just another dead poet

the grand tour

the ferry ride is the best part of my day. I get to watch the city yawn & scratch her eyes, and on the way home the lighthouse on George’s island winks at me.

I recently started working across the harbour in Dartmouth. As a born-again optimist, I have discovered it holds a kind of sad beauty, but I’m also constantly overwhelmed by a grotesque and almost osmotic sense of the entire city having been forgotten or discarded although it lies so close to the bustle and (dare I say) growth of Halifax. I know every city has an ugly sister, but I’ve decided to try and pay more attention to my surroundings & get back to writing poetry. Or, as one more eloquent as myself once said — “get two birds stoned at once”.

Here’s my first offering, written today after being at work without having done anything for about 6 hours. In the simplest sense it is about my walk to work.

The grand tour

 

Vacuum cleaners named for kings

grimace in the shop window, unclean

draped in some amber casing

like fossils.

Relics of homes with carpets,

woven tapestries and rugs hugging corners.

 

Everything is for rent,

sale, trade;

abandoned, re-made

like some fold-up carnival

night carries away.

 

Men toss their first

cigarettes at 7:50, labour ready.

Dragging heads,

heavy they look past me, eyes

husky blue like shards

of glass.