Devour: Art & Lit Canada is dedicated to the Canadian voice.
ISSN 2561-1321 Issue 012
Devour Art & Lit Canada
Find some of Canada’s finest authors, photographers and artists featured in every issue.
Thank you Darrell Chocolate for all of your fabulous paintings. The cover is a detail of this full image.
Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Antler Shedding
Darrell Chocolate is an award winning Dene artist living north of Yellowknife, Northwest Territories. He is originally from a small isolated community called Gameti from the Tlicho region, just north of Yellowknife. He sells his artwork privately and does com missioned pieces upon request. In 2019, Darrell was awarded the Northwestel phone book cover. You can find him at: www.darrellchocolatefineart.com
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The mission of
Devour: Art and Lit Canada
is to promote Canadian culture by bringing world-wide readers some of the best Canadian visual and literary arts.
ISSN 2561-1321 Issue 012 Winter 2021–22 5 Greystone Walk Drive Unit 408 Toronto, Ontario M1K 5J5 DevourArtAndLitCanada@gmail.com Frong and Back Cover Painting – Darrell Chocolate Editor-in-Chief – Richard M. Grove Layout and Design – Richard M. Grove
Welcome to this 12th issue of Devour: Art & Lit Canada. As usual we are bringing you some of Canada’s most talented painters, writers, poets and photographers. This is the first time that we are featuring an indigenous artist; welcome to these pages, Darrell Chocolate. Always turn and chat to the people that are sitting beside you. You might be surprised at who you get to meet. Kim and I were blessed guests, invited by personal friends, P&C, to the Salvation Army Christmas concert at Toronto’s, Roy Thompson Hall. I had the delight of having a world class tenor singing in my right ear as we sang through our masks to a few Christmas carols. It turned out to be Robert Pilon. During one of my prodding chit chats with him he told me that he had been a guest Tenor on that very stage for a previous Salvation Army Christmas concert. Here I was, my right ear being sung to with the clarity and joy of the best of the best. I gave him my card and pressed him to send me the link to his websites. Now I can say I have been personally sung to by Robert Pilon. Click the link and see the video shout out to covid front line workers. You will enjoy his rendition of Amazing Grace – https://robertpilon.com/video/toronto-grace-health-centre-tribute/ .
Reach out beyond the fear of covid cocooning with joy and be surprised at who you might meet and be blessed by. Richard M. Grove, otherwise known to friends as Tai
Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Arctic Muskox
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Devour Content Featu r e s: –
Feature Artist – Darrell Chocolate – Front and Back Cover – Paintings on – pages 4, 6, 8 to 15
– Poetry Canada: – Editor Bruce Kauffman – p.16 - 18 – Poetry and photo Selection – p.19 - 40 –
Canada in Review with Section Editor, Shane Joseph – p.41 – 51
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Wally Keeler aka Poetician – p.52
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Percy Adler – a music review – p.53
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Canada: Coast to Coast to Coast Photos Photos Photos Photos
by by by by
Curator, Andrey Litviakov – p.54 - 57 Guest, Alex Kunert – p.58 - 61 Guest, Marie-Lynn Hammond – p.62 - 53 Guest, Ann Di Nardo – p.64 - 67
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Award Winning, The Blue Dragonfly
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Thank you, April Bulmer
– p.70 - 73
D e vour : A r t and Li t Canada
– p.68 - 69
Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: North Star
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Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Evening Dance
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Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Intigenous Grandmother
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Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Artist Self-Wedding Portrait
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Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Winter Road
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Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Planes Docked at Yellowknife Bay
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Artist’s Story I have been drawing since I was in kindergarten. My teachers would have us work on art projects in class and I used to love how she filled her pictures with beautiful colors. It was intriguing and inspiring to me. I also believe that my artistic abilities have been passed down from my Ancestors. My mom does a lot of sewing and beading. Her mom did the same, and her dad used to do wood working. My dad likes to draw, and his mom could make everything: jackets, fur hats, mitts, dog harnesses, you name it! Creativity runs in our family. Even though drawing and painting come to me naturally, it took many years of practice to get to where I am today. When I was in high school, my friends knew I was an artist and they would ask me to draw athletes that they admired. I still have these drawings in my personal portfolio because they are so important to me. I taught myself how to paint in 2009 when a colleague asked if I would do a portrait of him and his wife for their anniversary. I had never used acrylic paint before, but I watched some videos online and picked up the techniques. The portrait I made looked exactly like them and it motivated me to continue! There are a lot of artists out there who have a lot of talent, so when people come to me asking about portraits, it makes me feel good that I have the ability to do it. My focus on realism seems to be what catches people’s attention. I get a lot of requests to paint portraits of loved ones, as well as portraits of Elders and Chiefs. Each painting is worth a thousand words – from the expression on their face and their posture, you can tell if they’re happy or working hard. In that way, each painting carries a story of its own. I am very meticulous when I paint people’s faces, making sure that the expressions and shadows are just right. I put a lot of focus on the details, such as the shape of the eyes, the jawline, the ears, the hair, the wrinkles on the clothes, the direction of the wind. It all takes a lot of time and effort, but I enjoy the process. Capturing the image exactly as it is in real life down to the smallest details is what I like the most about painting. I also love to see the expressions on my customer’s faces when they receive the final product.
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Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Last of the Mohican Scene
Painting makes me feel calm and at home; it’s therapeutic. I get my inspiration from the land. When you grow up here, you see all the natural beauty of the North. The landscape, the clear water, the leaves turning yellow in the Fall, the purple sky at the horizon in the Winter, the animals – those natural elements are all very inspiring to me. I take a lot of photographs when I go out on the land to capture the scenery, and then I use these photographs to paint on canvas. As for the next generation in my family, my daughter likes to color a lot and my oldest son really loves to draw too. They like to pick up the little habit that their dad has, so when they are not at school, I let them watch me paint sometimes. In return, they like to ask a lot of questions and I do my best to teach them what I know.
