THE NIGHT MUSE

EDITED BY DESI DI NARDO

COVER DESIGN BY Harun Younussi

CENTRAL TECHNICAL SCHOOL Toronto Distr ict School Board

Continuing Education Poetry Class Spring2013

I’m at a loss for words, however ironic it may seem in such a case as this, after having had the wonderful opportunity to instruct a poetry course, which has everything to do with writing, reading, and language of the most elevated kind. I’m really not certain how to begin to describe the keen anticipation I experienced each week before class. A General Interest poetry course, the first of its sort to be offered by the TDSB, proved not only to be highly successful as students experimented with creative pieces of writing and generated poetic output of a very high standard, but a truly unique bond among class members and instructor too transpired. I give kudos and much credit to those students who volunteered personal memories and tidbits of themselves and who willingly read some of the most poignant and inspiring pieces I have heard. What’s more, the class as a whole offered original, constructive criticisms and helped one another to advance their writing to new and unexpected levels. Many of the members opened themselves up to new voices and styles and in turn were able to deliver works which they evidently felt proudly of - pieces they will likely cherish – may they be recordings they may wish to preserve as keepsakes or poetry they may very well seek to have published down the road.

desi di nardo

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where

it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when,

no they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence,

but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others,

among violent fires or returning alone,

there I was without a face and it touched me…

~Pablo Neruda

patricia tomlinson

A Poem Is… A poem is a seedling tentatively sending up fragile tendrils of language. Up, up from the poet’s thoughts and musings onto the blank page and into the light of the written world.

A poem is a photograph – a snapshot of my feelings in a momentary flash of time. Black ink on white paper –

Pen to Paper

It starts with a ‘click’ and then a scritch

words flow from brain to pen

to paper – a poem in progress.

DARK PINES UNDER WATER gwendolyn macewen From: The Shadow-Maker. Toronto: Macmillan, 1972 This land like a mirror turns you inward And you become a forest in a furtive lake; The dark pines of your mind reach downward, You dream in the green of your time, Your memory is a row of sinking pines. Explorer, you tell yourself, this is not what you came for Although it is good here, and green; You had meant to move with a kind of largeness, You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream. But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper In an elementary world; There is something down there and you want it told. Gwendolyn MacEwen was born in Toronto in 1941. Her first published poem appeared in The Canadian Forum when she was seventeen. She left school at eighteen to concentrate on her writing. Her work is included in most major Canadian anthologies. She's still regarded by most as one of the best Canadian poets.

The Last Epidemic Pinned to my bed like a butterfly in a display case. Not even a pillow, the doctor decreed, for the rest of the summer. Me, an active child of six, trapped by my illness. My open window taunted me with the shouts and laughter of my friends at play. My younger brother – crew-cut and freckle-faced – sometimes played Monopoly with me for hours on end. Win or lose – it didn’t matter. And yet, losing did come to matter. The doctor, black bag in hand, came again – not to see me but to diagnose my father’s illness as the same as mine. The ambulance attendants whisked my dad away while I watched from across the hall. Did we even say ‘good bye’? Five days later, the constant dilling of the phone caught my attention. My aunt’s voice crept stealthily down the hall until her words finally reached my ears – “Don’s gone.” And in my innocence I wondered where he had gone and why had he gone. Then her voice punctured my innocence – the euphemism cast aside as she said, “Don has died.” I remember my mom caught in the moonlight at the foot of my bed, tears glistening on her cheeks as I asked, “Why did dad have to die?” The unanswerable question posed to a woman whose heart was broken and who didn’t know if and how badly her daughter was too.

Scarlet Lips Look! They’re here again – out strutting their stuff! Full-bodied and voluptuous ones, curvy ones with spiky ‘dos, plain Janes decked out in the colours of the rainbow, tall, elegant beauties in the purest white, short, chubby cuties wearing stripes. Scarlet lips tempt you to look into coal-black eyes. These are the streetwalkers of spring – this tumult of tulips in my front garden.

