LAMENT FOR JACK LAYTON AND A DYING SUMMER

Tuesday, August 23, 2011/Monday, August 29, 2011

LAMENT FOR JACK LAYTON AND A DYING SUMMER

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

On this late August early evening,
The chill of the coming fall
Bites into my bare legs.

A shivering, icy chuck of detritus sits in my taut gut,
Refusing to be evacuated.
Too much activity around me,
Distractions pulling me away from my churning insides.

The lake is frosty and haughty,
Refusing to comfort me and speak to my soul.
Sadness and regrets tear into my sombre, cold flesh.

Twenty-four hours ago,
I watched the TV news.
Jack Layton passed away.

This afternoon, I ran into a lefty comrade from the Co-operative Housing movement.
“I’d have to say he was one of the all-time great Canadians,” she said.
I believe he really cared about the people of Canada,
As every Canadian politician should.

He wasn’t in it for fame, money or fancy cars.
Jack used his power and charisma to help you and I.
To fight for justice and equality.

What a contrast to our current mayor, Rob Ford
Who is truly an international embarrassment.
A bad joke on the people of this city.
Ford just strikes me as someone slightly dim,
Drowning in water too deep for his shallow intellect.

I feel distraught because Canada has lost a truly unique individual.
At least I know I’m not the only one feeling this way.
It isn’t fair.
Sixty-one is far too young to exit this churning, desperate planet we call Earth.

The sky is turning incredible shades of blue and mauve
As the exhausted sun decides to rest for the day.
Geese feed on the grass all around me.
A seagull sits quietly,
All puffed up against the chill.

Small white boats waft by in the lake.
Runners and cyclists speed along,
Hoping to stay fit and healthy.

Goodbye, Jack.
All I can say is thank you for your devotion and integrity.
Thank you for caring
And helping to make Toronto and Canada a better place to be.

I remember marching in the Labour Day parade,
Some summers ago.
We ended up prancing into the CNE grounds at the end of the day.
There was Jack and Olivia Chow in the stands,
Waving and smiling as we marched in
Wearing our light blue ACTRA T-shirts.
That’s how I will remember you.

Your smile and joyous energy, that day,
Was so encouraging and bright.
I felt proud to be an actor, a union member and a Canadian.
I will always keep that final image of you in my head.
Goodbye.
You were forever on the side of the working people.

THE 80s QUEEN WEST ART SCENE

Saturday, July 23, 2011

THE 80s QUEEN WEST ART SCENE

By Philip Cairns
Copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Thinking back to the 80s art scene in Toronto.
So much talent and optimism
Gushing onto wet, vibrant canvasses and paper.
New faces, fresh ideas.
Figurative Expressionism was the order of the day.

Painters and writers living off Canada Council grants.
Money seemed more plentiful despite a tight Recession.
Packed, exciting openings,
Crowded parties.
Hot, spinning couples churning out babies and masterpieces.

Galleries and small theatre companies springing up like mushrooms.
Where have all those bright, new faces gone?
Purple, pink and iridescent gold oozing out of tubes of paint.
Queen Street and the Cameron House seemed to be the centre of things.

You could go to 80 Spadina,
Wandering from floor to floor,
Full of galleries crammed with incredible, visionary imagery.
Charmed and surreal lights shone down on us.
Exciting theatre and writers exploding all over us,
Like the money shot in a porno film.
Now, middle age has grabbed us by the throat.
Death claimed many.

Some retreated into teaching,
But still trying to keep the flame alive.
Chroma Zone birthed a lot of energetic life, back then.
No one knew what lay ahead.

We were all gonna become art stars,
With hot-shot dealers selling our work all over the world.
Getting grants till we puked.
Hanging in the Louvre.

I miss those shimmering golden days.
We were Picasso, Liz and Dick, Brangelina, Dali.
Some fell by the wayside and disappeared.

Creating art is an Escher labyrinth.
One needs Loreena McKennitt’s yin and yang to thrive.
You have to paint the Mona Lisa, Monet’s “Water Lilies” and then float it down the lake, as well.
Where is the Canadian “Vanity Fair” or “Interview” magazine to promote us?