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Bruce Kauffman “Poetry Canada” Editor
Bruce Kauffman lives in Kingston and is a poet and editor. His latest collection of poetry, an evening’s absence still waiting for moon, was published in 2019. He facilitates intuitive writing workshops, and hosts the monthly and the journey continues open mic reading series begun in 2009, and also produces & hosts the weekly spoken word radio show, finding a voice, on CFRC 101.9fm he began in 2010.
parallel lives there are those times those outside worlds those aether-worlds universes parallel becoming then landscape where words find themselves your art takes form becomes
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and as you we visit that place those places we leave behind this skeletal/muscle/carbon shell taking then only our breath and our ink as we go
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motion the wait the width of days has slid away as easily and as difficultly as day itself slips into evening there is a dull still newness outside this window a carpet of ashes covers the full of the floor the smoke of history filling the room now finding any breeze to carry it away i watch it all it becomes me transition crawls its almost immeasurable pace and here for me simply sitting watching becomes the motion of the day Send us your photographs for the next issue to: DevourArtAndLitCanada@gmail.com Send your poems to Bruce Kauffman: bruce.kauffman@hotmail.com
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watching after all these years after all those years of always sitting with my back to the wall this morning i forgot or perhaps subconsciously willed myself to sit in the open become exposed in it and feeling then an initial vulnerability in it but in a quick wave that passes
and funny, eh? how in an instant you re-discover openness discover it neither rigid nor cold but soft, instead soft like satin like a breath like a breath like a
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Poetry Canada Poetry Editor: Bruce Kauffman Photo Editor: Richard M. Grove
Allan Briesmaster Thornhill, Ontario abriesmaster@outlook.com
Natural Musings Thornhill Cemetery, Oct. 19, 2021
Some trees in this place know the year went wrong. Their summery green continues, long and longer than ever. No prompt, no chill to help them let go. So like and unlike the trees, you plan to stay as you were, last further than conventional time of death. And can you somehow justify an added span? Maybe by giving better – returning, gratefully, and intent on well-earning; moreover, to yield what, for you (if not for the wounded world), will be new. Ally those efforts with natural cold. Lessen your weight on the soil. Withhold your smear of soot. De-fuel the burn. Let the trees themselves feel what they would.
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Colin Morton Ottawa, Ontario colinmorton@sympatico.ca
From the File of Unfinished Novels Post-apocalyptic tales came first. Child’s play: what’s the worst that could happen? Horrorshow. Next, Literature: nothing’s tragic enough; you can’t fake it. Then meta-fiction, as if to admit you can’t fake makes it. Also, fables: Wise Animals I Have Known; generations of dreamers trying to wake, or wake the corpse beside them. Parents with toxic waste to dump; children with songs to sing; the implicated observer. All these I depose to the archives. All but this one page torn from a blue-ruled notebook left blank from classes unattended. This page written instead of assignments long past due.
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Alex Kunert
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Dinh Le Doan Beaconsfield, Québec phung7170@gmail.com
Stories Heard at the Lake The lake’s sleeping in the dark. But its sleep’s woefully disturbed. Geese have descended. How did they find the lake in the faint starlight? Yet their harsh voices shatter the stillness as they talk. Or tell their stories. Stories of the hazards they encountered. Stories about those whom they knew who are now absent. Stories of a species of migrants. And in the morning, trees converse in bright autumn colours along the shore. Maples and birches talk and conifers whisper to the young trees the old tales passed down through generations of the times when their ancestors migrated here in ancient ships which rode the currents of the air. None was a native and yet they stood guard for this shore.
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Ellen S. Jaffe Toronto, Ontario esjaffe@outlook.com
What I Want What I want is another summer sweet as plums and fresh-picked raspberries — even if I’m just sitting on my deck wrapped in a blanket, swaddled. Physicists debate about time, some say it doesn’t exist, except, perhaps, in our minds — life, the universe, just a series of discrete moments, shorter than nanoseconds apart. But what of carbon-dating, dinosaur bones, the rise and fall of mountains and of glaciers? My son changing from embryo to infant, child to adult, and the tree we planted the year of his birth, a tiny sapling, now taller than the house? Sunrises, sunsets, ocean tides ? I prefer Einstein’s idea of spacetime, the two inseparable as we live inside its curving, imperfect fabric. November now, leaves raining from the ash trees in our courtyard. Eight or nine months until another summer. I want.
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Glen Sorestad Saskatoon, Saskatchewan sorstd@sasktel.net
Snow in the Big Bend I wasn’t there when it snowed. I didn’t have to be. I am no stranger to snow, have known it so well for so long. No snow lies in my memories of the Big Bend, not even a flake. My recall holds only aridness and heat. Though I remember a green-ness where one would assume it should not be — on this vast sea of ongoing surprise. Why should snow not fall in a desert? Spare earth refuses nothing, accepts what is given, sustains its own survival.
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John Di Leonardo Brooklin, Ontario johndileonardo@gmail.com
For Love If there is a love it glows by half among suns and moons and stars filling loopholes that dim fate forgot so — extend your hand that I may spark your hazy smile yet to glow and fill us whole to the end of light
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Cindy Conlin
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John Tyndall London, Ontario
Tamarack One last time at the cottage reclining on a chaise-longue in dappled tamarack shade I gaze over the fen’s savannah grasses, wildflowers, and cedars to the Fishing Islands: little Cigar larger Whitefish farther offshore afloat in sparkling waters, looking like waveforms of bird song The sou’westerly breezes shake soft-leafed branches and twigs of the old tamarack in the sand when I feel … what do I feel Are they pins and needles or minute nerve pains in my limbs I glance down at the arms of the lounge chair and behold miniature spots like faery teardrops and there a worker ant feeds on the sweet sap of the larch her fare like heavenly manna I do not pretend that a tree is weeping in the summer sun for it cannot endure human sadness As I accept the inevitable sale of the tamarack and my heritage only I am crying, for my loss
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Kate Marshall Flaherty Toronto, Ontario katemarshallflaherty@gmail.com
Gabriel After Sharon Old’s My Son the Man
Seems he was in tune with some robin-song 5am dawning, the way he’d snuffle awake, figured out how to escape his cot, his morning eyes keen for the masking tape arrows I’d stuck to the carpet. He loved the muffin tin I’d leave by the window: raisins, cheese, nuts and small green broccoli trees in each depression. Little cups of surprises, not touching. He’d amuse himself, two fingers pinching little treats like a beak, humming his early-bird tune. A friend told me once he was a sunrise child. Wise to things shimmering up. I imagine his wedding next year, know he plans it after work, picking colours with his sweet. They want to do it by themselves, make a gift of it. I ‘ve been saving my own secret twigs and bills, little nest egg for such a day. Funny how fragile the mention of helping, brittle blue chip of an offer to pay— they want to do it their way.