Light and Shadow The slender silvery sapling stands sentinel in the front-yard garden. The soft morning sunlight sketches its delicate silhouette on the large plate-glass window, the shadow as ephemeral as the sapling is solid

Patricia Tomlinson is a long-time fan of words – through reading, doing puzzles (cryptic and crosswords are favourites), playing Scrabble and writing. Her working life as a ‘secretary’ has been spent dealing with words. Born and raised in Barrie, she has spent more than half her life in Toronto (and she won’t tell you how long that is). She enjoys movies, music, photography, travelling, walking, theatre, the company of good friends and learning. She has two children and two grandchildren.

that extra quarter sarah duignan i placed your kindness in a tin can with the rest of my belongings - small artifacts and precious jewels percolating with our collective memory your kindness was a sewing needle on a fraying pant leg, that extra quarter on a rainy day, a stone to be skipped against a hazy creek when summer breathes into us once again

the truth about ice rinks a blinding saturday: enclosed by snowbanks my sharp blades slashed again the frozen earth. with a screech, i find a squirmed fish on my dry lips, soft ice cascading over brittle toes his relentless brown eyes gaping while i blink, absorbing the ugly sky.

Sarah Duignan is a writer from Peterborough currently studying anthropology.

Closeness marilyn goldberg It’s possible, that one of my hairs is neatly woven into a bird’s nest. Maybe, a mother robin saw the course gray strand floating across a parking lot, quickly gathering it up after I’d combed my hair outside. Perhaps, a baby bird, its mouth open wide for feeding touched the silver thread with its wing, unaware of my closeness.

Secret A poem is a secret buried in a robin’s egg, hidden in the silence between heartbeats, mixed in the colour of iris petals. Smooth as cold ivory, rough as a cat’s tongue, surprising as the taste of sour cherries. Sleeping, until the strong push of labour slides it into our watering mouths,

Spring Torrent rushing over the landscape spring’s river leaves blades of grass riots of flowers bursting through earth’s cold heaving crust uncovering memories of last year’s cigarettes and lost shoes a great cacophony of creatures and flora flowing with the torrent of swirling movement discovering their private place to flourish

Burning Abaya Crouching behind the light behind the veil, I sit in peace, a word suffragette thoughts scorching the edges of my abaya I write through the silent screams of a million women walking behind, thinking ahead I dance before men with contempt hips thrust forward, their faces disapproving heads turning in disbelief as they feel aroused by the sound

Entre Actes bitter cold gray days hold my mood hostage like the tulips and daffodils who inch their way through wet ground, paralyzed by the sudden chill wish I could break through the damp

Horsy She was older and tougher blonde bangs, too short, cut straight across lunchtime play came, Barbara approached me with a Cheshire smile and a game. “Let’s play Jump Horsy Jump!” she shouted. “You be the horse.” “Sure,” I giggled with eight-year-old glee. “When I say jump, you start hopping around the yard.” She commenced to tie my ankles and wrists together with small ropes. “When the bell rings, I’ll untie you.” The nasty childhood prank, flew high above me as I bobbed clumsily around the playground until I ached. “Jump horsy jump!” she barked with a grin. A piercing clang as the school bell rang. Big Barb sneered, looked back and raced to line with her friends. Abandoned and crying I started running, my small legs inching ahead until I flew forward, a clumsy diver heading for cement, hands, knees, elbows in a bloody gravel slide. Miss Smith, the old gray teacher on duty lumbered toward me to help. I screamed as she dug a dirty fingernail into a crease in my thumb, dislodging a stone. I wailed my way to the office, hoping to see Barbara’s head hanging low, the Principal’s voice slicing through her meanness. instead, I caught her laughing her way to class, brushing hair from her eyes. Marilyn Goldberg is a retired teacher who continues to look for true meaning by writing, painting, playing music and hanging out with her handsome dog, Dooley. She has lived in both Toronto and Vancouver but now resides in the Annex around the corner from Gwendolyn MacEwen Park.

