LeVack Block, Anansi Poetry Bash

Caucasian male, 50s, with curly dark hair, wearing dark dress jacket and shirt. Family and students gathered close to the stage, whooping when he took the mic.

The Sentinel, A.F. Moritz (House of Anansi Press)

From "You That I Loved"

You that I loved all my life long,
you are not the one.
You that I followed, my line or path or way,
that I followed singing, and you
earth and air of the world the way went through,
and you who stood around it so it could be
the way, you forests and cities,
you deer and opossums struck by the lonely hunter
and left decaying, you paralyzed obese ones
who sat on a falling porch in a deep green holler
and observed me, your bald dog barking,
as I stumbled past in a hurry along my line,
you are not the one...

Her head rolls into his shoulder nightly. Their hands meet at their waists, their legs entwined. In sleep they align, their bodies folding into one another, a reduction of the best they have to offer.

LeVack Block, Anansi Poetry Bash

Caucasian woman, with curly dark hair, wearing a black suit, turquoise scarf and turquoise bracelet. She's a tiny force as she takes the stage. She's quiet and gracious. And she'll wrench you.

Chameleon Hours, Elise Partridge (House of Anansi Press)

Page 27:

From "Buying the Farm"

A little folding of the hands to sleep —
straw hat tipped over my nose,
I’m dozing to the lilac’s inquisitive wrens;
you, your spade flung aside,
sprawl, just starting to snore.

It’s curtains for us,
clasping hands behind the dusty, still-swaying swag —
at last these doublets can come off,
the swipes of rouge and sideburns, then we’ll stroll
to greet the flashing city with our true faces.

She stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. The high rise view stretched across the lake to the next major city. Spring was here, just enough that the window could be left open morning and night. A train was coming. It would soon pass by, through the trees, past the schoolyard, maybe a hundred cars long if they were lucky. In the next room, they felt each other's bellies. Mine. Yours. 80 and 30, connected by an intrusive mass. The kettle whistled. She rinsed the pot, dropped in the bags, and poured the water. Civil now, but come winter she'd watch the pot crash in an exhausted heap in the parking lot.

LeVack Block, Anansi Poetry Bash

Caucasian male, 40s, wearing light brown tshirt and blue jeans. As he takes the stage, he pulls on a baseball cap and says something I may have misheard but hope I didn't, that when you make yourself comfortable in front of an audience, the audience too will become comfortable.

Revolver, Kevin Connolly (House of Anansi Press)

Page 3:

From "Terre Haute"

We're used to a season progressing logically,
then, heading south by car, it suddenly
makes no sense in reverse: a race from
ice to snow, gray earth and nippled trees,
pooled water and mud, then the first white blades,
seeming to expire when they're really
cutting way for flowers...

By the time she spotted the three deer running through the field, the farmer had already lowered his crossbow and turned back toward the house. She lifted her foot from the gas. As the car coasted to a stop, she put the car in reverse and centred the farmer in her rearview.

Church of the Holy Trinity, Friday gathering

Caucasian male, 60, with wavy grey hair and moustach, wearing black pants, black t-shirt, and blue silk shirt, sitting in a leather chair at a small wooden table, surrounded by a semi-circle of guests there to hear him read and discuss his latest book.

The Jesus Sayings: The Quest For His Authentic Message, Rex Weyler (House of Anansi Press)

Page 110-111:

The image satirizes religious pretension with a counterculture sense of humour. For Jesus, spiritual awareness is not something to boast about. It starts with the smallest seed, invades highly structured society like a weed, and provides protection for innocent creatures. As we assemble Jesus' most likely original oral teachings, we can start here, with the lowly mustard seed.

Once a week, yellow school buses lined up outside the elementary school. She watched from the tarmac, clutching her hopscotch puck, as the buses filled front to back, the neighborhood's children dangling their heads and hands out the open windows. She waved as they pulled away, her best friend bouncing and clapping, en route to the promise of free bibles and doughnuts, and a 25¢ treasure taped under the seats of 100 lucky souls.

