Issue 6 October 1 2001
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On Photography - Gibson
Photographs:
2 views of Cuba by Dan Stefura
Ste. Marie Among the Hurons
St. Lawrence Market: Toronto
Black Creek Pioneer Village: Toronto
Photography - Free Verse
Photography - Some Internet Resources
Ode to the Toronto Beer Festival
Editor: William J. Gibson
email to the editor
Made in Canada
Photography - Free Verse
Selected poems by William J. GibsonThe Idea of Order on Langton Avenue
We were talking about clutter.
How the hell to get a handle on
the swamp of papers and files,
boxes of hurry, the need for some
secret method to make it all
perfect, when I saw the photo
you had shown me before,
your face between your mother's
and your father's at the dinner
for their anniversary, all the smiles,
but a different look in your eyes
or maybe I just add that after
you told me that the doctors'
lost you on the table that morning
for a short while and how you
knew you could go on to
the other side, but you weren't
ready, there was more here for you.
much more than heaps of paper
much more than me
but that was ten years before me.
And puzzles and projects and
fixing things all appeal to my brain
which my body carries around for me
So I offered the only thought that has
ever made sense to me about
the idea of order.
"You have to decide the place
where things will go,
where they belong,
which ones to keep.
And then you have to clear that place
and lift them to it
Then you have to stick to it.
If you don't, if you move
it to a temporary refuge you are lost,
the alligators will get you and the swamp
will fill in again.
Nature hates a vacuum.
It will be as if you were in a boat
with no oars, drifting,
waiting for the moon to show up
because you are alone and in the dark
and angry because you
have done it again,
done it to yourself,
as if we were really talking
about clutter and not about time
and not about the drifting emptiness
that we glimpse
that I recognize more each day
that burns my ass and turns me against
myself until I throw that out
the entire thrown together
accumulated mess of nothing
and nothing and nothing
much at all.
Like me and not the least bit like me
you want to wear alligator shoes
and go dancing until
the sun replaces the moon
and the coolness of the night air begins to heat.
I will take an order of that.
Not Quite a Dream
yelling at the wrong moon
in the dream
in the boat that I have never seen before
I roll out
I find a beach
the trees hang close
I am being studied
the eyes in the green wall
learn everything
the scar between my eyes
my right arm
which does not straighten all the way
my weak eyes behind glass
move me round the edge of this new place
I will make a photograph
I will sketch quickly
and then a second sketch
I need to know it through paper
I have to roll it out flat
with words
with scratchings
that is what I do
Personal Audit
this is a room without voices
with a few notes of grace from the air conditioner
softness of the rug caressing my feet
a little comfort
a pinch of unease
glass of the table showing everything
I am just as transparent
old photos in slipping stacks
travelled old cars
old streets
first communion
hockey games
helmets that wouldn’t save a bowling ball
let alone my brain pan,
hockey sticks that cost $1.75
Hespeler Green Flash
8 goals in 20 games
the defenseman
that was me
stills from the movie of my life
I'm working on my memoirs remember
I am moving up to let the odometer roll over
my birthday in 20 days and with that
my shoulders slide down
to the orbit of my heart
to the slopes of the old comedy
love and illusion
the advertising agency of the young
I would only be Bogart
if you would be Bacall
two days ago was my father’s birthday in 1919
one day ago his father died in 1940
I hope I do not crowd another death
into this month
unless I last to 2053
or 2054 to make it an even 101
like the keyboard
I'm tapping on
looking up
I am sure a pteradactyl has done
the plaster texture of the ceiling here
a record
all I crave is a record of my steps
a turn in the legend
a start in the trail
not the least bit like a popcorn flick
Tom Mix left his pistols here
another pawn of mystery and regret
everything a photograph
every word a skittering grasp
it touches me
and I touch air
Extraction of Joy
falling at the base of the tree
my camera hammers at my ribs
it hates me now
I have not fed it enough light
have not rolled the chemically hungry
grey strip of film
through its stomach
it hates me now
I dust off the filter
and hang the camera round my neck
my chain of office
the full gadget bag of film and filters
a blue cloth tumour grown out of my hip
my companion
my condition
time to make a stand
my eyes start working
pushing at the space in front of me
hunting images
hunting framed moments of curious light
I will squeeze them
into the camera's body
remembering more than
I can stuff inside my skull
inside my mouth and ears
pushing my self
to find the thing I want
have lost
never noticed
threw away
Contents Copyright (C) 2001 William J. Gibson.
None of the material contained herein may be reproduced or stored in any form without prior written consent from the author(s).
Send inquiries or comments to bluetyger editor: William J. Gibson