Sunday, July 23, 2006

Triangles of Glass ~~ anna hood

The crows are in place wrapped still
in night. She glides past
her eyelet nightie soft as old lady’s
cheeks, her pink chenille robe
the hem dripping dew
swishes the grass like a tongue,
her bare feet treading chamomile
into tea.

He’s waiting in a barn full of ghosts
rusting forgotten implements,
triangles of glass cobwebbed and smeared
with age, the air fanned by silent wings
of an owl who nests in the loft.
She pauses
in the doorway, her nose filling
with the scent of shampoo,
laundry soap
him. He’s young enough
to be her son, his faded jeans
bleached nearly white, both knees

In the hay he makes a bed
of chenille, drapes
her nightie on a cross
post and spreads himself
like a feast. She kneels
in the rising sun in streamers
of dawn.

The crows have left.
At the top of the stairs
her man still sleeps
gathering energy
for another day.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Paper Moon ~~ anna hood

Each day she has to navigate
through Alzheimer country.
nothing is safe Jesus Christ
nobody can be trusted
why even those damn raping priests
sneaking in at night
knocking her up
stealing her babies
seven so far
although God knows
why they'd ever want them
stinky little bastards.

She sings Harbour Lights
or Sentimental Journey
knows all the words
to Paper Moon
sometimes if she's on a rant
she sings hymns
blames God
blames the nurses
been known to bite
the hand that feeds her
hurls strychnine laced peas
at the wall turns her face
away from potatoes
mashed with arsenic
even the tea isn't safe
Holy Mother of God

Tied in her chair
face falling onto her chest
legs black and blue from kicking
knuckles threatening to break
through the skinny cellophane
skin covering them
pleating her sleeve
hands dusting smoothing
wringing the air
Stormy Weather
pouring from her mouth.

There's a young man comes
familiar looking
she thinks he can be trusted
he brings her raspberries
the wild scent still clinging to them
she whispers from behind her hand,
'You need to speak to someone
I'm pregnant again.'
If I were a Soprano ~~ anna hood

If I were a soprano
I’d sing for you, O Mio Babbino
Caro, I’d wrap my silver voice around you,
lift you into the swell
of a high C, my dress swirling
around us, a froth
grey-green chiffon
the great whales in chorus
dolphins walking on water.

The earth would try to tie us
down, she’d wrap us in chords
of gravity, press us into a cameo
of amber light but we’d trick her,
we’d slip off the edge of Peru
on an arpeggio of pure crystal
sound, the melody carrying us
into the sky where we’d spin,
my sweetheart we’d spin and spin,
molto allegro on treble cleffs
your pocket watch swinging in perfect time
our feet dancing on sharp flats.

I’d steal your breath when you tasted
my song, when your fingertips touched a note
the key of E, you’d stir the west wind.
We’d spin the globe, you and I
our voices shattering stars. In Calcutta and Cairo,
Hanoi, Moscow, Ottawa, even the city of angels
would look up, listen, as we showered them
with sequins.

The night would shiver if I were a soprano.
But I’m not a soprano; my mouth isn’t full
of music, only words
to say, I love you.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

a tiny vampire story ~~ anna hood

It was after midnight.

The girl sat quiet in the deluge, not fidgeting, not even brushing away the rain that dripped from the points of her hair onto the curve of her cheek then slid under the collar of her jacket. The wind blew the rain fiercely, sideways, upwards. In the yellow park light it clung to her hair like brilliant drops of sweat.

The Vampire stood, also motionless, under the overhang of the cupola watching her.

If someone were observing him they would see his eyes usually sharp and so grey they sometimes appeared colourless, soften. Even his arrogant nose, a nose like a royal would wear, seemed to lose its fearsome curve as he watched the girl. She was a beauty no doubt, with a face like a Botticelli angel, brows framing eyes dark as ripe olives. And slim with that lushness of youth.