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This morning I store the stacking baking tins, sprinkle birdseed on the patio, crack open the coffee can, watch a v of geese; imagine him walking down the aisle, between his dad and me, full fledged man.
Cindy Conlin
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Cindy Conlin
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Katherine L. Gordon Guelph, Ontario kanddgordon@porchlight.ca
Something Matters I loved a philosopher once who taught me about Nihilism, insisting nothing matters, we are all accidents of evolution, gods and angels our constructs of stray molecules drifting inside an uncaring cosmos. When I lay within his arms the rapture was true and extreme a comfort against every peril, even those we only dream. When he left I tried to reason but the anguish overwhelmed the pain was all too real, a shattered heart that could not heal. I am adrift in all those meaningless molecules, perhaps some of them will take me in, without him I do feel that nothing else exists. Has he an answer if I find an angel to carry me away beyond all hurt and sensation to a place where dwells some consolation in a body that so fiercely claims to matter?
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Keith Inman Thorold, Ontario inman@vaxxine.com
The Truth About Swifts from dover’s hillside overlooking erie we watch swifts swirl under soaring vultures as light gleams on grey waves stretching and relaxing around boaters and swimmers as an updraft eagle hunts above and you recall the rifles and canons of boyhood on a farm a reformation for the quick and the dead you said never knowing who the quick were though you knew the dead we walk to a beach restaurant eat fish dipped in sweet sauce and sip craft beer as a horde of crying gulls lift ahead of violet rolling clouds that quickly churn the lake and sky into a graphite mass of rushing wind collapsing a patio umbrella inside-up as our’s lifts-off but we latch onto it before it crashes onto the next table the storm moving inland on the drive home i catch up to this back-lit kaleidoscope of roiling navy clouds flashing with light above the attercliff canadian reform school which i mis-read as afterlife reform in the slow god-stomped-water splashing up the road curves into fenced farmland that swallows me
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Mary Ann Mulhern Poet Laureate of Windsor Windsor, Ontario Maryannmulhern6@gmail.com
Forgotten Graves Who were the children Forced to enter a Residential School In Kamloops, British Columbia What were their names Before Baptism washed away identity Ties with family Ancestors who read signs in the sky Followed rivers to the sea Spoke to their brothers Deer, foxes, moose, bears Shared eternal forests Respected islands and streams All the bounty bestowed on men Who were the 215 children Hidden in shallow graves No names anywhere No parent ever informed “Your child has died”. We must place every child In the arms of family Restore every name Give them back to their people To their God.
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Nancy M Bell Rocky View County, Alberta emilypikkasso@gmail.com
River of Dust Silvery sylphs slip and slide Along the crests of the river’s ripples Sun and snow increase the flow Every spring when the mountains melt Glaciers groan and creak in their icy valleys Ancient and timeless etched in blue Advancing and retreating over the eons The toes of the terminal moraines mark the battle lines Slowly the hoary behemoths are losing Fresh snow compressing and joining Slower that the leading face is melting Mystic iridescent blue ice morphing into Milky glacier silt in the great river What will the dry lands of the Canadian prairies do When the last glacier has slipped down the mountain And the river runs dry with dust
Previously published in Through the Door (chapbook – self-publ. 2010)
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Robyn Marie Butt Woodstock, Ontario robynmariebutt@gmail.com
Cardinals I’ve always seen you as a red cardinal. Jaunty, familial a faithful spouse, sharing childcare, preserving territory, protective of your nest and wife. Your favourite colour red, which you both wore and often gave. Fond of bargains, free birdseed peanut factory sweepings roll-ends of paper town printer leftovers you brought home for the kids to draw on. A farm burgeoned under your ministrations your children fell asleep to stories you read them after you yourself were nodding off , labour-weary over the memorized words. I long ago memorized words that mean you. Watched you exit at last the long nod of your final years: gift of story for those still willing to discern the generous plot and thank you.
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Susan McMaster Ottawa, Ontario smcmaster@ncf.ca
As the Light Moves A rainbow glow on my cheek from the prism in the window as the sun angles across an afternoon with friends. I would never have seen it except for the computer screen that links us, but keeps us boxed, separate, far from any touch – but for this one moment, draws us together under one arc of all colours of sky.
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Teresa Hall Scarborough, Ontario thallartist@gmail.com
Sandhill and Whooping Cranes In ancient tongues they spoke of how the world once was. Remembering thousands of miles of olden flyways taken, knowing from primal instincts formed so long ago, each route, traced by excited murmurings of rivers running along green delta shores. Caught in the distance, vanilla ribbons hovered ready for their weary flight to end. On outstretched wings they’d flown and met the setting sun’s orange glow disappearing beneath our planet’s rim, then dropping one by one, pale moonlight’s reflection greeted them. Down to the earth and water’s edge they spread their eager wings to dance, as kindred spirits watched in awe, marveling at their fluid grace. For we were once this way, one with the Earth. Our primeval memories almost forgotten, nudged back to life by thousands of these faithful travellers bound for this last place.
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Photographer unknown
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Antony Di Nardo Sutton, Quebec dinardoa@me.com
Red for Tai
That colour, that one and only colour, occupies centre stage and takes a bow That one colour, burning hot as fire up against the curtain drawn tight and white as snow That one fire, stark and bright as the flag on a white-tailed deer, bounding up and gone beneath the boughs That leap, sharp as eyes can read the contrast, two colours juxtaposed and real as winter, the true north strong and heading for the trees
Ann Di Nardo Sutton, Quebec
The Day Before We Left The lake, magnificent, a rocking, tossing, frothing, bucking plume of blue a tremendous crushing force, whiplash and jet-slap, spitting out liquid tongues and mighty sprays with a breadth and power to swallow us whole and keep us here for good.