Hart House, Hart House Review 2008 launch

Caucasian woman, early 20s, with Louise Brooks haircut, wearing black and grey shirt 'n' skirt and patent leather ankle boots. She takes the podium...

From "Valhalla" by Alex Grigorescu, winner of the 2008 Hart House Poetry Prize

so i tell him about childhood:
the lesbians with crewcuts and converse
mounting each other for piggybacks to the corner store.
my eye on a dodgy ginger girl who swung
between all thighs, indiscriminately;
playground kneeslap boys whispered
that her freckles spanned her, like a pox
[but jesus, connect the dots]
and how they must have whimpered while
she bobbed for
[adam's apples].

He sits at the edge of the podium, his friend occupying the chair beside him. He keeps his head low, his expression thoughtful, as photographers dart in and out of view. He'll appear in many of the shots. He raises his hand to his forehead, rubbing his brow, and another flash fills the foreground. He begins to paint his own picture, one in which he realizes these chairs were meant for speakers, and his discarded plate of naked chicken skewers dries out at the delicate ankles of this evening's winner.

Vieux Montreal, Marche du Vieux

Caucasian male, mid 20s, with shaggy beach-blonde hair, awkwardly parted hard to the side, wearing black rimmed glasses, pink striped shirt and faded blue jeans.

Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs, Leonard Cohen (McClelland & Stewart)

From "As the Mist Leaves No Scar":

As the mist leaves no scar
On the dark green hill,
So my body leaves no scar
On you, nor ever will.

When wind and hawk encounter,
What remains to keep?
So you and I encounter,
Then turn, then fall to sleep.

He takes the biggest table to himself, papers spread around him, looking up at passing women with a vacant stare. It's not until he gently requests a glass of water from one of the young women working behind the counter that his expression softens, his lips parting into a familiar grin, his teeth large and white against his pale, fine features. She, too, is wearing black rimmed glasses and bright patterned clothing. They hover in front of one another, hands at their sides. Her shift ends shortly and he's come early to collect.

Vieux Montreal, Starbucks

Caucasian woman, early 20s, brunette with glasses, wearing brown down jacket, green cashmere sweater, blue jeans, and blue and orange Puma sneakers. A half-eaten square sits on a napkin across the table beside an oversized mug.

Gin Tonic et Concombre, Rafaële Germain (Libre Expression)

Page 59:

Julien était debout devant le grand miroir de ma chambre, en train, d'ajuster le col de sa chemise jaune safran. Une julie couleur, selon moi, mais que j'aurais sans doute mieux appréciée si elle n'avait pas en à rivaliser avec une veste saphir et un pantalon fuschia.

Earlier, a man had asked if she would mind some company. She'd replied, No. Thank you. I'm enjoying my book. To which he'd said, That's okay; we don't have to talk. He sat down, picking the sugary clumps off the top of his blueberry square, sighing with each chew. She continued to read, pulling her cup closer, instinctively covering its opening with her palm.

Magog, Quebec, late morning at the cottage

Caucasian woman, mid teens, with shoulder length thick brown hair and clear ice-blue eyes, wearing a Simple Plan hoodie, blue jeans, sneakers, and a generous smile.

All Around Town, Mary Higgins Clark (Pocket Star)

Page 128:

One Monday evening, as the monsignor began to lock up the church, he passed the confessional. The thief who stole the chalice had to have been hiding in there, he thought. If the diamond in the chalice had been what he was after, I can only pray that the cup itself wasn't tossed away into a garbage dump.

She'd pulled two quarters from her jeans pocket and fed them into the tight mouth of the donation box, then picked up a long match to light two votive candles. Once the wicks had taken the flame, she'd bowed her head, moved her lips as if in prayer, and slowly slid her camera from her purse. Snapping a photo of the wall of candles, she thought 50¢ was a good investment for a photo op that would score at least $50.00 on a stock photo site.

Toronto-Quebec Corridor, heading to Montreal.

