Inspiration for my chapbook

dove imprint captain tenneal at flickr

(Photo by Captain Tenneal at Flickr)

I’ve decided to put together a book of poetry, inspired by and dedicated to my Uncle Peter and his wife Nellie McClung (granddaughter of the Canadian suffragette). They were creatives (poets, amongst other things) now both deceased.

I think of them more and more the older I get because – well, forgive me if I sound callous (I mean this as the highest compliment) but they were the quintessential ‘crazy’ poets.

Both were afflicted with Schizophrenia and met at Riverview in the 1970’s. They did their thing because they had to.

Or because they didn’t have much else. Or because it was everything.

How do we describe the need to create? 

When I was younger and they were alive, I didn’t get their poetry, their relationship. But now I do-at least a little bit more. I wish that I could write with them.

I dug up a couple of their own publications and did a little Google search. It’s difficult to find something that is Nellie ‘Lillian’ rather than ‘Letitia’ McClung, the latter being the famous suffragette and Nellie’s grandmother.

I did find this little dedication to Nellie from the SPCA. She didn’t have much, but she left some of that to the animals – pretty cool. And her obituary here.

I found my own ‘Raindrop,’ Peter’s paper stapled book of Haikus.

At the back is a poem from Nellie to Peter. I think it’s a lovely and strange snippet of their lives together, a set of simple moments that was really so much more.

Sonnet for Peter

I hung my poem
about Ireland
out the window
to dry for you
(you lying pale & wan
in your hospital bed)
& soon the gannet & kestrel
small sparrows in twos & threes
alighted at your window
& pecked at the words
& you said it was good
excitement in your voice
“The birdies are here.”
on the phone

not knowing what to do
with my simple poems
I came each day
and pinned my latest poem
with clothes pins
on a wire across your window

I thought of Chekhov’s story we shared
of the man who goes to visit
a hospital patient, & describes
the view out the window, to the enthusiasm
of the patient, the next visitor
saying there was only a brick wall

& again of Li Po who put his poems
in lighted candled paper boats

and sent them out to sea in the dark.

~ Nellie McClung


when the wave breaks

waves 3

“And darling we will be fine, but what was yours and mine
appears to be a sandcastle that the gibbering wave takes /
But if it’s all just the same, then will you say my name,
say my name in the morning, so I know when the wave breaks?” ~ Joanna Newsom

Moments ebb and flow, swelling regularly


Peaks of inspiration, emotion inevitably fall into lulls,

forming troughs of calm or disconnectedness.  

Salt water brimming, overflowing in drops, maybe rivulets:

pressure released, gravity wins.

Some times a slow surge, a glassy-smooth sailing:

thin clear sheet shining the sand.

Each one unique but behaving the same, following familiar energetic patterns:

Climax, crest, curl, collapse.

Reach out, retreat, repeat. 

The Land of the Lost and Found

IMG_1276 edit

Today I woke up lost
then found myself
with eggs benedict
on a bright red vinyl seat
in kitchy 50’s diner.

I found myself
walking forever
ears unplugged
mind massaged open
by ocean waves.

I found my face
slapped awake
by the cold,
this soul entranced,
engrained in
every beach detail.

I found myself
frequently photographing
trees, ocean, shells
intermittently pulling over
on the walking path
reaching for notebook
to scrawl these words.

(I wondered what the joggers were thinking
but didn’t care)

I found myself
in this place of
morning-midday sun.

Because dusk
that in-between place
day’s pre-death breath
brings uneasiness.

I’m better now
at finding a way
through the dark
without losing myself.

Better, now,
At finding myself
present there and
waiting to be
born again

by morning.