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Ann Di Nardo
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Canada
in
Review
Review Editor Sha n e J o se p h
As 2021 winds down, it was very much like 2020, less frightening perhaps, for we had hope in vaccines to combat the pandemic that still plagues us. And we had books to sustain the lonely hours of isolation, books that took us into crazier worlds than ours, to reassure us that we could also get through, no matter what is thrown at us. For this edition, we have reviewed five books: two Giller Prize nominees (including one that won the prize in 2017), a science fiction novel, a comedy, and a literary romance. These books range from big publishers to small ones, but the quality of the writing stands out in each, no matter their source. We hope you like these reviews, and that they will tempt you to sample the books themselves. Season’s Greetings! Shane Joseph Book Reviews Editor
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Title: Bellevue Square Author: Michael Redhill ISBN: 9780385684835 Number of Pages: 262 Published Year: 2017 Reviewed by Shane Joseph
Many have asked the question “What is happening in this book? What is the author trying to say?” And many have left those questions hanging discreetly rather than probing the wisdom of a Giller Prize wining author, whose book, this one, won that award in 2017. As much as the doppelganger has been a much-used conceit in fiction, if I have to hazard a guess regarding motive, I think Redhill was simply trying to kill off his pseudonym, Inger Ash Wolfe, who was becoming more commercially bankable than him. Though written in easy prose, the jerkiness and gaps in the narrative, the unreliable narrator, and the amount of detail that is withheld makes for a confusing read. On the surface, Jean, a forty-something bookseller, with a loving and protective family, hears third-party accounts of her doppelganger, Ingrid, frequenting Belleview Square located in the Kensington Market area of Toronto. Jean becomes obsessed with finding Ingrid and haunts Belleview at all hours. Then people start dying. And the reader begins to suspect that the problem is with Jean, not her double. The subject matter is topical because it focusses on mental illness in the big city. There are many of us who walk by each other on the street, suffering yet hiding our illnesses of the mind due to the stain they bear. As Jean says, “If it’s just another illness that can be cured by medicine, why should there be a stigma?” In the process of her peregrinations, she meets some quirky characters haunting Bellevue Square; drug addicts, dope peddlers, photographers, pavement hawkers, immigrants, food-sellers, temporary rabbis— eccentric or mad, as judged by us sane people, but all very interesting within the pages of fiction. Having frequented that area of Toronto myself during many literary outings, the setting had particular appeal to me.
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After a shocking revelation midway, the tables are turned, and Jean becomes the victim, struggling to prove her sanity and reclaim her “oneness” that can only come if the double is outed and destroyed. The double, who seems to have the same life and relationships as Jean, is trying to do the same thing. Or is this one big experiment by the doctors who are using Jean and Ingrid as lab rats? That’s when things get a bit weird and the chase leads to a literary conference in the wilderness (obviously a familiar setting for the author) for the final, nail-biting showdown. The ending sounded like a bit of a soap opera after we had been immersed in highly complex medical conditions like asymmetrical autoscopy, micro-angioma, schwannomas, and mind games, and it made me wonder who the good guys and bad guys were. I was left also wondering whether this novel was Giller material at all, or whether Redhill’s time to bag the award had come up due to his copious contributions to CanLit over the years, and that his next book, any book, this one, was to be his ticket to the prize? I was unable to answer that question as much as I was unable to piece together all the open ends in this narrative. Perhaps the recipe to winning the Giller is to write a book so open to diverse interpretations that readers will puzzle for days over it before finally shaking their heads, shrugging their shoulders, and saying, “This is beyond me – therefore, it must be a masterpiece!” Past masters of obfuscation like Joyce, Lowry and Pynchon must be smiling. Author: Michael Redhill is an American-born Canadian poet, playwright and novelist. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, Redhill was raised in the metropolitan Toronto, Ontario area. He pursued one year of study at Indiana University, and then returned to Canada, completing his education at York University and the University of Toronto. He was on the editorial board of Coach House Press from 1993 to 1996, and is currently the publisher and editor of the Canadian literary magazine Brick. Bellevue Square won the Giller Prize in 2017.
Reviewer: Shane Joseph is a Canadian novelist, blogger, reviewer, short story writer and publisher. He is the author of six novels and three collections of short stories. His latest novel, Circles in the Spiral, was released in October 2020. For details visit his website at www.shanejoseph.com
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Title: Fight Night Author: Miriam Toews ISBN: 9780735282391 Number of Pages: 264 pages Published Year: 2021 Reviewed by: Shane Joseph
A multi-generation, women-only, family story told with sensitivity and wit by the member of the youngest generation in line, Swiv, a teenager, I presumed, and a much pleasanter female version of Holden Caulfield. The hero of the piece is Grandma Elvira, suffering from a gamut of age-related illnesses and who could die at any moment. Yet Grandma laughs about the vicissitudes of life, and her advice to Swiv is “fight – against patriarchy, pain, and against all forms of injustice,” advice that gets Swiv suspended from school and forced to care for Grandma and her pregnant mother, Mooshie. Mom is another character , embodying “fight” to the hilt. Mom is a struggling stage actor, fighting for meaningful roles, fighting with directors, fighting discrimination by exploitative producers, fighting guilt for having affairs with men just to fill the hole in her own life, and always in a snit; “scorched earth” is her approach to anyone who opposes or frustrates her. This trio of women soldier on in the same household, fighting and loving each other, for the only men in their lives are either dead (Grandpa), run away (Dad), or, in the case of Swiv, still to make an appearance, although our teenage heroine thinks that the smell of “T”’s chest in California is pretty cool, and she has his phone number. The book is divided into two halves - not quite the way Grandma saws her books into sections to digest them more easily – the first half dedicated to the three women’s quotidian lives in Toronto, and the second half to chronicle a trip that Grandma and Swiv take to Fresno, California to visit relatives for the last time. This is where I got the sense of a strong parallel between this novel and Toews’ The Flying Troutmans: another multi-generational story dominated by women, another road trip down south, another round of fantastical happenings and erratic behaviour that is hard to keep up with, without losing credibility. In fact, I wondered whether an American connection was required just to maintain book sales and international acceptance.
