Eve poem from Collected Poems 2019 in Translation

 This poem first appeared in a chapbook, A Place of Trees published in 2003 

Eve hears about her birth

Perhaps you have no memory

of how you got here:

you arrived steaming from this wet place

stretched her skin, skull screeched through

muscle; blood streamed with water,

salty, precious; nine months long

fed through the cord of life, you breathed water,

turned somersaults in brine.

Tiny seahorse swinging by one leg,

you forgot whatever came before.

 

Now you have been cut

away from her body,

you must re-enter

through your own.

 

Surface, into bright sun,

parrot’s screech,

water steams off broad jungle leaves,

morning in Eden.

 

Ève apprend la vérité sur sa naissance

Peut-être que tu ne te souviens pas

comment tu t’es retrouvée ici.

Mais tu es arrivée à toute vapeur

de cet endroit détrempé,
déchirant sa peau, poussant avec ton crane
à travers ses muscles,

ruisselée de sang et de l’eau
salée et précieuse.

 

Pendant neuf mois, nourrie

à la corde de vie, tu respiras d’eau
et pirouettas dans la saumure,
Hippocampe menu brimbalé à bout de jambe.

Tu oublias le fil menant à ce moment

et maintenant que tu es

séparée de son corps,
tu dois te réintroduire
à travers le tien.

Refais surface, dans la matinée ensoleillée,
parmi le cri perçant des perroquets.
L’eau s’évapore sur les larges feuilles tropicales

au jardin d’Ève.

 

copyright Jennifer Boire

Little Red Bird Press

Angry at Winter? Here's my plan

I went to bed yesterday shivering and cold, the area where my desk is, right by the lovely picture window, lets in a lot of cold air. New house, new windows, not so great at -25 Celsius. Depressing piles of snow out my window and grey skies. It made me wonder why we put up with this climate in Canada.

This morning, the depression was replaced with anger - I've had it with winter. Every morning we check the thermometer, hoping for an improvement. It's only mid-February. It's been below -15 for weeks. Weather channel says another month of this....arrgh. 

How I decided to vanquish winter

This particular winter feels like a long famine of colour and comfort, so I decided I needed a feast. I popped into the grocery store after getting my car washed (all the salt on the roads had turned it light gray and my red coat is covered in this grime). A balmy -8 this morning, at least the doors won't freeze shut. Then the sun came out,  bonus! 

Filled the shopping cart with bright  greens, kale, lettuce, asparagus! cauliflower, pears and grapefruits, then papaya and strawberries (I normally only buy fruit in season, but the colours screamed out at me - pick me!). Next I picked up some lovely yellow and coral coloured tulips - I'll beat these blahs with flowers. Rack of lamb, pulled pork, (normally I only order organic meat online from a regional farm, but I am really pissed off at winter today). To top it off, dark chocolate with sea salt for dessert.

We will feast our way through the rest of this week. I'm making soups and stews: cabbage soup, onion soup, lentil soup, the slow cooker working double time. Crisping Kale in the oven with garlic salt, cayenne and Herbamare (to make chips) - I am not going to take this winter lying down in starvation, that's for sure. 

While I was out and about today, buying gifts for my niece's new baby, I saw a coffee depot in the mall and did something I NEVER do, bought a caffe latte and chocolate almonds (I haven't drank coffee in the afternoon since menopause 9 years ago). I am so mad at winter I'm throwing my old cautious lifestyle out the window. Take that sluggish moods and blah depressing feelings.

Kicking the frozen slush of the tire walls of my car made me feel better, but not stepping into deep icy puddles in the parking lot, watching my UGG boots get white tipped with salt. Back home, let the pooch run on the frozen lake, for a whole 15 minutes, which is the longest we've been outside in weeks! These are the only excursions out of doors, besides driving to the grocery store or out to Hudson Music Club rehearsals.

Know this Winter: I will not be defeated by you nor by seasonal affective disorder. I am going to make comfort food, roasts, stews, bake cakes and bread (gluten free chocolate of course), and keep my self bundled up in cashmere, wool scarves, and double layers of quilting. I may even get the cross country skis out if it goes above -10 this weekend.

Stay Warm and Eat lots of Fattening Foods! see poem below on February.

Musemother

February

BY MARGARET ATWOOD

Winter. Time to eat fat

and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,   

a black fur sausage with yellow

Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries   

to get onto my head. It’s his

way of telling whether or not I’m dead.

If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am   

He’ll think of something. He settles

on my chest, breathing his breath

of burped-up meat and musty sofas,

purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,   

not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,   

declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,   

which are what will finish us off

in the long run. Some cat owners around here   

should snip a few testicles. If we wise   

hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,   

or eat our young, like sharks.

But it’s love that does us in. Over and over   

again, He shoots, he scores! and famine

crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing   

eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits   

thirty below, and pollution pours

out of our chimneys to keep us warm.

February, month of despair,

with a skewered heart in the centre.

I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries   

with a splash of vinegar.

Cat, enough of your greedy whining

and your small pink bumhole.

Off my face! You’re the life principle,

more or less, so get going

on a little optimism around here.

Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Margaret Atwood, “February” from Morning in the Burned House

April is Poetry Month

In honour of the Laurentians, where spring melt is glorious, and comes a few weeks later.

Spring melt

Everywhere a fine mist

a million drops rising

into spring air.

Freezing rain iced the roads last night,

layered trees in thin lace.

Now, morning sun tilts the snowwoman,

       head tilts onto ground

arms stuck in the leaning boulders.

Melting snow reveals a rock.

Geese wing northward
in small gaggles.

Spring runoff

from the roof races

my pulse erratic.

last night’s dream moving

up and up

a staircase

looking for You.

I wrote this poem back when the kids were little, and I had broken my leg skiing, so confined to the chalet while they hit the hills. I loved the sunroom in the chalet we rented then, near Ste-Adele and my alone time, writing, reading, lying in the sun stretching the wounded leg, healing and hanging out with the dog.

I later rewrote it, shortened it, took the Samurai Sword and it became:

Spring melt

Geese wing northward
in small gaggles.

Everywhere a fine mist

rises, million drops

lift into air.

Through the windows,

light erratic,

roof runoff spills

from the gutters.

Last night’s dream

moving up & up

a mobile staircase

looking for      

                    You.

and was published in For the Birds, my last collection of poems.

Happy spring all

Musemother

Peace in the Heart

A discovery

Slow down, turn down the volume.

Begin to hear a sweet immortal sound,

played in the heart of every human being

on the face of the earth.

It is the most divine

of all meditations,

sweeter and more fulfilling

than any yoga.

Listen to that sweet sound.

It is the ultimate mantra

you don’t have to speak or remember.

the one mantra going on for every single being.

Listen. Within you.

It is the single-most profound poetry.

Listen.

It is a song more rhythmic

than you can imagine.

Listen to you.

Listen to this beautiful, sweet sound.

Listen to that request.

Within you lies a poetry,

a song that is being sung every single day

in a language understood by every person

on the face of this earth.

It does not distinguish between rich or poor.

It does not distinguish between holy and sinner.

It does not distinguish between weak and strong.

It is the same for every single person.

Listen to that song that is in your heart.

Listen to that request that is in your heart,

like a little bee comes to the flower,

like the flower turns towards the sun, 

come with your thirst,

all you need is you. 

The above poem is from a collection of poems found in the words of Prem Rawat, that I am working on right now. It's been a pleasure to work with these words, excerpted from his live addresses, and barely shaped, just a little, by me. 

Listening to Prem in person is even better. He speaks in poems. He touches the heart. He speaks unscripted, from the heart, from his own experience.

I am very excited to let you know that he is touring North America this summer (in Europe right now, Denmark on Sunday), and that you can request an invitation to hear him, at no cost. He'll be in Canada in July : Toronto, Roy Thomson Hall, July 8, and Montreal, Palais de congres Wed July 11, 7:30 pm.

Please watch this short, inspiring video and at the bottom of the youtube screen is an address to click for the invitation request.

Prem Rawat in North America:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fgMmjwdiic&feature=youtu.be

May your thirst lead you on!

Musemother/jenn

Poems for middle age

Woman in Fog

If only she could, she would give her

heart to her husband, womb to her daughter,

arms to her son. But her body lies on the floor

awaiting rejuvenation, still breathing, broken.

What to do on the days when tears drop

into her soup? It’s ok to do nothing, she thinks,

just simple tasks like laundry.

She picks up a book of poems instead, reads

“trees lose parts of themselves inside

a circle of fog” *

She’s in a thick fog, has shed her leaves, 

absorbed moisture till she has water on the

brain, disoriented by the shift that wakes

her at night, puts other parts of her to sleep, 

brought to her knees in a wave of heat and

tears, unable to exchange the chief’s hat

for the sombrero.

Her feet feel heavy, her mind dull.

She tells herself, it is only temporary,

lie fallow, compost.

Oh the music she needs to comfort her,

and the long night she’ll travel through

until the bright dawn reclaims her. 

Human, faulty, imperfect,

like the low thrum she hears in Cohen’s voice.

Claiming darkness as its source

it rings true, full of light.

*(Excerpted line from poem by Francis Ponge)

as published in For the Birds, Little Red Bird Press,
2011

My imagination is a lake

the lake is a mirror with ice chunks this morning
sun, gulls, a few ducks resting.
how do I receive inspiration? randomly
from the earth, air and sky
I am nature bound. Connecting to my essence
flowing with it.
I relax and access my imagination. Even
a minute staring at the lake calms my mind.

The ice melts, the water flows.
It is just the way it is. Enough warmth
in the air breaks up the frozen, gets
it moving.

Let the imagination warm up too!
let the intuition speak in a loud voice!
Receive and give, receive and give.

Heart - your true excitement comes
in creation.

Imagine a Woman

by Patricia Lynn Reilly
Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman.
A woman who honours her experiences and tells her stories.
Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.

Imagine a woman who believes she is good.
A woman who trusts and respects herself.
Who listens to her needs and desires, and meets them with tenderness and grace.

