Archives for posts with tag: Peterborough Poets

blessing

may all your towers Eiffel slowlike
and may the snow from skies be scant
Oh and may your peasant wicker basket
be filled with long, rich loaves and
deep aromatic cheeses from creameries of
the lowlands And may your bicycle hamper
clink and joggle weighed down with Chiantis
I hope you may sleep drunken upon
Baudelaire’s tomb wrapt warmly in a blanket
with your arms around a slightly drunken woman
dreams and dew competing in the morning
to be the first to kiss your eyelids

poetry by Ian David Arlett, graphic by Ward Maxwell

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zoundz                                            God is listening
to his radio. Hangin oat in Space. Playing
hide and seek with hewman race. The
gobbledygooks from the planet URP.US.
Le sel de la térre. The essential hewman.
And hewomen.

                                            God is listening
hanging out in space with a wide
smile on his face. He digs the vibrations.
He is having his Zounds in His
unmotorized heavens.

Poem and illustration by Ian David Arlett

 

ol MacD
Old McDonald had a farm, eeyi eeyi oh
Until big business closed him down eeyi eeyi oh
With a middle man here and a middle man there
Here a production quota, there a price freeze
Put every farmer on his knees
Old McDonald lost his shirt
And got plowed underground.

(on the occasion of an alternative food event in Peterborough, circa 1978) 

 

 

Driving the coast with a friend
he turns the radio on.
Im looking out at those gulf islands
Hey what you want that for eh
I say   looking out at those islands
lying like green whales.
And now in Ontario, driving the highway alone,
snow clouds above my head like fat whale bellies,
I turn the radio on.

© riley tench 1976/2014

This post ends the P’bo Poets. I’d like to thank Mike Dennis, Garth Douglas, Richard Harrison, Catherine Jenkins, John Tench and Rob Wipond. In fond memory of Ian David Arlett, Riley Tench and Dennis Tourbin.
The blog is going to go on a short hiatus for recharging.
Thanks for your support.
Ward Maxwell

See my fingers
see theyre black
see theyre burnt
(the flesh, the yellow fat rendered from the white bone)

Head is cracked: grey jelly boils
(soup of the head of a long pig)

An eye turns
(squeezed like soft fruit)

A pickled tongue
(vinegar and sweet herbs)

Bloody semen pools in the pit of the stomach
(lies like sauce on a thigh)

Ground under the feet is a block
(a grin from a second mouth)

Poet bleeds from many wounds
(poem: eaten by many mouths)

Riley Tench 1976/2014

When you see the title Peterborough Poets — that is Riley’s creation. I commenced this trophe of the blog not only to highlight all the wonderful poets I interacted with but to focus attention on Riley and the impact he had. Riley did not create the Peterborough Poets — but he laid the table they we sat at and dined at … and … he sat at the centre. Riley loved poetry — wm

i quiver like gut
im lost in a foul confusing way

yessir im cornered alright!

o i sing like string
by giant fingers plucked
and o im fearful, floating like feathers

its like — yes! —
a raw Chicken Wing!
yellow fat under white skin, th bone twists

o i sing like string

wing 2

listen ill tell ya about th chicken wing
what is see     say
yuv found ths chickn wing in th street
yu pick it up start playn with it
yur showin off fr yr frends
thrown it aroun walkin fancy swing it like a cane
fly whtit jump upanddown eat it beat it
wile thsis goin on yr frends
ar gettn in th car     ther goin away
yuv cum out to say gud by rite?
an yuv found ths chikn wng
wich binow is limp an grey
an as yu stand ther wavn gudby wth the chikn wing
(standn alon in th street wavn gudby wth the chikn wing)
yu kno wat it is
th bone u th chikn wng mvs loos wthin th skin now
fat an muscl hang whn yu shake it
its like yuv stopd on citystreetcornr
tu stand ther in th roar you kno sumthngs goin on
yu see th sky yu feel muvment wthin ya like th wing   chiknwng

© Riley Tench 1976/2014

white room, four lights
the girl has red eyes, they reflect crescent moons
planes that fall into each other
exploding into a vacuum pupil. a star
she speaks, no words.
I speak, I think; I think, I understand,
she laughs. what can you understand? she asks
I cant bring myself to

Ward Maxwell, © 1976/ 2914
<another poem from Borders — wm>

its not th collectivity
nor th grande passions
wich do that eloquent liberation mayk
but rather the quiet playss
with tongues entwind
flesh within flesh, th
odors an slick juices
still present on th skin an lips

© Riley Tench, 1976/201

this is the first poem of Riley’s in the book Borders — wm

last night’s post I attributed to Riley Tench — was by me — whoops

Foolish dream
uv liberty/ yu
are now complete/
yr lost boys
run thru yr
streets/ taking
what they want/
y’cant ‘stop them
that wd not
be yr way/
now yr confused/
aren’t ya just
a little afraid/
C’mon admit
the lost boys hav
found yr home/
now, yr your own/
reluctant guest

© Ward Maxwell, 1976/2014

In 1976, when Riley and I rented an apartment together in Peterborough, attended Trent U. and furiously wrote, read, breathed poetry together, I published my first book — a collection of poems of Riley’s and mine, titled Borders. Hilary (now Shaalah) Monk typed the poems onto Gestetner sheets, Joe Stable drew illustrations directly onto said sheets, I ran them off in the basement of Sandy Stewart’ 2nd hand book store where I worked (The Bookstore — eloquent) and Bruce Rivard hand bound the books.

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