Leaving MOCCA, today,
Seeing all that glorious work on the walls,
And Rae Johnson and Andy Fabo,
Took me back to the summer of 1984.

Leaving the opening of “Painting Beyond the Zone” at ARC Gallery on Queen West.
Some of the same people’s work on the walls.
Walking home in the hot, refreshing night.
I had stars in my eyes and glitter on my eyelids,
Despite my crappy little part time job
And dark, Spartan, sweltering apartment.

Images of paintings swirl all around me.
Time zooms by in an elastic instant.
A time tunnel is a tragic place.

We were all part of something special.
Thriving,
Struggling to surface.
Pretty, slim,
Full of everything.
We thought we’d get it all.
Then life got in the way.
The real world opened the door a crack
And then rushed in, like a slow motion waterfall.

I miss seeing the light.
Life was a slurpy, wet Fudgesicle,
Oozing sugar and chocolate and wonder and hope.
Now things have changed.
Life just snuck in and throttled us while we were doing other things.

This is my new acting headshot for 2011.

Photo by the fabulous Maylynn Quan.

Check out my paintings and drawings on this site.

Please scroll down to view my recent paintings and drawings.
Thanks.

Acrylic painting #10 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Another coloured pencil drawing #2 by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Blonde Woman"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Another coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Clarity"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Still another coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Dame"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Another coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title -- "Deep in the Forest"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Coloured pencil drawing by Philip Cairns

Title-- "Smoky Chanteuse"

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #5 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #4 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #3 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #2 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Acrylic on paper painting #1 by Philip Cairns

Image copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

ETERNAL AUGUST

ETERNAL AUGUST
By Philip Cairns
Copyright 2011 by Philip Cairns

Trudging and sliding through the newly fallen January snow,
I’m thinking wistfully of hot August walks by the lake.
Sun beating down on my bronzed, porous skin.
Sunglasses and baseball cap shielding me from the rays.

Watching a group of young guys laughing and playing in the warm water.
Runners and cyclists zooming by on the bike path beside Lake Ontario.
Wish I were back there,
That broiling site straddling my wistful reverie.

Instead, I wear 2 warm sweaters and a long-sleeved shirt under my dark gray winter coat.
Long, thick purple scarf wound tightly around my neck.
Turquoise knitted cap snugly covering my head.
Sharp bites of cold chew ravenously on my numb, curled-up fingers.
Firm legs like blocks of ice.

No bare chests to ogle as they walk by in their tight, cut-off jeans.
Today, everyone looks like a fur trapper.

I’m remembering many, many moons ago,
Dressed in a red snowsuit,
Making angels in the white powder.
Smoking candy cigarettes,
My breath swirling in the chilled air.

Building snowmen in the backyard.
Running indoors for hot chocolate and cookies.
Snow fights with neighbourhood friends.

Today, I’m longing for a sweltering August afternoon.
Arriving home with sweat drenched clothes from brisk daily walks.
Soaking in the warmth of the day.
Feeling at the peak of things.
Listening to the rolling rhythm of the tides.

No shivering at bus stops at 3 a.m.,
Coming home from work.
Slush splattered from impatient taxi-cabs.
Twisting my ankle in the colourless blankets covering the sidewalk’s flaws.

Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster making out on the beach
In “From Here to Eternity”.
Burt almost naked in his skin tight black swimsuit.
Deborah’s back totally bare.
Sweaty, carnal and erotic.

It wouldn’t be the same if they were recumbent in a blizzard,
Covered in fur from head to toe like two Inuit elders.
Prudish and chaste.
The wind howling round their butts.
No, not a classic love scene, at all.

In January, it would take them 10 minutes to undress
Before they made love.
Swim trunks come off in one second flat.

Give me eternal August.
Sweet and gentle.
Soothing sunshine every day.
Snow a putrid, distant memory.
No leaky boots to contend with.
No frosty penis from a late night pee beside an oak tree.
No chilled fingers and toes.

Just the soft swoosh of the green-gray tides.
Fiery red sun.
Packs of smiling faces playing volleyball in the burning sand.
Bare feet splashing in the surf.
The world a spinning prism of clear, bright crystal.

