screams the advent of written history
at those of us who think we’ve never said

a word before. At all. When no one
listens he curls into a basketball.

His bee-loud glade’s a sling of mud,
he digs for clues, unlucky grubs.

He digs, and digs, and reads the soil
conditions for paraphrases of the stuff

that’s best remembered with a nose supple
as a fine-tipped pen. When? Always.

He’s rough-hewn, but excuse him, he’s sorry,
oh there!, that shrub’s a fine adornment

for a burrow’s roof. It’s his job. To find
some retro-fitted fern, suburban,

to dwell under, like a rooted ballast in case
it takes the notion to doff its cap, fly away.

He can’t see us coming and tries not to care.
Besides, we smell like coffee mugs a mile off.

He plays at night. Inhales our molecules,
jostles nature’s volume, and toys with carnivores,

lending his luxury to teach each of us in turn
that life’s impending sport. He’s got time, do we?

Please don’t try to touch him, nervous as he gets
when you approach, or talk. He’ll moralize.

David Seymour’s first book, Inter Alia, published by Brick Books in 2005, was nominated for the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award. His second book, For Display Purposes Only, was published in 2013 by Coach House Books. David currently lives in Toronto where he works in the film industry.

In the dark blue future I will
quiet. I have
no idea about anything.

I suppose
I’ll know what I know or I can wait—
and be really & sunnishly in the knowledge
(being whole limber accomplished jazzy “didn’t/did” “come around”
“wish list” “look hard” here I am—

You wanted so you walked.
You walked, you spoke, you cropped,
it’s tall, it’s heard, we’re alone – all the right
stops eeny meeny, I know
do you know?).

I saw what happened on the blue night
and I felt winely
and I loss the judge.
I can’t be smart for everyone.
I can’t be smart for myself even.
It’s thick and alone
those times I believed in us.

I can feel you not calling me.
You’re not just not
calling me: you’re Not Calling Me.
I recorded
a song about it and still no call, so
apparently I can’t
weep
the future into
a look I like I’m
32.

Aisha Sasha John is a dance improviser and author of THOU (BookThug 2014) and The Shining Material (BookThug 2011). Find her online at aishasashajohn.tumblr.com.

That’s the start of this inspirational poem by Canadian spoken word artist Shane Koyczan.   The poem, appropriately called “Instructions for a Bad Day” offers some helpful advice on how to deal with those days when everything just won’t go right.  Now hopefully you’re not having a bad day, especially seeing as its Friday. However, if the thought of the looming weekend still isn’t enough to get you through, then give this poem, “Instructions for a Bad Day” a good listen, and I guarantee that you will start to feel better in no time.

The poem is set to a montage of different images by Jon Goodgion and from “Life in a Day” by Kevin Macdonald, beautifully accompanying  Koyczan’s fiery and passionate delivery. His simple language conveys urgency, and a clear, relatable message which we can all understand, even if the bad days he’s describing aren’t our bad days.

The video has been around for a little while now (nearly a year) but was recently picked up again by some online sites such as the Huffington Post. Needless to say the whole experience is very moving, and is a wonderful demonstration of the power of the spoken word, a mastery of which Shane Koyczan has repeatedly demonstrated.

His first published work Visiting Hours was chosen by the Guardian and the Globe and Mail as part of their best books of 2005, and “We are more,” one of the poems in that collection, was performed by Koyczan for the 2010 Winter Olympics. He then started to focus on addressing bullying within schools and wrote Stickboy, a novel in verse, which looks at the life of a bullied child, and ultimately how he chooses to become a bully himself.

However what Shane is probably most famous for is his “To this day” poem (which is now an App), a harrowing example of different types of bullying, and the long term effects simple things like name-calling can have. The animated version of the poem can be found on YouTube, with over 12 million hits, and the app is still being used by teachers and parents to help deal with bullying.

Koyczan  started a Kickstarter project on Monday to help fund his third book of poetry A Bruise on Light, with the aim of reaching $15,000. Five days later the campaign has received nearly $40,000, and still has another 26 days to go. As enticements, Koyczan offers both “undying gratitude” (for pledging $2) and  his own version of Cyrano, in which he’ll hide in the bushes and feedsyou romantic lines to help you ensnare your love ($8,000, so far unclaimed).

I hope you’re having a good day, but when those bad days do show up, give “Instructions for a Bad Day” another listen. Or, as Koyczan tells us, “Be calm, / loosen your grip opening each palm slowly now, / let go.”

A former This intern, Hillary Di Menna writes Gender Block every week and maintains an online feminist resource directory, FIRE- Feminist Internet Resource Exchange.

You wore, of course, a kind of smock.
I was bright as a jester in metres
of daffodil gauze, my metals

dyeing my skin. We had, we knew, it all:
the chalices, the incense, the Lovers’ Tarot deck —
and, nearby, the baptizing rush of river. The air smells

like the mulch of primeval concupiscence! I cried,
and what could you do but agree?
Ants travelled patiently under our raiment;

the sex was athletic and wise …
and then we touched foreheads
with a new strain of sorrowful dignity,

for although we were rural,
we were never deep enough in to mistake
the humming of wires overhead.