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with short stylish short brown hair, wearing grey sweater, large black sunglasses, dark blue jeans, and black ankle high hiking boots. She sits in the aisle seat, her new bag occupying the window seat so no one will sit beside her.

One Last Scream, Kevin O'Brien (Pinnacle - Kensington)

p. 17

A few people had staggered out to the small backyard where Amelia stood with a beer in one hand, and the other clutching together the edges of her bulky cardigan sweater. She gazed up at the stars. It was a beautiful, crisp October night. She had a little buzz.

Her preference is to drive. Correction. Her preference is to be driven. But approximately 30 minutes into the trip she'll stand to stretch her legs, walking the length of the train car to the washroom, through to the beverage car, and back to her empty seat where she'll pause, bend over to look out the window, and marvel that she accomplished so much without losing any travel time. When she sits, the worn seat cushion will only bother her mildly, enough to merit an email but not a full refund.

Gare Central, waiting for train 69

Caucasian woman, late 30s, shoulder length thin brown hair. Long brown puffy winter jacket with faux-fur trim, blue jeans, and brown hiking boots. She frequently looks over her shoulder for someone, her left leg shaking impatiently.

The Water's Lovely, Ruth Rendell (Seal Books)

About 1/3 in:

Of course she thought of Andrew. How was he! What did he feel! Nothing much, she hoped. Conventional feelings of pity only, pity and a certain amount of horror, but no grief.

As she kicked the bag forward with the inside of her foot, she felt this really was the worst part of their relationship, holding his place in line.

Down the street from Gwen's head

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with short brown curly hair, wearing jean skirt, white long sleeved tee and pale pink scarf.

The Refrigerator Memory, Shannon Bramer (Coach House Books)

Page 51:

From "Toronto, City of Sad Faces"

He hums inside his solitary body,
flourishes on the subway, unfolds stiff newspaper wings.

Ships, slugs on the horizon.
The sun slips down in you.

Daughter, let the raccoon in.
Hold his cold hand.

It's not as simple as "the little details." Or, "It's all in the details." It's that feeling you get when you read something small, something familiar and ordinary, a few words that placed one in front or behind the other make you believe that you really can do it, that your few words will count for something, that someone will appreciate the image of an aging woman speeding into town for mass, her body warmed by the second-hand fur bungeed to the driver's seat.

Elevator, 7th floor

Caucasian male, mid 40s, balding, with close-cropped grey hair, wearing glasses, new black leather car coat, carrying new black leather shoulder bag and old, tattered Nike backpack, new Asics dangling from the strap.

Consolation, Michael Redhill (Anchor)

Page 5:

He slipped the book back into its space on the shelf, running two fingers along its spine to ensure it was flush with the others. It was the sort of gesture Bridget noticed and made fun of from time to time, but she was silent now, looking through him. "I think you should leave her alone," he said. "It’s been two months. She should do whatever she needs to help her cope."

He would never buy anything second hand, not a cd, not a book. And while his wife spends months collecting bags of clothes and kitchen wares, his dirty secret drives past the donation centre, tossing the bags into an industrial garbage bin behind the shopping mall.

One of a Kind Show, Spring 2008

Caucasian female, with long, pale red hair and pleasant smile, switching around two oversized art pieces with some difficulty. The book sits page down on a red stool, it's cover instantly recognizable.

For One More Day, Mitch Albom, Hyperion

Folded over, near the beginning:

She was wearing blue slacks and a white sweater now—she was always dressed, it seemed, no matter how early in the morning—and she looked to be no older than the last time I had seen her, on her seventy-ninth birthday, wearing these red-rimmed glasses she got as a present. She turned her palms gently upward and she beckoned me with her eyes and, I don't know, those glasses, her skin, her hair, her opening the back door the way she used to when I threw tennis balls off the roof of our house.

Their first Easter she stayed offside, her jobs limited to placing the cutlery and running the sweeper once around the table. She lit some candles and poured a glass of wine, on her second by the time family started to arrive, keeping tight and tidy to the end of a couch she'd occupied day in and out for months, playing cards, watching television, adjusting hips and elbows for comfort.