Could she be the one, he wondered. Even after all this time, and as cynical as he’d become through the years, he still liked to think that there could be someone for him – a soul mate – someone he could go through eternity with. There’d been other relationships in his life, of course, but they had failed, miserably; it’s difficult to keep the glow through countless centuries.

They’d met in the park, right where she was sitting. There’d been a concert, Mozart – the Vampire had always loved Mozart – he’d been watching her then too. The orchestra played Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa Papagena; her eyes filled and spilled over; he’d leaned over and offered his handkerchief. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “The Magic Flute always makes me weep.” He’d fallen immediately in love; who could resist, especially with a girl who looked like her?

He’d taken her to a dark little coffee house across town. As she sipped her cappucino she said, “You’re a vampire aren’t you?” Very seldom was he at a loss for words but he was then – he was speechless. “It isn’t anything to be ashamed about,” she continued, perhaps taking his little gasp of astonishment for shame, “I’ve known a few vampires.” He thought this to be a lie, or at the very least a mistake; vampires are solitary, they’re too belligerent for one thing and spiteful and jealous for another. They very seldom associate with their own kind and never with mortals. “Tell me about them,” he’d said.

She did and in great detail and it seemed she had been acquainted with vampires. Some of the younger ones these days were propagating without rhyme or reason. They were lonely and thought they needed a companion.

He’d been truthful with her, telling her of the loneliness and the tedious boredom, of being the hunted and the hated. “You realize you’d never see another sunrise, never feel a babe at your breast, never know the joy of grandchildren and always, always, always, wondering if you are truly safe.”

“I don’t care,” she’d cried as she clung to him. “I don’t care about these things and who is ever safe anyway? I just want to be with you. I love you, you know that, don’t you?”

He did know it and this was why he hadn’t told her of the extraordinary things: how he could touch a musical note, how colours had texture, that when the first drops of warm blood pumped by a still living heart touched his lips the feeling was the same as an intense sexual climax. No, he hadn’t told her these things.

“What about how we live?” the Vampire continued. “I’ve seen you weep over a dead animal. How will you survive?”

“But we won’t eat animals, will we?” she’d said laughing.

So he stood hiding in the shadows of the park gazebo, watching her, listening as her blood coursed through her veins, listening to the thud of her heart.

As if she knew his thoughts, she called out into the darkness, “Jules, I know you’re out there.” He smiled as she called his name; as many times as he told her the correct pronunciation was Zhooles, she still called him Jewels. It was one of the things that charmed him. He knew in perhaps a hundred years or so he might find this annoying but then perhaps one evening they might wake up and she would have learned.

“Jewels,” she called again, "I love you. Let me face the fire with you.”

The Vampire went to her. He tasted her breath and knew that he loved her.

“Close your eyes and count slowly to one hundred.”

She pulled her hair back, lifted her throat and counted. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Ooh Hawaii would be nice Posted by Picasa
Passing ~~ anna hood

Her standing at the sink
nattering on her dreams
to swim in the warm sea
Hawaii maybe walking the sandy beach
salt air warm against
her skin walking arm in arm
with a man who loves her
desires her a red hibiscus
pinned into her hair
young again
young again
by the sea.

Him seated at the table
oblivious to her, oblivious
to the sea or her dreams
his fingers drumming
up his own long dead
dreams his fingers racing up
and down the cloth
running up the sharps
down the flats
his fingers hearing
Bach, hearing Chopin
hearing himself play Schubert
at Massey Hall
hearing applause
applause at Massey Hall.

Outside cars pass sounding like the surf
sounding like applause.
A jet cuts a scar across the sky.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Dawn ~~ anna hood

When the earth's face is still marked
with sleep I'll come stealing the night
glazing crimson the Earnescliff Hills
blazing the marsh grass
at the mouth of the river.
At the pool
where the horse chestnut preens
under her flaming candelabra
of ivory blooms a heron wades
bows his head to me. Cows kneel
in my warmth. Along the tumbled down
fence morning glories
show me their throat and in yards
green as new peas
peonies relax their pink fists.
I wake the osprey the gull and the trout
shimmer the bay silver
stalk the shadows under the blue spruce
send the owl with her white breast
home on silent wings to her brood.
The field mouse offers up a naked child.

