Plan

I plan to ask my students to find poems, as in found poem, as in look through these books I picked from a scrap heap to find language that might work in a new context--on your page, say, made into lines, retitled. (Mine's called "Floor Care", from a janitorial services company adspam that sneaks through the fax machine at Luther.)
When I'd sorted sorting through the books, someone asked me what I was looking for. I wasn't sure how to answer. But as I flipped the books, lifting piles in boxes, I began to see that any sort of classifying--of aircraft, mangement technique, biology, human behaviour, anything else--begged to be lifted and set down as new language. Captions for charts, reference systems, ordering--same thing. Lutheran ministerial manuals, I noticed, didn't work. Or science fiction novels.
John Geiger's account of uncovering the freeze-dried body of John Torrington, circa 1837 (the body, not the account), will prove fruitful for whoever slits through it this afternoon, I hope.
I may tell my students the story of finding a poem in an issue of Propellor Maintenance. I can't remember where or why I'd be reading that magazine, but the poem was called "Maintenance"--I don't have a copy on me at the moment. (Readers interested--good morning to you, Aunt Murphy and Uncle Jean--may consult the thin Gerald Hill segment (which I prefer to the fat Gerald Hill segment), in the U of R Archives.) Sub-headings included "Waxing the Tips" and "Leading Edge". The poem ended with a hearty "good luck!", which all propellor maintainers seem to need. I loved that poem because my poetic was built-in.
I did attempt to re-capture the machine moment when, over a succression of cold mornings at St. Peter's Abbey, I sat in the front seat of my Olds, a '89 Delta 88, I'd owned for a week. It was field work--sitting in the Olds, looking around--but the immediate task was to thumb through the Manual to read about some system or other on this Olds, which in '89 would have been best in its class by far, its innovations unimagined by my former wheels, a rusted-out Datsun pick-up. To make more of this story I'd claim that my poetic showed up here too, in the manual, for me to write down. "Getting to Know Your Oldsmobile" said the manual. That's all I needed.
While I'm at it with these books, this afternoon: cut-ups.

Embraceable You

If I hear anyone say "embrace winter" anymore, I'll plough him/her right in the face. That's how bad things are. Pretty soon the automatic chickenwire fence gate that opens for condo owners in the Balfour won't be able to close again.
Other reasons for my mood have been proposed, actively, but I blame weather. I say this with Clifford Brown on the box, a trumpetous winter. And I can see hair blowing off someone's head, south wind on the alley.
I'm trying not to project my dread onto others. But even here I have not succeeded.
Along comes Al Di Meola, following Clifford on my playlist. Once, driving from Rocky into Calgary on a Friday night, I had to pull over, because Di Meola seemed to be paralyzing every frame of my body with that guitar of his. Elegant Gypsy is the name of the disc, if you're interested. (Come to think of it, who would be?)
I'm going out there now. Down to Atlantis to read my students' poems.
If not back by sunset, I'm snowed in.

One Saturday Night Not Long Ago

I watched soccer, I watched curling, I watched hockey, I watched page 45 of The Best Canadian Poetry in English (2012), I watched United Artists day on TCM, I watched this screen. Recipe book, windshield, aisle 7 at Safeway, stopwatch on my phone. Pretty soon I'll catch the opening at Neutral Ground.
I just thought of a reason: all day today I'd planned on working with Don Kerr, my editor on the Hillsdale book. Don had to cancel so we'll do it next weekend.
To get ready for Don I assembled a "page of propositions aboutHillsdale Book", a list of queries I'd noted in December (when I last gave the ms a good reading), a new poem, and binder worth of small changes to the ms I'd sent NeWest from Banff last May. Don will have his own notes, I'm sure. He's already told me that a certain section is not to his liking.
That's so next weekend now. Later tonight I'll catch the first half of West Side Story, the last half of Stoughton-Martin from the Brier.

The Good News

The Leafs look great in Philly tonight. Kessel just scored, but even before that. The bad news is that they've embraced goonery to become a top team. Guys whose job it is to drop their gloves and beat on the other team's goon(s). Way to goon, Leafs!
I'm not immune to deriving pleasure from the team's recent form.
As I was saying, the bad news is that I'll be leaving soon to catch tonight's Vertigo reading at Crave.
I didn't mean it like that.
But maybe I can sneak into the bar for the last ten minutes of the third.

For Alice Velma Hill, 1915-2013

I salute our mom in those daytime hours

in the city after dry years and war years
and small town years. Here was
a new house, the first
she and dad ever owned, beige
split-level, nothing around but mud.

I salute our mom in those daytime hours

in her picture window, bedrooms (four)
bathrooms (two), L-shaped
living room, rumpus room and new
washer/dryer. It must have been quiet
with dad at work, us kids at school.

I salute our mom in those daytime hours.

We rushed home at noon for lunch
and dad lay down for a snooze
and we all rushed off leaving mom
the housework and shopping,
the Thursday afternoons at the rink.

I salute our mom in those daytime hours.

After school we’d practice
our piano or horn to play
“I Left My Heart in San Francisco”.
Mom from the kitchen would say
“I like that one”.

I salute our mom in those daytime hours

we always came home to.

An Old Movie

"Twice each day for the rest of your life you will examine your conscience", says the boss nun-in-training. Cut to a series of shots of apprentice nuns, including Audrey Hepburn, examing their conscience, voice-over listing the imperfections. "I left a light on last night."
My conscience tells me we like old movies because they let us make-believe the made-believe. We can tell ourselves stories about stories.
Now they're snipping Hepburn's hair and pulling on her first cowl. She prays. Fred Zinniman shoots this and other scenes straight up. Every woman's face showing utter lack of will. The men up at the front, the priest and his associates, look bored.
"Sister, you make a beautiful nun," say the patients, when she returns to duty on her ward. They applaud. Hepburn blushes. Later she tells another new nun, "We shouldn't blush, I'm sure we shouldn't".
"Go write it in your notebook, says the other.

Grumpy

I don't know why I'm so grumpy these days. (To my readers--that's you, Uncle John and Aunt Deere--quipping big surprise or something more original, pipe down.)
This afternoon I scolded a student for showing up to her first class two and a half weeks into the semester.
When someone in the office asked me how's Gerry today, I said why am I so grumpy. She showed me her plastic bracelet, which says Have a complaint free day. Without the hyphen.
I seem to need someone to grump at.
Maybe I made a mistake laying Best Canadian Poetry (in English) 2012 on my first-year students. I'm you-know-what about that too.
Tomorrow Connie Gault's visiting my creative writing class. That should be fun.