WELCOME TO THE 21ST CENTURY

Monday, November 29, 2010

WELCOME TO THE 21ST CENTURY

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

Outside Buckingham Palace,
A Little Person terrorist dresses up as an 8 year old girl.
He hands a bouquet of explosive-ridden violets to the Queen.
In response, Elizabeth smiles serenely.
Both people are blown to bits,
Along with hundreds of screaming spectators.

Blood and green guts fly through the air,
As well as silver helmets and horses’ hooves.
The Queen’s diamond tiara lands on a Bobby’s head.
Eyeballs rocket upwards and in every direction.
Welcome to the 21st Century.

Manned spaceships land on Pluto.
Scandinavians, in particular, like to vacation on Jupiter’s rings.
Vaginaplasty operations become puzzlingly fashionable in hot climates,
Replacing scarlet Mohawks as a youthful fashion statement.
Who would’ve thought?!
Welcome to the 21st Century.

Severed limbs rejuvenate themselves
As the result of new wonder drugs.
Millions of people have their pubic hair removed by electrolysis.
Teleportation is the only way to fly.
Welcome to the 21st Century.

Wars and disease are a thing of the past.
We all speak in a politically correct manner.
Racial prejudice ceases to exist.
Jesus and Buddha and Adolf Hitler all rise up from the dead.
Welcome to the 21st Century.

Homophobia is a distant memory for one and all.
Slasher films are banned.
All copies of “Night of the Living Dead” disintegrate.
Liquid love is poured into the drinking water.
Teenage lust runs out of control resulting in millions of unwanted bastards.
Welcome to the 21st Century.

Actors are no longer forced to take hideous telemarketing jobs between gigs.
Everyone on the planet has more than enough to eat.
Pure spring water is in abundance for all.
A band of pure love and truth surrounds the planet.
Crime is a thing of the past.
Welcome to the 21st Century.

Depression vanishes.
Mental illness is no more.
Child slavery is gone in a puff of smoke.
Menstrual cycles are no longer necessary.
Anyone can live in a warm climate, beside the ocean, if they really want to.
Poetry is the new language of the masses.
Welcome, welcome, welcome to the new century.

Clear skin is the order of the day.
Sexual fulfillment reigns supreme.
Everything and everyone is perfect in every single way.
Hitler soon melts, like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Judy Garland songs are played in hundreds of thousands of elevators and malls.
Through extraordinary technology, new Marilyn Monroe movies appear almost every day.
Welcome to the new digital century.

No more famine, sex slavery, oppression or exploitation.
No hunger or pain. No overdue credit card bills.
No unpaid mortgages or weeping widows.
Blinding sunlight illuminates Earth,
Putting a Vitamin D smile on our faces.
A tofu chicken in every aluminum-free pot.
Welcome to the 21st Century.
Welcome to the New Millennium.
Welcome to a Republican’s worst nightmare.
Welcome to my hopes and dreams.

LOOKING FOR SOLITUDE IN MOONLAKE LAGOON

Thursday, August 26, 2010/Friday, August 27, 2010

LOOKING FOR SOLITUDE IN MOONLAKE LAGOON

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

It’s a busy early evening in Marilyn Bell Park.
Hunky young joggers are getting in shape.
Bicycles whizz by.
Couples parade along the boardwalk.
Mothers are holding babies in the sun.
I’m walking very quickly,
Trying to keep in shape, soaking it all in.

The swans look gorgeous as they drift along the waves.
What do animals think about,
Besides food and mating and staying safe?
I guess I’ll never know.

Now, I’ve moved on to a secluded bench, beside the water.
Marilyn Bell Park is not even visible from here.
In this lagoon, near the Legion Hall,
There are very few people around.
Sailboats and yachts rest on the lake.
Some are on land, as well,
Asleep behind a chain-link fence.

A cute dark-haired guy and his wet dog keep running by,
Back and forth,
Irritating the hell out of me.
I wish they would just leave me in peace.

The lake is very calm, today.
It’s a deep blue shade.
Very placid and still.
The sun beats down on my exposed arms and face.
It feels so soothing.
I want to drink in as much as I can before it sets.