THE SWORD DANCE
for Michelle

There were so many things I hated, at seven:
group activities, talking, children
    younger than me,

and how Meghan, my dance teacher,
loved the other kid despite
    his sloppiness:

drooling, tripping, kicking the meter sticks
we crossed in an X
    to practice the Sword Dance —

(which used to be done only after the enemy died) —

and I watched Meghan’s throat spend the whole hour heating
the metal necklace she wore.
    I smiled as hard as I had been taught,

though I couldn’t stand seeing
her satiny arms around that dirty eater,
    his nose close

to the strawberry birthmark on her cheek
that she touched whether happy or sad.
    Each night I lay in bed

punching my stomach, hoping this practice might mean

that next time, Meghan and I
would be alone. But every week
    there he was,

rat-tailed and panting,
and every week I tied
    my black leather laces so tight up my calves

the Xs remain.
I wanted to jump so high that I’d spend
    an hour at least only falling,

and hit every planet on my way to the concrete floor.

I wanted to see him walked
up the basement stairs,
    through the warm,

plaid-papered kitchen,
given an apple
    and maybe

his shoes,
coaxed through
    the sliding glass doors to the porch,

then dragged to the wood shed and strangled.

MY SISTER AND I, WE KNOW WE ARE FILTH

My sister and I, we know we are filth, so we proceed with great caution
    when we enter the world that was saved for us.

        Unlocking our mother’s door, prying open her chest,
    plunging our hands in the powder and silk —

we know we could be in her bedroom for years,
    and yet we forgot to pack meat for our journey.

        Orchids and lilies pattern her walls. When we tire of smelling
    our own bodies, we spray her perfume in the air

and it rises in a sparkling font, lingers, then falls. Now,
    I rip a velvet headband with my teeth. I spit

        the sequins at my sister. Now, she is using our mother’s tweezers
    to pluck black hairs from beneath her navel,

while I turn my face to the vaulted ceiling
    and hold my breath till the sparks come.

        We know we are in this up to our waists. But still we’re ashamed
    to want what we cannot name. My sister’s trailing her tongue

across our mother’s mirror, and I am imagining this unnameable something
    passing swiftly out of her, as I want it passing swiftly out of me —

        but we both know the dark will come on
    like someone pushing their thumbs into our eyes —

our mother will find us here and stride towards us
    arms and coat open to show she means no harm —

Sara Peters was born in Antigonish, Nova Scotia and was a 2010—2012 Stegner fellow at Stanford. Her first book, 1996, will be published in April by Anansi.

Leslie Vryenhoek is a writer, poet and communication consultant based out of Newfoundland. Her work has appeared in various Canadian and international publications. Leslie has received numerous awards for her poetry, fiction and memoirs including the Winston-Collins Descant Best Canadian Poem 2010 prize, two provincial Arts and Letters Awards, the Eden Mills Festival Literary Competition and the Dalton Camp Award. Her two books Scrabble Lessons (fiction) and Gulf (poetry), both published by Oolichan Books, received a great deal of praise from the literary community. We recently spoke with Leslie about her work, literary contests, and the idea of plot versus character.

This Magazine: You took second place in our Great Canadian Literary Hunt back in 2009 as well as third in 2006, how has that helped your career?

Leslie Vryenhoek: The 2006 showing was one of my first published poems, so it was a real shot in the arm. Both poems—Stuck and My Parents’ Past—were published last year in a collection called Gulf (Oolichan Books).

LV: Since Gulf was published, I’ve been working on finishing and revising a novel—my first attempt at the interminable form—but I keep getting distracted by ideas for screenplays that keep appearing out of nowhere. So a lot of sketching out ideas, and then wading back in to wrestle the beast I’ve tentatively titled Doubtful Accounts.

LV: At the very least, they usually come with a subscription to a good publication, which it is important to read. And maybe if you win, a few bucks. But most importantly, literary contests have deadlines—they make you finish something. Also, they help up and coming writers get used to soul-crushing disappointment. It’s never too soon to start on those callouses.

LV: Write the best thing you can write, not what you think the judges might want. That said, read the damn rules and follow them.

LV: Whoa, that’s like asking What’s more important: arms or legs, love or sex, coffee or vodka … Character is essential for driving a plot, but the things that happen, plotwise. necessarily develop the character. They are equally crucial.

Jennifer and her bird Antonia

Jennifer Lovegrove is the author of two collections of poetry, I Should Have Never Fired the Sentinel (2005) and The Dagger Between Her Teeth (2002). Her work has been featured in a number of Canadian publications including Taddle Creek, The Fiddlehead, Sub-Terrain and This Magazine. We recently sat down with the former Great Canadian Literary Hunt judge to discuss her work, writing contest and workshops.

This Magazine: You recently had a couple poems published in This Magazine (Jan/Feb 2012), what else have you been working on lately?