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I will not go into recounting all the antics that Swiv and her grandmother get into, for that would amount to spoilers, suffice to say, that at some point we know this game is going to end. Grandma is going to wear herself out, despite her philosophy that “Pain - it is not those who can inflict it the most, but those who can suffer it the most who will conquer.” Yet, before the final whistle, Grandma gets to fly in an airplane, go boating and drinking, drive her own convertible, and literally kick up a storm in a nursing home in Fresno, all this while travelling to the USA with insufficient medical insurance coverage. The final scene in the hospital back in Toronto is sad and funny at the same time, where three members of the family go inside and three come out, but not without tragedy and joy in their wake. I found the writing style to be even more unorthodox than The Flying Troutmans. In that previous book, although there were no quote marks to separate dialogue from narrative, each distinct line of dialogue spoken by a character had its own paragraph. In this book, dialogue (even by two or more characters) and narrative are dumped together into dense paragraphs, identified by a lot of unnecessary “I said”s and “she said”s. Perhaps Toews was trying to present the writing of an unformed teenager, Swiv, but I got the impression she was copying that other master of denseness, Jose Saramago. Despite these quirks, this is a heart-rending story. Now I have to read the Giller prize winning novel to find out why Toews, who has put in her time over the years and perfected the multi-generational girl-power novel to a fine art, was denied the prize this year. Author: Miriam Toews is a Canadian writer of Mennonite descent. She grew up in Steinbach, Manitoba and has lived in Montreal and London, before settling in Winnipeg, Manitoba. Her 2004 novel, A Complicated Kindness, was her breakthrough work, spending over a year on the Canadian bestseller lists and winning the Governor General’s Award for English Fiction. Fight Night was shortlisted for the Giller Prize 2021. Reviewer: Shane Joseph is a Canadian novelist, blogger, reviewer, short story writer and publisher. He is the author of six novels and three collections of short stories. His latest novel, Circles in the Spiral, was released in October 2020. For details visit his website at www.shanejoseph.com
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Title: Isadora’s Dance Author: Donna Wootton ISBN: 9781927882641 Number of pages: 210 Published Year: 2021 Reviewed by Liz Torlée Oh, what a tangled web, indeed! Donna Wootton’s novel Isadora’s Dance takes us on a very surprising journey, twisting and turning, leaping ahead, racing up sideroads, all of which has us wondering, a little out of breath, “what exactly is going on here?” Isadora Duncan is a young Canadian doing research at the Bodleian Library in Oxford for her PhD on Lucia Joyce, the unlucky, badly treated daughter of James Joyce. The people we meet, who will play a big role in Isadora’s life in the coming weeks, are a strange bunch indeed, including her advisor, the “tense and aloof ” Antonia Galsworthy, a perplexing woman who seems to be harbouring a secret or two; Clive, Antonia’s “big, affable” husband; and Rufus, their handsome, jet-setting, playboy son, a would-be poet. An important character in this enigmatic group is Lewis Dodgson, the librarian, whose voyeuristic fascination with Isadora has unexpected and lifechanging consequences. “It was another kind of tug, not of the heart strings, more an awakening of senses. Something more mature. Something more like an awareness. Lewis made me more aware of myself. It was unsettling and uplifting at the same time.” Through entertaining anecdote, Wootton teaches us a great deal about current and earlier times in Oxford and gives us interesting insights into the lives of a wide range of historical figures: from James Joyce himself to Sir Thomas Bodley, Lewis Carroll, Vaslav Nijinsky … all the way to Charlie Chaplin and Edward Lear. Gradually, it becomes clear that the characteristics of the friends and family of Isadora, their circumstances, their names, even sometimes their birthdays are mirroring those of creative geniuses from the past. A compelling question begins to surface: are all these connections coincidence or do they have a deeper and more prophetic import? The intrigue becomes increasingly complex when Isadora’s parents join her and the Galsworthy
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family at their villa in Italy. The dynamic between the two families and the historical parallels ramp-up the tension with shocking results. I must confess to being disappointed, however, that the sex happens off-stage, especially as it is so enthusiastically anticipated by our protagonist. Wootton certainly keeps us moving along at a fine clip. Sometimes, I became confused with the sheer number of characters, and also found the day-to-day life of Isadora a little too ‘breathless’ with explanatory detail and extraneous people. An example of this is the very start of the novel, where it takes a long time for Isadora to make her way through the airport and for her story to begin, and we become invested in details of the life of a fellow passenger, only to realize that he never shows up again. But incidents like these are easy to get past because, just around the corner, is another surprising twist to grapple with. Isadora’s quest is to understand what drove and sustained Lucia Joyce. “She wasn’t allowed to follow her own muse. That’s why I’m so interested in learning all I can about her. I want to know more about how her family crushed her independent spirit.” But what she is really searching for is love and a sharper sense of her own identity, a search that is ignited and energized by her discovery of a love of dance, the passion of her namesake. As the story closes, we are left to conclude that if we follow our muses, we may well be condemned to follow the patterns they carved so deeply, fall into the same traps they did, and make the same mistakes, but that, in the end, this may well be the best route to love and self-discovery. Isadora’s Dance is a highly imaginative and very satisfying read. Author: Donna Wootton is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. Her nonfiction book about her father, MOON REMEMBERED, was published by Ginger Press. Her novel, What Shirley Missed, was published by Hidden Brook Press. Her poetry on Cuba was published in the anthology The Divinity of Blue. https://www.dmwootton.com
Reviewer: Liz Torlée lived and worked in England and Germany before emigrating to Canada. Her fascination with the idea of fate and what is known as “coincidence” fuelled the ideas in this, her debut novel, The Way Things Fall, and her extensive travel in the Middle East and Italy inspired many of the scenes. She lives with her husband in Toronto.