Farther down the beach,
An Asian woman stands on a large fallen tree,
Close to the shore.
A small sailboat lifts anchor and wafts slowly away.
Thank God the man and his dog finally leave.

The sun’s reflection looks like huge diamonds floating on the surface of the water.
The sand shifts beneath my feet, when I move.
I just want to be alone with the warm sun and my chilly thoughts.

Two young women in black T-shirts burst through the bushes.
They hover near me,
Then make their way out to a boulder in the water.
Their chattering grates on my nerves.
Is this the only place they can find in the whole beach
To enjoy the fading day?

I move away to the fallen log, further down the beach,
To find a little peace.
The tides are silent, at this moment.
Seagulls scream as they fly in circles.
Waves of strong emotion pour over me.

Two boys on bikes greet the young women
And join them on the rocks.
I’ve had enough of this spot,
For one day.

I can see the stones resting in the silt at the bottom of the lake.
If I were alone,
I would be much happier.
Yes, it’s definitely time to get up and continue my daily trek.

TENNYSON DOWN

Sunday, August 22, 2010

TENNYSON DOWN

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

I’m remembering Tennyson Down on the Isle of Wight,
Back when I was 17.
I went there, in the summer of 1971,
With my best friend from public school, Ian Dennis.

He moved back to England in 1967,
When I was in Grade 9,
And I found no one to replace him.
I learned, at a young age,
To fend for myself.

On Tennyson Down,
The water sparkled like rare diamonds.
Undines danced on top of the waves.
It was a magical, mystical place.
A sacred site, if ever there was one.

Walking on the hills,
Stepping over the omnipresent goose shit,
I felt pure peace and serenity,
As if I were truly at one with the Universe.

I stood on the cliffs,
Looking out at the ocean,
And felt wondrously in touch with the Divine.
The Goddess was whispering in my ear.
Pan was prancing across the hills,
Playing his joyous music.

Today, almost 40 years later,
It’s wet, overcast and gloomy in Toronto.
The dark clouds pray on my heart and soul.

I wish I were walking on Tennyson Down,
Right this very second,
With not a care in the world.
My heart full of the mysteries of life,
Communing with the undines and the water sprites.
I swear I actually saw them
Glittering and dancing on the tides in the warm sun.

SAD DAY BY THE LAKE

Friday, August 20, 2010

SAD DAY BY THE LAKE

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

Today is a very grey day.
The melancholy sun is hidden behind clouds.
The lake doesn’t sparkle as much as usual.
It’s chilly outside.

It’s still August.
The first day of the CNE.
But I smell fall in the air,
That leads to hideous winter,
A season I’ve never come to terms with.

The blues are washing over me.
I thought a long walk would pick up my spirits.
Alas, it’s not to be.

I sit beside Lake Ontario,
Worrying about the future.
Dreading another miserable winter to live through.
Even in the south of France,
It can be chilly after dark.

I wish the sun would peek out from behind the thick clouds.
Two ducks have swum to shore.
They’re cleaning their feathers,
A few yards from my feet.
One of them has a lovely patch of deep purple
Mixed in with the grey and white down.

I feel honoured just to sit and watch them primping and cleaning themselves,
As if I was privy to a private moment of theirs.
There are no people swimming or walking on the beach.

I’m wishing I had a new life.
Less struggle.
More money.
Some security.
It’s funny how a cloudy day can spin out your moods
Into a delicate, fretful place.

Today, the tides still sound beautiful,
But I’m wishing I was somewhere far away.
Fifteen years ago, I used to come here
And read Occult books about Witchcraft, Wicca and Voodoo.
I’d lost the confidence to write.

The seagull sits on a rock,
Perhaps hoping I’ll feed it.
She has no knowledge of this blackness
That’s descended on me this early evening.
If I don’t snap out of it,
I may burst into tears.

I recall the way I felt as a child,
When summer was near its end.
I hated going back to school.
Boring homework,
Taunting schoolmates,
Sadistic teachers.

The sun is finally peeking out
From behind the dark clouds.
In the distance, the water is sparkling, at last, near the shore.
Today is a bleak, mournful day.
I don’t want the summer to end.