Resiliency in times of uncertainty

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This article was published 24/04/2021 (1701 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

For the sixth year in a row, we’re showcasing Manitoba writers for National Poetry Month in partnership with the Winnipeg International Writers Festival. As always, we’re taking a page from the League of Canadian Poets, who have announced that this year’s theme is resilience.

As we read the submissions, co-editor Tamar Rubin and I asked ourselves: what does it mean to be resilient in the face of the second or third wave of COVID-19, with its job losses and mental health struggles?

What does it mean to be resilient in Treaty 1 territory and the homeland of the Métis Nation? What does it mean to be resilient in the face of climate change, when we keep on breaking records and there’s no such thing as normal weather?

We’re pleased to present wide range of poets that attempt to answer those questions or at least to document their responses.

Most of all, we’re happy to be reading and celebrating poetry in such uncertain times.

— Ariel Gordon

January

by Alison Wong

is an open palm and hanging rope, the gap

between monkey bars, step between

stones. The edge of a cliff I am watching get smaller as I fall.

January is butterflies in my stomach after finally

leaping off the diving board I’ve spent years toeing

the edge of.

I guess what I’m saying is:

I’ve finally met gravity in person.

It feels nice to set wheels into motion you can’t take back.

I am falling through open air,

going somewhere, which is the important part.

Alison Wong has performed spoken-word poetry at open mics in Winnipeg and Kingston and was a top-ten finalist for CBC’s 2019 First Page Writing Contest.

Un extrait de Polaroïds urbains

par Seream

Winnipeg mouillée

au déluge qui nous guette au printemps

Winnipeg animée

à minuit qui cherche les heures troubles de la nuit dans les

ruelles étroites aux briques colorées de hiéroglyphes urbains

Winnipeg amplifié

au drapeau symbole d’infini et je comprends pourquoi

Winnipeg créditée

sous les projecteurs quand Hollywood illumine

Winnipeg injectée

au prix de l’essence qui change tous les jours

Winnipeg résistée

sans les franco-manitobains et sans la langue française, ça ne

serait pas Winnipeg

Winnipeg centrée

au coeur du continent tout neuf

This poem appears in Mont Blanc-Winnipeg Express, published in April by Les Éditions du Blé.

Seream est un poète, performeur et comédien qui est arrivé au Manitoba de la Haute-Savoie en France avec sa famille en 2017. Il est directeur de la Maison Gabrielle-Roy.

Exist loudly

by Alero Tenumah

Tired of being in spaces with people who simply refuse

to acknowledge my existence.

Avoiding eye-contact will not make me disappear.

Refusing to shake my hand does not move me.

Refraining from saying my name does not deter me.

My presence may be an affront

But I owe it to my ancestors to sit comfortably at this table.

I will not dishonour them by shrinking or retreating.

They have sacrificed too much for me to play small.

Alero Tenumah immigrated to Canada more than 10 years ago and now calls Manitoba home. In her spare time she enjoys writing and cooking.

Return of the Swallows

by Carolyn Hoople Creed

Each year through April day-watch,

one question presses: will skies raked

with searchers’ pointed gazes unveil

the grace of swallowtail flight?

Carolyn Hoople Creed is a poet and Associate Professor at University College of the North.

 

open water long haul

by melanie brannagan frederiksen

 

a little storm a short mile

 

for the first time amy isn’t in the boat

with jack waiting to haul me up by my arms just as my head and throat fill

with lake ontario

the water i cough up tastes of loneliness

 

the lake its open invitation

especially when i burn with fury when muscles and lungs ignite with a shriek

like lightning announces

a little storm

the lake tastes of rage

singed seaweed on my tongue for months

 

a short mile

i need gathering to fight the winds and swells jack cheers me on and i haul myself forward imagining amy’s the one shouting when i haven’t heard her voice in four years

set my jaw so i don’t turn back mom on the dock

 

just a short mile

push on because i can’t be another daughter

leaving her waiting

melanie brannagan frederiksen is a writer, copy editor, and critic whose work has appeared in Prairie Fire, CV2, and Prairie Books NOW.