Crawl out of your tangled nest
of down - you were young once -
leave your aches and pains
your fallen arches, bleeding gums
your thick waisted body
and meet me in the meadow
when the cock crows.
Leave your undreamed dreams behind
your despairing thoughts your forgotten goals.
Kick that old hound to the foot
of your bed. Leave the sheep
streaming sleep walkers
to ply the Milky Way
and meet me.

I am a new day.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Do you have any idea what this means? Posted by Picasa
Prayer Flags anna hood

Her fine hands find
one another, clasp
each other beneath her chin.
She directs her gaze upward
through light dribbled holes
in the sky as night drops her heavy fist.

Her abandoned thoughts drift
like prayer flags in the shadow
of Everest, turn into dreams
or birds, or little brown bats.
The earth spins
covers herself
in a quilt of Northern Lights.

She sings in the blue neon light
of stars that sent their message
through a millennium of years.
She sings of lost loves
sings of broken promises
or secrets bonded like crystal
to glass, the notes soaring
from her mouth like the 'datoo'
of Gibraltar, her song
carrying the fragrance
of date blossoms.

She's still now
slipping out of her smooth skin
becoming one perfect aria.
It is prayer time.

Monday, July 03, 2006

Does she mean me? Posted by Picasa
A Skinny Minded Man - anna hood

You man! You so skinny minded
you think you can come round here
whenever you want an mess
with my heart? You think yer so special
I hear angels sing when you kiss

Last time you left me cryin
and wailin wondrin how I could live,
my heart beatin a dirge, my brain
too weak to drag me outta bed
inna mornin n me like a rail
losin twenny pounds.

And now yer back, wolf
teeth snappin at my resolve
grinnin behind lips I want
to kiss, that hard piece
pushin the tough times
outta sight.

I know you think
I got a tin brain
my head so soggy with needin
that wet place filled, you could slide
right back in like a slippery old eel.
Hah! Think again

But, let me
kiss you one last time
before I kick your fine ass
outta my bed.

Saturday, July 01, 2006

I really prefer poems that rhyme Posted by Picasa


posed a problem and the head
my god the head
I could barely resist
boiling it clean
displaying it gleaming

smooth on the mantle
flowers clamped
in your big white teeth tiger
lilies or dandy
lions no pussy
willows for you
I am laughing
darling - a little joke

a few whacks
with the sledge
and you were a fine powder
the roses are beautiful
this year my dear
my freezer full of meat
tough though it is waste
not want not you did leave
me rather in the lurch

I passed you off as mutton
you old goat
at dinner parties your last lady
friend demanded the name
of my butcher as her tongue
wrestled with one
of your more disgusting joints
saved just for her
I should complain
she bleated

as I hit her on the head
these days I am becoming
bold discovered a certain taste
for ladies -snort-

one is what one eats
after all.
(so says anna hood)

Story People
by anna hood

Last night I met myself
in the hardware department
at the WalMart between rubber
hammers and ceiling fans
fragile as a bubble drifting
translucent in the electric air
all my story people hovering
pulsing in their secret places
waiting to be born.

The key maker young with raggedy
hair grinned, revealed a gold
tooth hidden in the velvet
cave of his mouth. He said,
‘keys, you want keys, I got keys.
I got keys to your house I got
keys to your car.’ Here he winked,
‘I even got keys to lock
up your old man.’

He pointed to a woman,
with a blue parrot
on her shoulder, her black hair
swirling a whirlpool
around three daughters.
‘I ain’t got keys for them,’
he declared, snapping his mouth
shut, hiding his gold
tooth, hiding his blank
keys, ‘those doors are locked.
Jim Morrison is dead.’

The story people fell
back screaming, pounding
their fists, thrashing inside
their plots but the woman
with the hair
with the parrot
with the daughters,
said, ‘ssh, ssh, he’s wrong
these doors aren’t locked.’

And I got out of bed
and started to write.