Slow Dance george deagle Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round? Or listened to the rain slapping the ground? Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight? Or gazed at the sun into the fading night? You better slow down, don't dance so fast Time is short, the music won't last Do you run through the day on the fly? When you ask how are you, do you hear the reply? When the day is done, do you lie in your bed With the next hundred chores running through your head? You better slow down, don't dance so fast Time is short, the music won't last Ever told your child, we'll do it tomorrow? And in your haste, not see his sorrow? Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die Cause you never had time to call and say, Hi? You better slow down, don't dance so fast Time is short, the music won't last When you run so fast to get somewhere You miss half the fun of getting there When you worry and hurry through your day It's like a unopened gift...thrown away Life is not a race. Do take it slower Please hear the music Before the song is over

Mind Spin spinning in my mind like the traffic in rush hour trying to get ahead of the thought I thought I had finished speeding through a yellow light just to get to the next intersection of thoughts once in a while stopping at a red light just to finish the thought I thought I had finished. only to find myself in the next intersection of thoughts spinning in my mind until the traffic has stopped and I no longer have to mind spin to the next intersection of thoughts George Deagle is an ironworker by trade who loves to write little poems. He finds the process of writing poetry rewarding and cathartic and hopes to one day relay the hardships he has seen and experienced through his writing.

Lickety Split Anon E. Muss Lickety split the rabbit ran For the life and death of it Right down the path. Lickety split without a sound Lighter than air Into the forest it went. Lickety split. The Last Run Deep thunder rumbling in the east. Not a star out tonight. The gentle wind caressing its face. A match flamed suddenly in the darkness. Only dead leaves dancing Casting long shadows on the rusty tracks. Memories buzzing in its head. The laughter, the singing, the joy and the sadness All together in one place. Bubbling with excitement. Whistle blowing a shrilly cry. Canons roaring a salute. Crossing the finish line. The final destination -- Midgell Bridge. Midgell Bridge is an actual place in PEI. It overlooks the beautiful St. Peter's Bay. The railroad track was replaced by what is now called Confederation Trail. The crossing of the bridge was the last train stop. This poem is dedicated to the last run of the train.

Anon E. Muss enjoys spending time out of the spotlight to focus on his poetry. He may not be the most vocal class member but his words speak volumes.

Spirit Frame adassa braham I see you in the wind I see you in the rain I see you in the things human hands have not made I see beyond your spirit frame I wonder from where you came I see you in nature’s game Sun peeks through with a ray of light Stars come out to say goodnight Thunder rolls in stormy weather Lightning flash – wild array of colours Put them all together They join in praise forever Adassa Braham was born in Jamaica and moved to Toronto in 1981. She has worked for many years a laboratory patient technician. Her interest in poetry is revolves around her faith as she aims to write verses which inspire and uplift the human soul.

Where Did My Face Go? heather babcock Where did my face go? It was just here two days ago In the looking glass over my sink An artificial pink landscape Populated with a pair of eyes, one nose and one mouth All arranged in precise order and easily accessible. But today, everything is astray – Cracks and holes, Nothing left but two grey half moons Circling a starless sky. Where did my face go? Perhaps I’ll find bits and pieces of it around my house: My nose in the clothes dryer, rolled up in a forgotten sock; Eyelashes hidden between my sofa cushions; A mouth under my bed, stuffed with dust bunnies. The face itself is gone, Skipped town, It was too big to lose. So where did my face go? And why didn’t I notice it leaving? W. Roberta Start with the Polaroid Cracked and finger smudged: My gummy pink smile embracing Your marble eyed head. End with the photograph – Un-captured You alone in the sun My candy cane smile shadowing The scars on your wrists.

Shelter

The wind blew the grass but the dandelions kept their heads. On the steps outside the bungalow, the woman sat alone. Blood filled her mouth; it dripped down her chin and stained her dress. She couldn’t feel her teeth. She couldn’t feel. She needed to find the little place inside her bones that she called ‘shelter’. If she found it, she could curl up within its blankets and feel. Her man had left. She had called for new men and she was afraid. The new men were supposed to protect her but when they showed up at the bungalow, she saw that their faces were thumbs. Her man’s face had been a fist but face thumbs were more frightening. The new men took down her name, birth date and phone number. They took down her man’s name. They told her to clean out her mouth. The new men left. The woman stood up. She removed her dress. The wind caressed her skin and coaxed her towards the bed of grass. She fell upon it; curling her body into a fist. The dandelions kissed her face as the wind rocked her to sleep.

Heather Babcock has published works of short fiction in The Toronto Quarterly (Issues Five and Nine), Front & Centre Magazine, The Annex Echo newspaper and the Steel Bananas anthology Gulch - An Assemblage of

Running vivienne jones It was there in the galaxy of the alleyway, under the common cloak of childhood games, we dared to risk the gashed knee the bloodied gravel the trip, the fall, the tempted fate, it was there, with incautious gaze we bred the joy and rush of the reckless, running onwards impervious, propelled by and to, some kaleidoscopic yearning, and what I recall now as singular moments potent as love.