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Title: Operation Angus Author: Terry Fallis ISBN: 9780771094729 Number of pages: 376 Published Year: 2021 Reviewed by Felicity Sidnell Reid In his new novel, Operation Angus, Terry Fallis once again lures readers into his own colourful fictional Ottawa, creating a humorous and clever satire, not only of Canadian politics, but also of worldwide intelligence services and classic spy thrillers. The third book following the surprising career of Angus McLintock, from Professor of Engineering to junior member of cabinet as Minister of State for International Relations, Operation Angus dives into the unlikely but strangely convincing adventures of Angus and his Chief of Staff, Daniel Addison, beginning at a conference in London discussing an imminent G8 Summit in Washington. McLintock is responsible for planning a brief side meeting between Canada’s Prime Minister and Russian President, Pudovkin, during a short stopover on his way home. Discussion of this plan takes about five minutes of meetings that seem never-ending. But later, Daniel receives an enigmatic text summoning him to a secret tryst in a nearby pub. Daniel shares this news with Angus who insists he will join Daniel at the assignation. The long-time MI6 agent they meet, who is about to retire, informs them of a plot to assassinate the Russian President in Ottawa, planned by Chechen separatists. Her boss, who has his own agenda, has refused to take her well-researched report seriously, and when Angus and Daniel try to convince their political rivals and colleagues at home of the importance of the intelligence they have received, no-one will take them seriously either. They must rely on their own efforts in a hair-raising race to stop a disaster. Though the clever twists, turns and surprises of the plot keep readers turning pages and often laughing out loud, my real engagement with the book was sealed by the quirky but lovable characters. Angus McLintock,
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honest and outspoken, is a witty warm-hearted man still mourning his dead wife, to whom he writes letters every night. A good friend and charismatic leader, his reckless bravery gets him and Daniel into terrifying situations, but in the end saves the day. Daniel Addison, as narrator, paints his own character. He believes he is timid and ordinary, but in fact, is a clever investigator, loyal to his boss and loving partner of his girlfriend, Lindsay. To his surprise, in spite of his frequently chattering teeth, when the chips are down he is as brave as anyone. Lindsay, a student of Canadian politics, is the granddaughter of Muriel Parkinson, queen of the seniors’ residence where her friend Vivian Kent has recently joined her. They’re part of a close-knit team playing an active role in averting the looming catastrophe. Action is character wrote Scott Fitzgerald and there’s plenty of action and interaction by and between the characters in this fast-paced and fun-filled novel.
Author: A two-time winner of the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour, Terry Fallis is the award-winning author of eight national bestsellers, including his most recent, Operation Angus (2021), all published by McClelland & Stewart (M&S).
Reviewer: Felicity Sidnell Reid’s poetry, short stories and reviews have been published in anthologies, on line journals and collections. Her novel, Alone: A Winter in the Woods (Hidden Brook Press, 2015) was released as an e-book in 2020. She is co-host/producer of the long running radio series on 89.7 FM, Word on the Hills (wordonthehills.com) which interviews regional authors and invites guests to read from their work. Felicity recently published a chap-book of her poems, entitled The Yellow Magnolia.
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Title: The Rage Room Author: Lisa de Nikolits ISBN: 9781771337779 Number of Pages: 300 Published Year: 2020 Reviewed by Sharon A Crawford
What if you could travel back in time to solve world problems as well as your own? The Rage Room by Lisa de Nikolits deals with just that. The time is 2055; the world has gone virtual, headed by someone called Minnie, assisted by robots and the Sacred Board. Nature is no longer natural; art and culture have bit the dust, and rage rooms are all the rage for people to vent – supposedly to stop them from committing violent crimes. De Nikolits has created a futuristic novel filled with more twists and turns than a country road married to a maze. She uses suspense, humour, imagination, science, and some very quirky characters with distinctive characteristics. Readers meet Mother, Jazza, and Ava, the latter the arch rival of de Nickolits’ main character, Sharks Buckley, who drives the plot. Buckley, Jazza, and Ava work for Williamson. Buckley is married to his daughter, Celeste. They have two young children, Bax and Sophie, whom Buckley loves dearly. Celeste is another matter. She is a slob, bisexual, and uninterested in parenting. Sharks is both a neat freak and a destroyer, once smashing all Mother’s china in a fit. He is also a master at bungling, who yo-yo-s from down-in-the-dumps pessimism to take-control optimism, believing his actions for the latter will always work. However, Sharks is full of rage and it takes over his life. All the rage rooms in the world won’t control that. When he goes on a killing spree, he tries to fix everything by travelling back in time. But each time he jumps, he arrives in his hometown of St. Polycarp at different times and in different places before the killings and must re-orient himself. He forgets that the best laid plans often go awry. He also forgets that he can’t control other people, such as co-workers Ava and Jazza, because they still have free will which doesn’t always jibe with Sharks’ plans. So, he must return often to present time, becoming weaker with every jump. With each trip to the future, Sharks Issue 012
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discovers the people in his life have changed, sometimes including their life and death status. Entrenched in Sharks’ jumps is the Eden Collective, comprised of feminists who want to return the world to its former natural state. This collective, however, is not as it seems. When Sharks finds out the truth about them, he is devastated and disturbed. As events roll into near chaos for Sharks, he makes a desperate decision. In 2055, he returns to the rage room but finds it different, with dire consequences for him. Setting is also important in futuristic novels and de Nikolits does not disappoint. The reader cannot only see, but hear, and smell the sweat running down Shark’s neck and clothes; the dead bodies lying on the stairs and sidewalks of St. Polycarp as it begins reverting to a natural existence. Then there are the two ultimate settings: the actual jumps and the rage room. The reader becomes a part of the novel. The plot, setting, and characters combine to provide an interesting dilemma - should Sharks fix his past so he can erase his fatal mistakes, or must he still suffer the consequences of his actions? The reader needs to remember the three elements of the novel as they all play a part in The Rage Room. No spoilers here. To find the answer, you must read The Rage Room. Make time to read it.
