Penn Kemp

Poetry

 

 

 

As if you are leaping in the air
 

dedicated to spectacular local heroes, Canada's most decorated ice dance team,

Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir

 

 

As if you are leaping in the air
with Virtue and Moir. As if you
are running perfect simulation.
 
Lift and fly. Figures are skating,
whirling to wild quads like Sufis
dancing in Dervish reverence.

Perfection swirls along an unseen
slip of water that allows for glide,
ice two inches thick. Blades glint.

Fantasy hovers, floats flawlessly,
describing meticulous arcs on ice,

in air. Geometry touched by magic,
projection spun on glass surface.

Le Petit Prince and his Rose criss-
cross the ice to mirror our neurons
effortlessly after ruthless practice.

One haptic system rings in tune with
the other not by happenstance but
exquisite design, creating the perfect

illusion of romance. This pair knows
their true trick is always in landing home.
 

 

Smog Alert

 

Throughout our listening area
light pollution.  Evening haze drifts

down from some secret smelter
depending on which wind blows. Small

particulate matter fills the air, fills
our lungs with tiny lumps that hang there
undetected.  Except we can no longer fully

breathe. Cosmic clouds descend upon us.
Below breath. Below thought. Below bellow.

Cosmic clouds descend upon us. Below
breath. Below thought. Below bellow.

Probability of precipitation. Mixed rain
and thunder showers. Severe weather

warning. War in heaven, warming
torrents into twisters. Forecast unforeseen.

The radio calls for showers.  Fog patches.
Clouds clog the mind, crowding thought.

Now calm come… clear of cloud…
I’m thinking stars. Or stars are thinking me.

Where are they? Beyond the veil, still
twinkling, emitting their own dust trails.

 

 

Deep In Summer

 

Deep in summer
stillness, an electric
hum of air conditioner
in B flat flat monotone
entrains my body
              monotonous.

Heat produced to cool
my neighbours thrums
the outside air, heats
up our collective night.

Mechanical multitudes
self-replicate in chorus,
relentless fridge and clock.

The only spell breaker
is a tape of Tibetan chant.
Deep harmonic overtones
conjure a resonance,
disturb the sine waves.

Sleepless in the Beaches,
I resist the single sound
as Blake deplores single
vision and Newton's sleep.

The sound of the perpetual
twentieth century
colonizing our future
with a dominant beat, sales
pitched for comfort, con-
venience, reliance on
appliance.

The pity is not
that the century
is winding to a close but
that it's whining
on and on

Somewhere beyond
the pervasive rattle,
waves break on the shore.
Species diversify.
 

 

Malala

Malala, your name sounds like a song
but it means grief-stricken in Urdu,

language of poets. You are named
after a poet, a warrior woman and
you have so lived up to your name.

“Every girl in Swat is Malala. We will
educate ourselves. We will win. They
can't defeat us,” states her classmate.

The courage it takes to cross borders
defined by others, courage to uphold
freedom to read, learn, speak­ to be
the fully human that is our birthright.

Now it’s our turn to take up the call,
education for every child for which
women and girls today rally across
India, Pakistan and Afghanistan lands.

Malala, Malala. I hear the ululation
of lament and of celebration for her.

Can you hear what she’s crying? You
can join her common cause. But how
fares the girl in her hospital bed?

That beautiful face blasted. Her voice
silenced, her eyes shut. Hang on, girl,
hang on. There’s work to be done and we
desperately need such spirit among us.

Her father cries when Malala falls that all
Pakistan stands up. And now she too can
stand, what will Pakistan do? March on...

Grief is no time for emotion. Let sky open
and open to more sky. Light, we call for
light to dispel the darkest oppression. Her
name on a million lips in many tongues.

Malala, Malala, Malala. Hear the ululation.

And the elation one year later: nominated
for The Nobel Peace Prize and still speaking
out for girls, though she says there’s so much
more to do.

and respond.

 

 

We May Be Mad But We’re Not

 

crazy.  Crazy is the poet who

cries, “The times demand we return

all the earth’s metal” and

throws her true

sapphire ring

into the Clark

Institute garbage.

 

A single, startling blue

flame tucked between white

layers of wiped tears

till the bored orderly

empties the pail on his

      evening round.

                                Purity, pure!

My friend reclaims her fourth

finger, charts the orbit of

bare flesh suddenly wrung

free, suddenly cured.

 

A pale band between loss

and deliverance on her left,

her writing hand. 

 

     And the ring? 

    Incinerated.

 

A star fired in the white heat of desire so intense

its object has melted?

Or buried in the suburbs’

landfill site, someday perhaps

                             an archaeological windfall.

 

The earth has recovered her own and the marriage

made in heaven, grounded

     in grinding cliché, has ended.   

 

 

Activist Canadian poet, performer and playwright Penn Kemp is the League of Canadian Poets' 2015 Spoken Word Artist and League of Canadian Poets' Life Member. Since 1972, Penn has produced drama, poetry, CDs, videopoems and Sound Operas. She's delighted to appear in Danse Macabre again. See www.pennkemp.wordpress.com for updates.