Le Gourmand, waiting for a large Americano.

White male, mid 50s, with long grey hair pulled into tight ponytail, bundled in winter coat and scarf, sitting near the door, leaned forward, hands stuffed in pockets, floral-patterned eyeglass case weighting the pages.

Souls on Fire, Elie Wiesel (Simon & Schuster)

Near the beginning:

The heavens were in an uproar. The angels were dancing. Red with anger, outraged, Satan demanded an audience with God. Brought before him, he protested, invoking laws and precedents, history and reason. Look at man's impudence, he said, how dare he take things in his own hands? Does the world deserve redemption?

He hadn't seen her in weeks. She was glad he called. He scanned her bookshelf while she waited for the kettle to boil, waited for him to take the first step. He pulled the spine forward and looked at the cover, held it up. She nodded, smiled, even though he hadn't returned the others, maybe sold them, she couldn't know.

Saturday night, IFOA, celebrating Anansi's 40th!

Caucasian woman, 40s, with long blonde hair tucked behind her ears, wearing black, head to toe. She tugs at the bottom of her shirt while, behind her, relaxed after her own reading, A.L. Kennedy listens.

Long Story Short, Elyse Friedman (House of Anansi Press)

Page 159:

He glanced at the menu about the counter. "I'm too cheap to pay more than a buck for a cup of coffee. Besides, I'm already buzzing. Just had two cups with another prospective partner at the doughnut shop around the corner."

"Oh." She frowned. "How did it go?"

The woman beside me laughs throughout the reading, her fingers resting in the palm of her other hand as if waiting for just the right moment to clap in appreciation. She, too, has been on blind dates, ready to leave within the first five minutes then rocking in the back seat of a cab that directs her away from the stillness of her own bed.

Word On The Street, Booth 175

East Indian woman, mid 20s, wearing beaded tank top and loose jeans, sifting through sale titles, considering each book with great care as if assigning each one to a future weekend.

Open, Lisa Moore (House of Anansi Press)

Page 26:

At the kitchen table at home in St. John's. The tablecloth is gone; the table is red, bright red enamel paint, and there is the creamer, full of milk. The kitchen is pumpkin, forest green cupboards. The kitchen screams. My hands are on the table in front of me. I want to throw the creamer. Milk fluttering over your head, a long ribbon of surrender. It is a huge effort not to give in and throw it. Then my fist slams.

It's a strange feeling, riding the subway each morning, the book bags, the sleepy eyes, the lingering odour of cheap pitchers of beer, all tell-tale signs of students back to school. A strange feeling now that she's done, off to work, and the words that stream across the pages of the book settled in her purse will only revisit the world through word-of-mouth, not for grade.

Arts and Letters Club, The Alcuin Society 2006 Awards for Excellence in Design in Canada

Caucasian male, mid 60s, with white hair and full beard, wearing a brown suede jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans. His glasses sit comfortably low on the bridge of his nose. He is not one of the men in the portraits, but could be. (But would rather not be.) He is classic and male, at home in his leather boots. Just a guy who values craft, care and a gleeful attention to detail.

Wide Slumber for Lepidopterists, a. rawlings, designed by Bill Kennedy (Coach House Books)

With apologies. I know the spacing isn't justifying the text...

Page 73:

habit of holding
shoulder blades
as wings
when at rest

transcribe
pins in ings if
wing veins

On the bay, coasting toward the waterfall. An outstretched branch leans heavy over the shoreline. He paddles under it, chin tipped, jaw slack, shoulders arching, the swollen mass bulbous, chalky-white like bird dung. He sits up and feels the sun glow against his bare shoulders, letting the current carry him to a dull trickle, away from nature's piñata.

Me time.

Caucasian woman, late 30s, wearing blue and white striped men's shirt, collar up, and jeans, cuffs rolled loosely, toes bared to shag carpet, one leg tucked up underneath her thigh. The world outside sways in a crisp fall breeze, the bay curling up in baby waves clipping at one another's heels, the leaves fading two shades as rain approaches.