A Poem Is A poem is a secret passage, beneath the arc of the day where shape shifting light emerges from narrow fissures and the mining of words is graffiti scratched on the inner walls of the mind, like a caged bird’s song captive on the breeze it's coiling itself around a fragment of dream.

Welsh born Vivienne Jones is a contemporary jewellery artist who has lived and worked in Toronto since 1976. Her interest in all creative expression has expanded in recent years to an interest in writing poetry. Visit www.viviennejones.com

A Poem Is A poem is a secret passage, beneath the arc of the day where shape shifting light emerges from narrow fissures and the mining of words is graffiti scratched on the inner walls of the mind, like a caged bird’s song captive on the breeze it's coiling itself around a fragment of dream. Welsh born Vivienne Jones is a contemporary jewellery artist who has lived and worked in Toronto since 1976. Her interest in all creative expression has expanded in recent years to an interest in writing poetry. Visit www.viviennejones.com

On This Rare Occasion george haralampous Sun and sky are finally in harmony Air is so fresh your lungs could sparkle You might just float away But were you ever here? On this rare occasion Working away at your desk You finally reached the First day of Spring And it was unable to get a hold of you On this rare occasion You've been anchored by a thin strand of telephone wire Should you require immediate assistance Try calling back in the fall

AXED You don’t belong here Cranes have to go up now You are in the way of our skyline We abandoned your kind long ago Our urban landscape needs to be sterile You can return when we destruct For now the space is ours CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP TI-MBER!

Shaky Ironing Board Frantically pressing her Sunday Dress, His eyes mesmerized by the neon light. Quickly, they had to get ready. She sizzled each pleat to perfection, and he bounced with the yellow ball. The iron tipped over. The boy was burnt. The scar etched forever. Endlessly pouring her eyes out, His heart flooded by her heavy tears. Slowly, they drove back home. She glowed a smile down in his direction, and he bubbled with the smiling sun.

Flip a Pyramid

The world wide web, a wondrous idea. Connectivity curing corruption. More like the concentrated few digitally concealed incognito

Binary Code and temp agencies built the internet Ancient Hieroglyphics and slavery built Giza

Plutocratic law keeps the wealth on top Good old Pharaoh forgot to mention

The rules don’t apply to all In the meantime Even the score FIGHT BACK Even when You can’t

Child’s Play Nobody cared A lonely stride The children taunt Pain inside Safe from the kids He‘d always have to sneak To the public library Where he wasn’t a freak Find me a mate Ma His darkest hour The whole block heard Shrieks from the tower A neighbourhood kid Not always a beast Too many outbursts Humanity ceased It takes a village Lovingly done Half a city block Destroyed our son

When George Haralampous isn’t writing poetry he enjoys the company of birds. He has spent a great deal of his time studying the ornithology of southern Ontario. With his fondness for all flying creatures, it is no wonder he has also chosen a second career in aviation. He currently lives in Toronto.

Bald Guy Me and Bald Guy Look-a-like allan farnell Everyone thinks bald guys look-a like Bald guy me finds my look-a-like Students, professors greet bald guy me Nobel Laureate nods to bald guy me You know bald guys all look-a-like My look-a-like a judge, professor, administrator Thanks bald guy look-a-like Fraudster me captures your fame Hair raising experience for bald guy me Bag Lady, Time and Place Walking towards Tim Hortons at 7am Images of getting table away from panhandlers On the way Bag Lady ahead Bags on each side of shopping cart Bloor St W filled with high-end shops Ahead she stops and peers in Gucci Window As I pass I see manikins in fanciful dresses Makes me think how things can go wrong At least enough to write this poem A day after, April 4, 2013

Allan Farnell is a retired accountant presently studying art full-time at Central Technical School.

First Kiss maria sabatino My first kiss was in a shopping aisle at the Woolco Department Store that once used to be at square One in Mississauga. It happened. It was over. I was glad. Maria Sabatino is a freelance journalist and writer livivng in Toronto.