Guarding a piece of epidemic

by Delshan Anqele

I lived between two pandemics

War pandemic

Virus pandemic

In the end, we always run to tranquility

It is a matter of survival

A thin hair separates survival from death

The precautionary measures are what bother you

It slows down the world

As for life? The core issue —

It is an epidemic that will last forever

Delshan Anqele came to Canada from Syria in 2017. She published a collection of poetry in Arabic and is working on another. She recently started writing in English.

Oshki-ziigwan

by Özten Shebahkeget

taste dead snow in the wind, howling

away our cold lover

as another year blows in

 

watch winter’s skin go black and green,

the Red River on the run, and shotgun

shells in every color decorate mud

 

no word for resilience in this tongue,

just zhiibendamowin, like the trees

who resume their stretch for sun

 

and the moon wanes to a toenail

among winter stars, with no adieu,

as they bid the forest another see you

 

Oshki-ziigwan – Early spring

Zhiibendamowin – Patience

Özten Shebahkeget is a member of Northwest Angle 33 First Nation and an MFA candidate at the University of Saskatchewan who lives in Winnipeg.

 

spring murmurations

by Tazi Rodrigues

we woke up to rain. winter eased

its grip on city, let elms fall into

spring, their canopies relaxing over roads

sewn in all winter long. thunder rang and

rolled down the trees, pooled against mosses,

and we woke up to rain –

its glisten along the edges of the

kitchen table, water dripping from the countertops.

briefly it shone like starlings:

glimmered in the bare morning light that

stuttered into the room, holding us in glow,

moved through the apartment trailing glass.

 

briefly it shone

 

& the starlings, nestled in the next-door neighbour’s

roof, sung into the rain, dizzied by their

reflections as each drop fell against the windows.

the roads, long congealed by snow and lockdown,

spilled like sap, like thunder song – spilled

into floodplain houses, into us

as we drank coffee at the table. your fingers

detached first, then my knees: we joined the torrent.

we woke up to rain. we woke up to rain.

Tazi Rodrigues is a writer and early-career biologist. Her work has recently appeared in Vallum, CV2, and The Scrivener Review.

Five Haiku

by Harvey Jenkins

toast and cup-of-soup

five more days before

CERB to arrive

 

hospital sounds

hearing everything

but the diagnosis

 

subterranean

I think of cherry blossoms

during my shift

 

slippery patch of ice

only a crow sees

my glasses fly

 

home-built ice rink

this time we hold each other

and wobble clock-wise

Harvey Jenkins completed the 800 km Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage in 2010 and published the book Haiku Moments on the Camino: France to Finisterre.

Cousin Told Me

by Libby Jeffrey

Cousin told me how

He held his niece once

Under the country night sky

Tents and trailers of family

Nestled between woods of spruce.

 

Wondering if the moon meant

As it did to him as to her

He stepped away, blocking the sight

By a treetop this late summer night.

 

Indeed, so she fussed,

Give it back.

Give me back my country nightlight

Uncle stay here til the dew falls and

Keep us safe teach me the bird calls

Show me how to see how to drink it all in.

And how she said it

changed his vision.

 

But from the moon’s view

All she really did say

Was one simple fuss

Which Cousin told me

He heard in his way.

Libby Jeffrey is an emerging writer in Treaty 1 Territory, Winnipeg. In 2020, she published her debut Babybytes: Becoming a Mom as the World Locked Down.

Small town, big shine

by James Scoles

Small town, big shine

Tough luck at this little

box office: the film has

been shredded and the

lights are dim. But see

the usher still sweeping

her light? Not looking

for rule-breakers, just

wrinkles in the dark.

James Scoles is the author of The Trailer (Signature Editions). He teaches creative writing and literature at the University of Winnipeg.

 

the shore is the mending site

by Noah Cain

 

because the river we travel reflects

forest and sky and boulders hide

beneath the moving gleam

emulate the canoe

 

while more rigid vessels ricochet downstream

powering past minor crashes, a serious wreck

strands them without the materials of repair

emulate the canoe

 

made from what it travels through

patched with birch bark

bound with boiled spruce roots

sealed with the resin that oozes

from scars in scaly bark

Noah Cain teaches high school English at Lord Selkirk Regional Comprehensive Secondary School. His work has appeared in CV2, Teacher Voice Anthology, and The Temz Review.