Dear Gabriel, Halfdan W. Freihow (House of Anansi Press)

Page 3:

We need a wall at our backs, you and me. Sometimes a stroke from the palm of a hand is enough. At other times we need to erect huge edifices of insight and comprehension in order not to fall, plunge into bewilderment, foolishness, and fear. At time we are each other's wall, sometimes you are mine, but often I have to be yours alone, for you stumble and fall so easily. And sometimes that scares me, Gabriel, when I have nothing to hold on to myself, nothing to cling to, only wind and light and open sea, and you tumble beyond any comprehension.

An early Saturday morning, 1982. She sprints the bend of an outdoor track, ADIDAS shorts sliding up her thighs, arms pumping her forward. Behind her, the sound of his feet slapping the pavement, his breaths peeling into high squeals as she slows down to let him pass. He blazes by, jaw determined, and crosses the finish line first, the oversized chocolate coin hanging down his back on the length of red ribbon his baby sister used to tie the hair of her Cabbage Patch doll.

Halfan W. Freihow's Dear Gabriel is a deeply moving and elegantly written confessional in the form of a letter from a father to his young autistic son. With great love, pride, and a profound wonder, Freihow describes a complex, loving relationship with young Gabriel that is sometimes fraught with misunderstanding, but bolstered by unconditional love. His sensitive depiction of the haunting rural landscape in which the family lives serves as a powerful backdrop to the intimate prose of his letter and rich sense of childhood magic.

Dear Gabriel reaches out to all parents in their struggle to understand and nurture their children, regardless of any obstacles that may stand in their way. It is a tender yet brutally honest testament to love and the parent-child relationship.

I don't use this space to post reviews, but this is an exception. Dear Gabriel is beautiful, brave and necessary. Freihow magnificently captures the tension between his need to reason--to open his world wide, using his language--his role as caregiver to young Gabriel, and the needs of Gabriel who requires reason delivered in a language so specific it must be cut up like bits of meat on a plate. I've scribbled out and emailed more passages from this book than any other in recent history. It's hard and honest and inspiring and loving. Best of all, it shows up. It's family.

Dorset, hammock time

Caucasian girl, 9, wedged in a hammock, wearing blue hoodie, shorts and a floppy Girl Guides hat with buttons, Garfield and The Pepsi Challenge. Her sister, 3, stands at the edge of the frame with short, curly hair, wearing a beige cable knit sweater and a bemused expression intended for their father photographer, her tight fists blurred by emotion.

The Bunnicula Collection, James Howe (Atheneum)

About page 15:

Mrs. Monroe picked up the bowl of milk and moved toward the kitchen. Chester followed her every movement with his eyes, which now seemed to be popping out of his head. When she reached the kitchen door, she turned back and said, "Let's not have any more arguments. We'll compromise. He's a bunny and we found him at a Dracula movie, so we'll call him Bunny-cula. Bunnicula!"

The chipmunk scours the rhododendrons, pawing empty peanut shells, finding a stray nut and pushing it deep into its cheek. Overhead a rumble, sudden, fast and airborne dachshund belly flops at the base of the stairs, ready for anything.

HUB14

Caucasian woman, 30s, wearing black pants and a purple top. She laughs easily, although alone. She's familiar, although not in the production. She's been here before. Her comfort is an absence of expectation. She's here to see how others will react.

FOE programme, draft89

Page 4:

Jennifer Neales, Con Artist

This is Jennifer's first production with draft89. She recently returned from Japan after four years of teaching English and performing on stages across Osaka, Kyoto and Kobe. She sends thanks out to her family and friends for their continued support.

Everybody lies.

Invited into open space and a soundtrack reminiscent of Philip Glass. We huddle close together, knees and backs touching, leaning forward, crouching, protective, the audience on display at the centre of a tiny room. I look at the woman across from me, the man beside her, and I hear it: It wasn't only the once.