Sunday, November 25, 2007

Funky chicken crowned by oakleaves

He had been ambushed on the way to his office by two fourteen-year-old girls who had knocked him down, playfully They had rolled him over and over, spreading falltime leaves all over his shirt and hair.

He did finally stand up an yell at them, but he found the the exercise rather pleasing, despite the slightly illegal cast of it all. It wasn't so much that he was a masher. The little chicklets had mashed him.

How nice it was to be a published poet. And right in his home town, in a publication sanctioned by the Town of Newmarket, with lots of ads. Write for money, and you will get no money, but write for ads, well, there will be money aplenty along the way.
And you'll have fourteen-year-old groupies who will want to shower you with maple leaves and lay crinkly oakleaf laurel on you.
Nice to have stuff published right in your home town, sanctioned by a meeting of council and cheques for your work signed by the mayor. It ain't New York, but it'll do, it'll do.

People meet you on the street, recognize you. Seem to tip their hats.
So it was all worth it?

Well, not quite. There was, after all the letter of rejection on your novel.

Dear Ivan,

After careful consideration, we find that your work does not match our current list of authors.
We wish you luck in sending your work to other publishers.


Just when everything was going great guns. The fly in the ointment.

I had sent the novel outline more or less on a whim, just to get the synopsis out of the drawer, where it had been moldering for some time.
And now, my hair still full of leaves, I get this.

I thought it was supposed to work backwards--hero out in the world, arsehole in your own home town.

Nope. Hero in Newmarket, but arsehole in Toronto.

Well, I should have been getting used to it.

At he college, they called me Doctor.

At the Mad Hatter pub, they called me arsehole.

Oh, if only once, only once, would I have it both ways.

But such ambivalence probably comes from the mother, who was a control freak and a wielder of really good sticks.
"I am doing this for your own good. I am showing you what to expect in the world."

Well, I suppose in her own twisted way she was right. The world, in spite of all your accomplishments, can slap you right in the face.

Ah, but how nice it was to roll in the leaves, to finally become a published poet.
And all of it probably from the fact that the lady publisher was sweet on you.

What got her sweet on you?

Well, here is the poem:

He saw the teardrop on the rose
And again he saw the teardrop on a rose
And he knew he could never melt the teardrop
And he knew this was already the end.
So he kissed the face of the evening wife
As he had kissed it before, in all its varying forms
And again said hello to the precipice of silence
A precipice of silence
For his eighteen months of loving.
The Queen of Swords is crossed over
And all the king's horses and all the king's men
Are trying to get her together again
Like me
To no avail.
Gigolo and Gigolet
This side of the Lake of Mutilation
Strike a match
And the hotel burns.
There is only this path of silence
As we dump our gods
And become like them.

My publisher lady was going through a divorce, and she especially like the line "As we dump our gods
And become like them."

Four times did I show that poem to ladies and four times they asked me if I wanted to get laid (not counting the fourteen-year--olds, for the policeman was not far behind.

Want to get laid?

Get a poem published large.

But the rejection of your actual novel, makes you, sort-of--chicken.
I know the husbands of all the ladies.
And fourteen-year-olds usually bring policemen, not too far behind.
Ah, the Girl with the Curl.
When she was good, she was very good
When she was bad
She was horrid.



Anonymous said...

Hi there Ivan,

These two poems we Published in an anthology The borderless skies. The (CCLA )

Canada Cuba Literary Alliance I think for you only there are copy rights I don't understand.


Where is the Black River

Janet L Harvey

Where is the black river that leads to the blue sea?
Where waves nurture my soul and sweeps all cares to bay.
Where are the breathtaking views from dazzling hills?
Misty Mountain romancing blue skies. At nights moon petal sea
Whisper my love, my love where art thou.

(The island ache for you salt of the sea.)

Sadly missed those tranquil evenings watching the moon's exotic gaze
Gauging fried fish and cold beer, jerk pork , ocean breeze
When the orange sunset paints the sea magnificent gold
Before sinking into her velvety, embracing warmth.

Where are the kerosene lamps, mark home sweet home
We cleaned with news paper when the night is virgin soft?
Ram goats and cock leads the team in reverence; the day is done.
Tomorrow he's soup de jour;
Lemon tree he sits a notch higher he is Friday's time piece,
& Sunday dinner.
Till the hens hatch again-and another cock is born
Till then a pillows was made with the feathers.

Where are the roast sweet potatoes and escovich cod.
In bed with scotch bonnet peppers and onion rings.
The carrot juice and dragon stout, on Sunday afternoon solace
The avocado trees, Ripen coffee beans blood red and the smell
Silky cocoa tea melts in a cup too hot for the lips.
No bones to pick, just wish it back. Fading memories.

Starlight of lust, between the dusk and endless cane fields,
Heavy bunch of bananas, and tropic painted mangoes, mouth watery;
What deep intense yarning to one day again- under the water falls
And above the cotton lace blue dome.

Be there in the sun's residual heat; marinate in the restless night
Of the Caribbean pearl.

Where ivory foam smile and sun mix concoction
Of hundred proof real life pulse elixir.
Oh! How I missed the nakedness of sunburnt hillside. As I miss the seductive
Slapping of the sea above muted voices of Spanish tongue
Forever weeping for the black river that leads to the blue sea.