Author: Originally from South Africa, Lisa de Nikolits is an award-winning author whose work has appeared on recommended reading lists for both Open Book Toronto and the 49th Shelf, as well as being chosen as a Chatelaine Editor’s Pick and a Canadian Living Magazine Must Read. She has published ten novels that most recently includes The Rage Room. No Fury Like That was published in Italian under the title Una furia dell’altro mondo. Lisa lives and writes in Toronto and is a member of the Sisters in Crime, Toronto Chapter; Crime Writers of Canada, and the Mesdames of Mayhem. Reviewer: Sharon A. Crawford, a former journalist, writes the Beyond mystery series and hosts Crime Beat Confidential on thatchannel.com. She teaches fiction and memoir writing, belongs to Crime Writers of Canada, Sisters in Crime, Toronto Heliconian Club, and runs the East End Writers’ Group. Her most recent book is The Enemies Within Us, a memoir. Visit her website www.samcraw.com. Issue 012
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“Poetagonia is in the southern most region of Artgentina. The landscape is bardscrabble and unforgiving, rough, raw and rugged. It’s not a place for the dainty nor delicate. Paper based poems are swept mercilessly out to sea like airy nothings. A group of poets known as The Miraculous 1s, in search of a location where they could achieve detachment from human activities, constructed hospice huts made of cinder blocks. None ever endured the winter, and after three years the project was abandoned on April 25, 1937. Since then, it has attracted a few teams of arthropologists working for the National Art Hives. These five concrete poems, as rugged and raw as the landscape, commemorates The Miraculous 1s’ efforts to expand the Imagine Nation of the Peoples Republic of Poetry.” Wally Keeler aka Poetician1, is founder(1972) and director of the glorious Imagine Nation of the Peoples Republic of Poetry.
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Percy Adler 2021 Percy Nils Adler’s newest album entitled “2021” is listed in the iTunes store as “Rock”. I guess the term rock, these days, has more to do with the guitar as the primary instrument than it has to do with its historic blues roots. This so called rock album “2021” has more to do with the sound of wind blowing through the trees soughing over storm-swept branches or ice calmly xylophoning on a pebble beach. To put it in Percy Adler’s words this album is idiosyncratic music. Perhaps he uses this term with tongue-in-cheek but if he means personally eccentric and distinctive then he has hit the guitar on the head. This album has the eccentric signature of Percy Adler from start to finish. He says that all sounds are generated by himself on manually played guitars. The drum sounds are sometimes guitars with a welding rod inserted in the strings. Even though only seven tracks the full album mellows in at over 40 minutes of well-seasoned acoustic harmony. You will be taken on a ride from calm tranquility to a sorrowing bawl that will hold your attention and delight. For now this instrumental, lyric-free, album is already my go to album at the top of my “Alternative” playlist. The bandcamp website says: Percy Adler is an instrumental noisemaker who shies from attention even though his proclivities are outrageous in their demonstration. Find this and other Adler albums at: https://percynilsadler.bandcamp.com/music I am no music critique. All I know is what I like and I have liked just about every-thing that Percy Adler had come out with during his decades of making music. Richard M. Grove / Tai Issue 012
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Canada: Coast to Coast to Coast Curator: Andrey Litviakov
Kincardin, Ontario Andrey Litviakov
Thank you Andrey Litviakov for collecting the pictures for Canada: Coast to Coast to Coast. The purpose this photography section is to showcase Canada from coast to coast to coast in as wide a geographic area as possible. This issue, with the photographs of our section curator and the photographs of Alex Kunert, Marie-Lynn Hammond and Ann Di Nardo we have managed to cover a large part of Canada.
Call for Submissions: If you have any pics of Canada you can send them to Andrey Litviakov at – alitphoto@hotmail.com. The photographs must be of a Canadian landscape or cityscape. Email a max 3 pics, 300 dpi. Put your name and location of pic in the file name of each photograph.
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Albion Falls, Hamilton, Ontario Andrey Litviakov
Devils Falls, Hamilton, Ontario Andrey Litviakov
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Wiarton, Ontario Andrey Litviakov
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Rain Forest, BC Andrey Litviakov
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Alex Kunert – Totem pole City of Duncan on Vancouver Island, British Columbia.
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Totem poles City of Duncan, Vancouver Island, British Columbia.
Alex Kunert
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Alex Kunert
Alex Kunert
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Alex Kunert
Alex Kunert All 4 photos are of Gordon Bay Recreation Site on Adams Lake, British Columbia. The smoke was from a large fire burning on the other side of the lake.
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Marie-Lynn Hammond, Cobourg, Ontario www.marielynnhammond.com
Marie-Lynn Hammond, Cobourg, Ontario www.marielynnhammond.com
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Marie-Lynn Hammond, Cobourg, Ontario www.marielynnhammond.com
Marie-Lynn Hammond, Cobourg, Ontario www.marielynnhammond.com
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Ann Di Nardo Cobourg, Lighthouse
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Ann Di Nardo Sutton, Quebec
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Ann Di Nardo Sutton, Quebec
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Ann Di Nardo Sutton, Quebec
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“Give Sorrow Words” A Review of The Blue Dragonfly – healing through poetry by Veronica Eley (Hidden Brook Press, 2021) MSc Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias Associate Professor Holguín University, Cuba Author, Editor, Essayist, Writer, Poet
The Blue Dragonfly – healing through poetry by the Nova Scotia, Canadian poet, Veronica Eley, is an inspiring work. It is a monumental example of how to cope with trauma, one woman’s crusade to unlock, through poetry, the frozen circuitry of the mind. The longest journey is always personal. Eley’s trek is a thorough, temporal exploration of the self, as she strives – “divinely” aided – toward her destination of spiritual and personal health. In this work, Eley bares her innermost self, her “soul,” in order to give sorrow words, as Shakespeare once famously advised. The publication of her journaling message of trauma and recovery, poetically rendered, will be “of value to strangers” (it is hoped), as we read in the editor’s Foreword. Following a precise chronological arrangement, the poetic “story” itself moves in time through discrete sections: Part 1: Secret Monsters (Prelude, Childhood, Presentation, Altered States); Part 2: The Bodhisattva (Asylum, Transference, Stories); Part 3: Mother (Memory, Healing, Home). The arrangement gives the reader a sense of direction and facilitates the imaginative act of entering into a woman´s intimate life of thought, feeling, and struggle in dealing with a “monster.”