Jennifer Lovegrove: Yes, This Magazine recently published my poems “Squall” and “Stove,” which was an honour; This is my favourite magazine and has been for a long time. Those two are from a batch of poems that I’ve been working on for the last year or so. It didn’t start out as a series or anything, but I see some thematic and aesthetic links in the poems now, and now I’d say they’re part of a manuscript in progress. My novel – Watch How We Walk – is coming out next year, and I’m on the verge of another rewrite – the last one before I hand it over to my editor. I promise! There are a few other bits and pieces of projects that may or may not evolve into other forms; too soon to say. Also, I am resurrecting my lit-zine dig. – 2013 will see its thirteenth issue, so writers, send me your poems and stories.

JL: Well, it was a few years ago, so I don’t remember all the details, but yes, it was tough, but an enjoyable challenge. My fellow judges (David O’Meara and Mark Truscott) and I narrowed it down to a shortlist we agreed upon and then via email, we discussed and debated the top few and eventually settled on winners. We had great discussions about our poetic values and priorities and preoccupations and how these fit into the process.

Sunlight, on one leg, limps out to the meadow and settles in.
Insects fall back inside their voices,
Little fanfares and muted repeats,
Inadequate language of sorrow
— (Charles Wright “Nine-Panel Yaak River Screen”)

Cocoon of dry throated days (hospital vigil, machines
stilled, packing up, singularities knit tight with details
then the silent drive, watching out for deer)
opens up: a house beside train tracks
set among fields. Jostling embraces
by oldest friends, my children, my man steadying.
Brilliant fall weather unblinking
stares me down; all this activity is background
sound, the love proffered is meddling.
Sunlight, on one leg, limps out to the meadow and settles in.

In slanted light, snow geese rise
in their hundreds above the stubble. We walk
the grid road alongside furrows. I’m numb
to my friend’s talk of her car ride from the coast,
time she took to ponder – should she leave
her daughter’s father? I can’t care now about her choices,
I’m just grateful that she’s here. And our other friend
who’s rooted in this land, though she says
she never walks it. Our talk breaks down to noises.
Insects fall back inside their voices.

Next day a wake. Mouths affirm life not grief.
Ranged in chairs, we know the celebration’s hollow,
that current may capsize us easy as it rocks us.
So I stammer my few words, listen
to the clear eyed keening of children
too young to know grief, that cheat
of promise. Friends play songs my brother loved,
some he’d written: plunges in mad river, a new year’s kiss.
Again and again the same regrets, stories we relate,
little fanfares and muted repeats.

Give me a scotch I’d said. Now his boss
has sent round trays of whiskey. Bar open
I weave myself into knots of his people,
drink deep of their memories, and that beer he liked
not for craft’s sake but because it’s cheap. I down glasses
for numbness now, redemptive pain tomorrow,
then return to warp and weft of spouse, sister, his close friends,
these two women mine. We spin words harder to think
than say, all trying on phrases, sentences we borrow,
completely inadequate language of sorrow.

Sunday

Evening is a wet map torn in the folds
A bowl of sand into which you place your hands

Evening is an accordion on a child, a road in the desert
A dark hallway of lockers and uneven floors

Evening is deep sounds, car doors
Water in the pipes
Kitchenettes and closets
Laying out ties on the table in the shape of a wheel
And feeling around for tomorrow

Monday

Evening is a torn drum, a closed mouth
A box taped up

Evening is a clamshell, a shawl
A shallow dive

Evening is a folded tablecloth, a heavy gold earring
Moths and motionless trees
Hearing snow plows grating at the curb
Hugging only your knees

Tuesday

Evening is hot coals for eyes,
Mouse haste, vice-grips, chapped lips
Socket wrench on the basement floor

Evening is the shocked shape of a face in the wind
A landslide, a lock, a trance

Evening is a banging on the door, grinding gears of the heart
Mirrors in the dark
Twisting the screws just to take things apart

Wednesday

Evening is a stretching panther, a collection of earth from elsewhere
Catching a train, flowers in your hair
Evening is a quick breath, a stolen cheque
Click of heels in an elevator

Evening is an orange swallowed whole, a flag pulling at the pole
A cold hand, a clear eye, a deer hide
A cake balanced across two plates

Thursday

Evening is a doorstop, a window propped
A ladder leaning against a tree

Evening is a hand of cards dealt
Face down and sliding
A tarmac, a loose strap, a cold latch
Old letters stuck closed with sealing wax

Evening is flour on the counter top, scissors on the table
Turning your back on the water
To make it boil hotter

Friday

Evening is popcorn on the stovetop
Evening is moving and still
A riptide, a hand haling a cab
A wagon let loose on a hill

Evening is a balcony, a bear, a bird in the snow
Evening is money on the mind
A magazine cutting itself to pieces

Evening is a gossip, a mouth, a note and a bathroom wall
Evening is a bad influence
It knows you want to and it will
Take you into the steam of the engine
Onto the platform of another’s dream

Saturday

Evening is a ring of keys, an invitation and rolled up sleeves
A tightrope, a lit torch, a tongue

Evening is a phone call, a beach ball, swimming in the rain
Monkeys, mocha, applause

Evening is blinders on a white horse
City lights and open signs, fish skin in the sun
Saying there is nowhere else,
And nothing can ever make this music come undone