Janet L Harvey

Dreams are like a glass without substance,
Translucent, colourless.
A bud to be, or not to be a fruit, possibility lies.
Hanging bare where immeasurable hope;
Fuels blind hunger for that which desperately desired
The victory dance, walking on air feeling.
Years of 'broken dreams' tarnish one's vision
Deep in the dense core ,the void wrap tight
Paper- thin will riddled lost and erosion.
Hope drained, encrusted in empty wishes lame, and tired now,
Too tired to dream anymore, to grasping fist of air so-
With blur vision, I stagger homeward prodigal in exile to
Lop-sided thatch roofs , where paint-cans over flow-
With roof leaks dripping through star view windows.
In the ceiling .
Who will repair us all leaking valves of human souls;
When all is worn and brittle, disheartened and without an anchor,
This heart screams.
This soul's spiritless and lame, thoughts dismantle.
Convinced that pot of gold was only an ancient fantasy
Was never there, I looked.
Goodbye to faint stomach and midday turmoil-
To the bright eyes of innocence; now old with the reality of age
So Blinded to the beauty of the rose,
The thorn's pain is the only memory that lingers.
Deeply scald by the heat of my own Passion,
The burning to achieve the ultimate.
No helmet, safety net, teeth vest I dive in shark infested domain,
Crunch of bones…echoes
Not too long now anesthetic sets in I'll whisper a final farewell
…again…. Goodbye said...

Janet Harvey,

You are so welcome, as usual to today's impromptu poetry corner.

Your own work makes me want to quit poetry.

Thanks for sending it here...I'm just too addled in the head today to make a full blog of your poetry.

...But next time, I'll feature it large.
Congratulations on your being puglished through the Canada-Cuba Literary Alliance.


Shesawriter said...

I hate rejection. I hate the nondescript ones most.

"....does not match our current list of authors."

What the *&^% does that mean? Doesn't match what? Their lipstick?

Yeah, I'm in a mood. LOL! I just posted about a similar subject. Maybe it's in the air or something.

Donnetta Lee said...

Oh, my, but those two little chicklets are frightening. Stay away. Far, far away.

Also, nice to read Janet. Makes me envious. You know, poet envy.

Donnetta said...


I thought you would enjoy Janet's second poem here, titled "Dreams."
I think you have been partway along the place Janet is writing of, and you no doubt identify.
No coincidence I guess, that Janet happens to be a nurse. said...

She'sawriter (Tanya):

I am so spitting mad that I am starting to harbor the politically incorrect notion that the people in that house who wear lipstick are men! said...


It's probably my machine--I am laden with spam--but I have a hard time navigating on your site.
Impossible to get at your comment space at present, and when I go to click off, you won't click off and I have to pull out my three-way plug to get off your "My Irrationalities" blog.
It's probably a Microsoft problem and I will try again later.


Shesawriter said...

LOL, Ivan! :-) And don't forget about the thongs. ;-) Lipstick and thongs. False eyelashes too. said...


This writer is a regular guy.

I am chawin' tobacco watching Saskatchwan's brilliant (from- America)
quarterback Pat Dunwoody beating up on the Winnipeg Bluebombers.

Fifty-two thousand fans filling the Rogers Dome in Toronto--It's sort of the Canadian Superbowl.

But I don't follow very well.

I think those referees look really spiffy in their stripes. LOL.
And those Spandex pants on the Winnipeg guys.
They got a sense of fashion! said...


Managed to get comment in on your blog.
Looks like all's loud and clear now. The obstruction is gone and your blog is easily navigatable.

Durn spammers.

Donnetta Lee said...

Yes, Ivan, Janet's poem fits me well. Bet she has heard of that d****d Vitamin D deficiency. What a curse! Who knew I could have written a poem! Well, it wouldn't hold a candle to Janet's. She had to speak "for" me here!
Donnetta said...


Who knew one could be Vitamin D deficient in sunny Oklahoma.

I have sent Janet an email aking about the condition.

eric1313 said...

What a great poem, Ivan.

Those lines certainly are worthy enough to earn a roll in the hay, or the leaves.

Just stay away from the 14 year olds. One day, they'll be eighteen year olds and everything will be good.

Poetry is such a strange and yet exciting craft. God love it.

the walking man said...

I suppose a roll in the leaves as a locally famed purveyor of words by 2 fourteen year olds is better than a roll in the hay with the same by a perverted purveyor of words of a locally famed Newmarket inmate.

Except to say one is rarely rejected by the docket.


mark said...

Thanks, Eric.

Coming from you, who has often rocked these comment pages with your own poetry--it's much appreciated. said...


Yes, the experience was not just heady--it could have been arresting.

blunt refrain said...

Ivan ,

Don't give up on poetry ,

It is far better , than self-idolatry.

A knife in the air ,

Cuts with languish , thru despair. said...

blunt refrain,


You are probably right, though in poetry, I am more a technician than a truly gifted person.
Swayed by the long-dead mondernists,I guess,Eliot and all those cats.
Kind of Pounding-off, you might say.

Josie said...

Ivan, your poetry is wonderful.

"Four times did I show that poem to ladies and four times they asked me if I wanted to get laid (not counting the fourteen-year--olds, for the policeman was not far behind."

Is that what used to be crudely called (in Port Alberni) panty remover?

TomCat said...

LOL, Ivan! Here's the complete list of everything I understand about women. said...



Port Alberni is on the west coast? said...


When it comes to ladies, I am like the neurotic(who knows two and two are four, but he doesn't like it).

Josie said...

TomCat is too funny...! said...

Yep. He is funny here.

But no krazy kat.

Donnetta Lee said...

Ivan: Thanks for asking Janet about this deficiency thing. I can't wait to hear what she has to say. Any insights are helpful. I'll bet she's a good nurse, too. So is our Pam.
Donnetta said...


Janet is not immediately forthcoming.
But I would say your are so lucky to have found the right doctor who zeroed in so well on what seemed to have been the problem: Vitamin D deficiency.

Fibromyalgia is almost an industry in Toronto right now...It is so hard to find a cure that just about every snake oil salemsn has an idea on how to fix the condition. There are seminars and speeches.
You are lucky, Donnetta.

A doc in time certainly saves nine.

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