don't they One too many passersby Screams far away terrible Wait for prescribed calm to take hold Crows are not like owls are not like vultures No thing is like any other thing This I've come to sense I can't shake this pain from my belly

15

If you didn't want to talk anymore Then you needed to tell me Or at least do it gradually Don't peter out so god **** casually I'm not gonna argue with you I'm not gonna fight for you I didn't think August would come so soon So I wasn't really ready to lose you. But I didn't ever think masculinity looked so good on you Until you cut your hair and got your cool tattoo And if you're moving away you'd better do it soon, go far west, **** with Winnie the Pooh. And together was a good place to put us And "everything happens for a reason" was so far beneath us And all our friends think they're gonna get through to us But I can't get through to you You don't even seem to give a **** I'm better than waiting around for reasons to open up Your "what you see is what you get" attitude Sometimes ****** me off I wanted to feel important to you and it's not like we moved to fast or moved too soon But you're moving away, daaa, so that's ****** too. My mom always makes fun of me when we're texting Smirk on my face, being funny has never been hard for me And I like when I can make you laugh and I hope you do But right now I don't wanna do that because I feel like a god **** fool. There's no answer for us here in this giant country Living in Canada has never really made me feel lonely There's not much for me in my giant city But it's not like I'm gonna up and move around the country But if you asked I'd probably say "you want me? I've got nothing to do here, so we'll see." But I'd worry about what everyone would think of me Because they don't know we've even thought about dating. It's a great secret that everyone probably knows It would be great if Manitoba would just put up a sign: closed.

0

Aug 10, 2014

Aug 10, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC

wallamo

Wrapped

If you didn't want to talk anymore Then you needed to tell me Or at least do it gradually Don't peter out so god **** casually I'm not gonna argue with you I'm not gonna fight for you I didn't think August would come so soon So I wasn't really ready to lose you. But I didn't ever think masculinity looked so good on you Until you cut your hair and got your cool tattoo And if you're moving away you'd better do it soon, go far west, **** with Winnie the Pooh. And together was a good place to put us And "everything happens for a reason" was so far beneath us And all our friends think they're gonna get through to us But I can't get through to you You don't even seem to give a **** I'm better than waiting around for reasons to open up Your "what you see is what you get" attitude Sometimes ****** me off I wanted to feel important to you and it's not like we moved to fast or moved too soon But you're moving away, daaa, so that's ****** too. My mom always makes fun of me when we're texting Smirk on my face, being funny has never been hard for me And I like when I can make you laugh and I hope you do But right now I don't wanna do that because I feel like a god **** fool. There's no answer for us here in this giant country Living in Canada has never really made me feel lonely There's not much for me in my giant city But it's not like I'm gonna up and move around the country But if you asked I'd probably say "you want me? I've got nothing to do here, so we'll see." But I'd worry about what everyone would think of me Because they don't know we've even thought about dating. It's a great secret that everyone probably knows It would be great if Manitoba would just put up a sign: closed.

33

I That twitch in the schoolgirl’s eye Isn’t caused by snowy mountains. There’s Guildhall in her twisted lip. II I was of three minds. Greta Thunberg took all of them And cloaked them in a yellow hood. III A small part of the pantomime was never Greta’s style. She has miles to go before she lets us sleep. IV Of the things schoolgirls hate The sun is not among them. The blackbird’s wings and the oil fields of Manitoba Are one. V I do not know which to prefer, The thought that they might one day bring out Greta Thunberg bobbleheads Or the fact that bobbleheads exist at all, The fact that we’re ****** Or the fact that we’re enjoying it. VI An indecipherable cause. VII O pigtailed teens of Stockholm, Please remember What Wallace Stevens said About birds of golden feathers And of black. VIII What is involved in what I know? Like Socrates, I don’t know. But it’s more than 99.9 per cent Of climate scientists could ever dream And less than a signpost To the wrong city in the snow. IX When Greta sailed two weeks to New York She was in a circle of close friends. I bet they ate tinned kippers And had those sweets the Swedish love. X To cry out sharply is what we do If we are lucky enough to cry. And so I have more compassion For Greta than you know. Some women have no time. Their children dying Takes up the best portion of the day. XI I can’t remember the part of the campaign trail He rode over to tell a waiting crowd How the size of his equipage Compared to his small hands. There are good reasons why Greta hates his guts. This is not the best of them. XII The river is full of plastic. The thermometer must be rising. XIII It is snowing And it is going to snow.

0

Oct 19, 2019

Oct 19, 2019 at 11:25 PM UTC

bt-joy

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Greta Thunberg

I That twitch in the schoolgirl’s eye Isn’t caused by snowy mountains. There’s Guildhall in her twisted lip. II I was of three minds. Greta Thunberg took all of them And cloaked them in a yellow hood. III A small part of the pantomime was never Greta’s style. She has miles to go before she lets us sleep. IV Of the things schoolgirls hate The sun is not among them. The blackbird’s wings and the oil fields of Manitoba Are one. V I do not know which to prefer, The thought that they might one day bring out Greta Thunberg bobbleheads Or the fact that bobbleheads exist at all, The fact that we’re ****** Or the fact that we’re enjoying it. VI An indecipherable cause. VII O pigtailed teens of Stockholm, Please remember What Wallace Stevens said About birds of golden feathers And of black. VIII What is involved in what I know? Like Socrates, I don’t know. But it’s more than 99.9 per cent Of climate scientists could ever dream And less than a signpost To the wrong city in the snow. IX When Greta sailed two weeks to New York She was in a circle of close friends. I bet they ate tinned kippers And had those sweets the Swedish love. X To cry out sharply is what we do If we are lucky enough to cry. And so I have more compassion For Greta than you know. Some women have no time. Their children dying Takes up the best portion of the day. XI I can’t remember the part of the campaign trail He rode over to tell a waiting crowd How the size of his equipage Compared to his small hands. There are good reasons why Greta hates his guts. This is not the best of them. XII The river is full of plastic. The thermometer must be rising. XIII It is snowing And it is going to snow.

64

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mama-janal

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