Hi everyone, I have a new book of poetry completed . I printed, copied, folded and stapled it myself in the good ole’ spirit of the high school zinester which I am (which I was?). It is called “Dysthymia-Mania” and it’s mostly about how cute puppies, and bunnies are, but there is a bit about my favourite chocolates in there too. Nah, I’m just joking, it’s about mental-illness, depression, sexual issues/dysfunction/infidelity. It’s a real cup of tea it is, however I don’t recommend it for anyone under the age of 7… or maybe 8? Depends on the maturity of the kid. The majority of poems featured, have been workshopped with the Trust since last summer. I am happy with it now, and hope to make others happy… or unhappy? I don’t know anymore, but the important thing is, it’s done. If you regularly attend the VT meetings in Fredericton, you will recieve one at some point. If you don’t, but desire a copy, for free (as if people will pay to read poetry, haha) you may contact me at corenski@hotmail.com I don’t mind mailing copies to far away places, as long as they get read.
Puppies, bunnies, & chocolate rule!
- C
Hey folks,
I consider the following poem to be my most ambitious to date. It encompasses my obsevations and musings while on the Vagabond expedition to SW Newfoundland last August. I have tried to find it a hallowed literary home, but I think the Trust site is where it belongs for now so others can have a looksee.
Cannonball Captain
EVERTHING IS COMING UP ROSE BLANCHE
A Mainlander’s Ode to Newfoundland
by Jordan Trethewey
Beatific black Lab sees us
off at the Grand Bruit wharf.
No ferry out of La Poil to Burgeo
for a week, none at all ’til Friday.
So back we go.
In La Poil, cats travel
in duct-taped, cardboard boxes
without whimper, while
Katie helps find my sea guts on deck.
As the ferryboat rocks out
of the brown water bay,
looking down just means
finding a better way.
Comforting to see salty Islanders
grab the little laminated bags
as quickly as I do
before wild white waves
crash on shore,
leaving frothy impressions
of inland villages
below rockslide detritus
reminiscent of children’s
white-glued sparkle patterns.
The thesis, I’m reminded,
is: Don’t panic,
we’ll get ‘er dun b’y!
Foggy windows pout continually,
empathy for the impenetrable coastline
and my vain attempt to quell queasiness.
Saw the original, wooden fisherfaces
before they became self-deprecating art
haunting the cod-absent walls
of the Friendly Fisherman.
Informed the fishery still sucks,
and if you wanna get welfare,
youse gotta be tough
to make enough hours,
to collect your stamps,
even if you’re 60, and
enough is enough.
Talk of migration West,
Newfies striking out,
maybe come back
another “Welcome Home” day.
We change as
our memories mutate
and money is made.
The young try to never stop,
’cause once you put down roots
it costs ya, me Trout,
maybe more than you’re willing,
or know.
I’ve stopped moving,
youth given way to
welcome stability and
ugly fiscal demands,
and noticed pay dries up
and fixes you to:
taxes, insurance,
homes, kids, cars,
in distant locales.
Roots in your pocket.
Roots in your guts.
But movement,
ah, movement,
doesn’t make the locals seasick.
They keep a granite heart beacon
trained on those with
wet, itchy feet:
roots tomorrow,
credit today.
The Friendly Fisherman’s girls are
Yes, we’re open-minded
to our soggy lot, not,
No we’re closed.
They help us find
the cheapest route to Burgeo.
Today, we’ll shake the demon
and ride the Black Horse;
here’s to no rain, just cruel, sightless fog
as we surface from Isaac’s
smoky blue stage.
“‘Dis da wurst summer we’ve ev’r had,”
says Pauline. “It usually only stays foggy in June.”
Newfie’s ability to predict the weather
really is a length of yarn,
percentage of accuracy
lower than a meteorologist.
“S’posed ta be sunny tamarra.”
This prevailing attitude serves as
grains of rice to a box of table salt,
keeping the moisture out,
preventing nature
from hardening them.
Newfoundland has tricked me
into believing it’s fall.
Fool us one day…two days…
fool us three days
we’re missing something obvious,
maybe even the point.
On the rippled 480 asphalt,
a patch of blue sky brings tears
as we leave it behind,
bending coastward.
Wipers on the cab so well worn
they’ve scored victory arcs,
and I wonder if the subtext of coastal
is always rain.
Stubby tress accenting the shrubland
mean opportunity to see roadside rabbits,
1,2,3,4, caribou grazing.
The scenery reminds me
of Irish iconography,
a sentiment echoed in
gift shops province-wide,
on hats and mugs with
The Rock’s silhouette on
a tri-coloured flag proclaiming:
Republic of Newfoundland.
A republic of coastal rivers,
peculiar cluster communities of
caravans and two-room houses
popping up like the carefully-placed
boulders on the horizon line.
Standing on sandy
Sandbanks’ shore with
piping plovers ignoring the cliffs
taking their infinite punishment,
the tide makes us shorter,
the ocean reclaiming its land.
In Burgeo, they are
what they are: Muddy Hole Rd.,
Playground St. say it all.
Sun shines forth better moods,
Charlotte’s lice and fleas tickle,
so does Griff’s story of shortcuts
to cash and more dubious ferry schedules.
We wait for the next missed opportunity,
give other travelers advice
and anticipate a Burgeo ferry chantey
about Grandpa eating Grandma’s laxatives
instead of his proper Viagara tonic.
Think about the girl at the one-room
museum staring blankly
when asked about a payphone and hot coffee
(neither of which exist), and
Mr. Jake, the 11-year-old Airedale Terrier,
travels well, but has been going downhill
toward the maximum twelve.
No matter what others believe,
comfort is bliss:
knowing for a short period
you’ll be displaced, but will
end up in affable arms and
rough tongue kisses;
seeing a male killer whale dorsal
display its extroverted side
Yes, Gord, we’re in nature’s killer whale tank;
being with old and newly-old
friends dropping as one,
wet, from the rock diving board
to Chapel Arm below,
encompassed.
“Don’t'cha fuckin’ worry ’bout dat,”
says a wharf angler.
Touché.
Different personalities, foreign scenery,
release the grip anger had
on my mossy brain,
washed clean, now,
by the Atlantic and Grey River,
where homes are in city proximity
but look distinctly rural,
where the rocks were recently
combed clean by glaciers.
Constant rushing water audio
complements constellation video
and inspires such writerly attempts as:
“These stars are like sky acne,”
“These stars are like freckles
on an eight-year-olds face.”
Copyright 2008. All Rights Reserved.