Imagine a woman who has acknowledged the past's influence on the present.
A woman who has walked through the past.
Who has healed into the present.

Imagine a woman who authors her own life.
A woman who exerts, initiates and moves on her own behalf.
Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and her wisest voice.

Imagine a woman who names her own gods.
A woman who imagines the divine in her own image and likeness.
Who designs her own spirituality and allows it to inform her daily life.

Imagine a woman in love with her own body.
A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.
Who celebrates her body and its rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.

Imagine a woman who honours the face of the goddess in her changing face.
A woman who celebrates the accumulation of her years and her wisdom.
Who refuses to use precious energy disguising the changes in her body and life.

Imagine a woman who values the women in her life.
A woman who sits in circles of women.
Who is reminded of the truth about herself when she forgets.

Imagine yourself as this woman.

Happy belated women's day,
jenn

Who You Are

Who you are is so much more
Than what you do. The essence
Shining through heart, soul and
Center, the bare and bold truth
Of you does not lie in your
To-do list. You are not just
At the surface of your skin, not
Just the impulse to arrange the
Muscles of your face into a smile
Or a frown, not just boundless
Energy, or bone wearying fatigue.
Delve deeper. You are divinity;
The vast and open sky of Spirit
It’s the light of God, the ember
At your core, the passion and the
Presence, the timeless, deathless
Essence of you that reaches out
And touches me. Who you are
Transcends fear and turns
Suffering into liberation
Who you are is love.

Donna Faulds
From Go In and In,

Poems from the Heart of Yoga

A big thank you to Bella for awarding me this Lion's Roar for powerful words. I am deeply honoured, and pleased.

This is probably the last post before Christmas party season begins, so here's the story behind the poems.

I first set out to write a book about pregnancy and childbirth, and all things sexual related to it that have been silenced. It began in a Creative Writing 101 class at university, (after 12 years of slogging as a secretary, I decided to go back to school and follow my dream), with a taboo Journal project.

The subject of the Taboo Journal was women's/my sexual universe: everything from first hearing about women's blood in the school yard to sex during pregnancy, and beyond. I also wanted to break the taboo around talking about my mother's alcoholism during my childhood. Speaking up about these things was difficult at first, but got easier as I circled around and back and over the stories and feelings locked up for so long. Having children made it a necessary challenge, so that the legacy of silence was not perpetuated. Especially, I felt a strong need to break the cycle so my daughter wouldn't inherit all the hang-ups I had (well, I tried).

There is still more to write about, much that didn't make it into the first book. But I recorded my body landscape changes during first pregnancy, spoke openly about the dark side of mothering (at home, alone, cooped up in winter like a purdah), and also the mixed blessings and joys of breastfeeding (gorgeous blissful moments vs needle-like pain), and tried to honour the friendships with other women I made at that time.

I wish there were more copies available, but it was a small print run; now I'm moving on to writing about the larger Feminine Mysteries of menarche, mothering and menopause in a non-fiction way.

I do have a menopause survey and a menstruation survey that people could fill out for my research - once i figure out how to post it on this blog. You can email me if you are interested in participating.

muchos gracias,

Felice Navidad,

musemother/jenn

Poem for Urban Earth Mama and all you moms

The Curse (written for Rhonda)

a baby in blue gingham kicks
her legs, smiles at me with teal-blue
eyes, smells of Baby's Own
spice; zinc ointment & powder
mixed with summer sweat & damp
saliva'd sheets

I see myself in her chubby arms
& thighs, this seal blubber baby.
mother said she liked girls best,
but my neighbour cried
when she knew it was a girl.
six months' pregnant
how not to become her Jewish mother?
her grandmother slapped her face
when she started her period,
slapping the curse out of her.

& me? part joy, part tears
my fears at having a girl
having to do with vaginas.
every time I change her diapers
I see we are the same:
same slit between the legs
same sweet flesh, same fear
that someone will open
this pearly oyster before its time
as they did
as he did.

from Little Mother, Hochelaga Press


I don't mean to freak anyone out with this poem, raising a girl (now 15) has been a beautiful sweet challenge
jb

Prayer to Kali

o goddess of black deeds
I have felt the knife's

fury in my wrists, the urge
to throw my baby

down the stairs, the blood
surge making me crazy

or just a lack of sleep
a fever in the chest

never enough rest
stomp yell slap bang

the knife on the counter
instead of hitting him

yet, next moment
all is calm, I soothe his

head, caress him next to
my heart, tell him I am dead

serious. I will not yell
if you don't. bargain, deal

but not beg, only
request. o ungentle goddess,

this anger
is not for him.

help me give tears to my sadness
voice to my rage

Little Mother, 1997
jennifer boire

Emotions are Gifts

Emotions come to as old friends, bringing us lessons about ourselves. The lesson may be; you can't change all of the people that make you angry, jealous or sad, but you can change yourself. (paraphrased from The Heart of the Soul, Gary Zukav and Linda Francis)

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
Still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

--Rumi,
The Essential Rumi, Coleman Barks, trans.

have an emotionally aware day :)
musemother