“The best poetry book of the year is from a 71-year-old debut author on healing from trauma.” – Morgan Mullin, arts critic for the Halifax arts & entertainment weekly, The Coast “A beautiful and vulnerable body of work.” – Alexia Major, Atlantic Books Today “Lovely and courageous.” – Veronica O'Keane, author of: The Rag and Bone Shop: How We Make Memories and Memories Make Us
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Thank you, April Bulmer Dear Readers: I am sad to see April Bulmer leave us as a poetry editor. It was always a delight working with her on a personal and literary level, but i guess we all have to eventually move on to different horizons so all i can say is good luck with the next poem, the next chapter, the text phase. As a small thank you to April I asked her to provide me with some of her most recent work so I could publish it here in the pages of Devour: Art & Lit Canada. It is a small bon voyage. Enjoy your journey April. I am sure our paths will cross many times again in the future. The pieces she has chosen to send me are some excerpts from her new book entitled Year of the Dog: A Poet’s Journal. Congratulations, April for your book being shortlisted for the International Beverly Prize for Literature in London, England. As a short introduction I can say it is a candid reflection written in the form of prose poems, poetry and short essays and offers new perspectives on spirituality, mental health and love. April offers you the key to unlock her diary and peek into the pages of her heart. Copies are $19.99 Canadian, including the shipping charge, and are available from april.poet@bell.net. She tells me that a dozen short videos based on her reading of the text will be posted on YouTube shortly. April Bulmer’s work has been published widely, both nationally and internationally. Two of her volumes of poetry (And With Thy Spirit and Out of Darkness, Light) were published by Hidden Brook Press and were finalists in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards in the U.S. April holds Master’s degrees in creative writing, religious studies and theological studies from major Canadian universities. Her work often explores issues pertaining to religion, spirituality, mysticism and feminism. She recently won the Women of Distinction Award given by the YWCA. April also works as a poetry editor and judge. She tells me that she was fortunate to be the edit of “Open Mic Canada,” a section of Devour: Art & Lit Canada for more than two years. She said part of what she enjoyed was supporting new and established poets. She was also the
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poetry editor of True Identity, a recent anthology published by Hidden Brook Press. She is currently finishing a manuscript of short prose pieces on the subject of illness and spirituality called Feats of Weakness. She began writing the book before the outbreak of covid. It is certainly a relevant text in the face of this current pandemic. In April’s words, “The coronavirus planted itself in wet lungs and spread like witchgrass.” We will miss April’s unique metaphors and feminine reflections in her introductions to Devour. For more information on April and her writing see www.aprilbulmer.wordpress.com. Here is her literary contribution. All the best, Richard Grove / Tai Publisher
Toronto The shoes I fancy at Nordstrom are $1,000 a pair. At Saks: a gay couple holds hands. A Chinese gal on her cellphone, goldtipped runners. Her angular hair and flawless skin. Beauty. Another woman with a bouquet of flowers. A kind of hurt grin. At Kensington Market, the poets gather. John B. Lee reads from his This Is How We See The World. “Ghosts on our breath” I swoon, as I flip through the tome. Marvin Orbach’s widow, Gabby, reads from his posthumous book, Redwing. Work she found in a filing cabinet; did not know he wrote poems. Honey Novick sings him a Yiddish song. I think Marvin is here in this dark room. A learned spirit: books of verse in his heavy pack. A ghost in librarian’s clothes.
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Louis I imagine D— again, a swarthy French man I met in Paris. On an overcast day, at the Chateau of Versailles he reached for my clammy hand. He did not speak English. And I wondered whether Louis XIV, the Sun King, appeared suddenly as a shaft of light in the museum: I saw dust mites rise like fleas from a powdered wig. Was it he who spoke in a simple tongue: non — for it broke from my warm mouth as though le soleil. And for a time, the amorous man flip flopped away in his cheap rubber sandals, and I stood royal in my high heels, radiating from the palace.
Deep Blue My friend L— is on a Mediterranean cruise with her husband and soon will dock in Greece. I imagine them peering over the railing of the ship into the deep blue eye of the sea, a cyclops. Three quarters of the Earth’s body is covered by water. I once took a trip in a submarine and watched the drama beneath the ocean: a theatre of creatures and fish. “Water is history,” the Canadian poet Gwendolyn MacEwen wrote. I wonder what L— reads in the ocean’s great iris, as she gazes into it from the big boat.
Chemotherapy Recently, a man told me he read my new book of poems, Out of Darkness, Light, while receiving chemotherapy treatment for cancer. I imagine the catheter, a thin soft tube a nurse placed in a blue vein. His fatigue the next day. Perhaps he dreamed of my character Mother Scarlett, a high priestess, who offers healing, anoints with river and moon and rain.
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August I glance at the sun. He is in fun-loving and dramatic Leo: thespian, star of the show. I drive to the garage in his shadow. Still, “Mercury is retrograde,” writes my astrologer who studies an ephemeris and the mathematics of the skies. During this period, the planets go awry. Mercury rules automobiles... My car slowly lowers on the hoist like a bluebird lighting. Thankfully, “Only a little rust on the rotors,” says the mechanic. He has a fringe of strawberry blond hair and a pleasant smile like a priest of old.
Hospital Policies Today, I am sick as a dog. My fat head throbs as though a slow clock about to sound its morning alarm. Fever lies across my brow like a damp rag. I hallucinated all night in my little iron bed, dreamed of a hospital and a psychiatric patient. She reminded me of a friend who attempted suicide in the cold waters of the Grand. Later, nurses hid her shoes — swollen and caked with mud. I brought her miniature roses in a glass vase. The jar was confiscated by staff, and so she cradled the wet bouquet like a new babe, pink and blooming in her sad arms.
Tree Trimming We have had early snowfall this November, today it is very windy and cold. Residents in my apartment building are decorating a Christmas tree and hanging ornaments from the chandelier in the lobby. I am weak today and wonder whether I will be strong enough to do something similar in my little living room. I didn’t sleep well and dreamed of an early life with C—. We were Native Canadians shivering in our skins. The moon above: a god we worshipped with our blue lips. We were pagans who hung our prayers on trees.
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Acrylic on canvas painting by Darrell Chocolate Title: Tlicho Treaty 11 100th Year Anniversary