THE LAKE

Sunday, August 15, 2010

THE LAKE

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

The geese are quacking and squawking like crazy,
As I walk along the grass, not too far from the lake.
Do they feel that I’m intruding on their turf?

A sudden downpour forces me to take refuge in a cramped, smelly Port-A-Potty.
Better that than being drenched.
These daily walks in the bright sunshine fortify my soul,
Down to the marrow.

When I walk through the CNE,
I always stop to pray at the stone sculpture of Pan,
My very favourite God.
Pan enjoys his existence,
Scampering in the forest and playing his merry pipes.

Now, I sit on a park bench.
My shoes are two feet from the tide.
Someone moved it to this present and glorious location.
It was never this close to the water, before.

I look out at the boats and yachts in this beautiful lagoon.
The sun has gone behind a huge, grey cloud.
I’m drifting back to the sea at Cannes,
During the film festival.
Some of those yachts looked like the Queen Mary.
The constant parade of people on the Croisette,
With the hucksters and the buskers,
Reminds me of the CNE in late August.

Here, in Toronto, beside the lake,
The water soothes me.
Calms my silly storms.

I wish I had a house by the sea,
With no financial worries,
And constant love and contentment swirling inside its walls.
I feel like sitting here for decades.

These moments are so pure and pristine.
Smooth and supple as a baby’s skin.
No negativity to stain and electrocute the air.
It would be lovely to paint this scene, one day.
Green trees, sparkling water, the white of the boats.
The deep browns of the sand.

I’m transported to other places,
If only for brief moments, here and there.
Life is constant struggle,
When I leave this sacred space.
Pan, please answer my reasonable prayers.
You are my hope and salvation.

The sun comes out, again,
Leaving spots on my eyes,
When I look into its core.
The waves slap against the shore.
I love the gorgeous, lilting sound.

I don’t want to leave this safe place, though I must.
My life awaits me,
Back in the real world.
Soon, I must get up and move.
Thank you, Goddess,
For this momentary refuge.

DOWN BY ONTARIO PLACE

Thursday, July 22, 2010

DOWN BY ONTARIO PLACE

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

In romance, all the best ones are taken.
What’s left are the abusive, coke-addicted sociopaths.
Why get involved with sticks of dynamite?
Maybe it’s the blind, hot sex.
Or, sometimes, they’re the only game in town.

It’s very gorgeous sitting beside the lake
With pen in hand
And the hot sun beating down upon me.
The water is a deep, inky, blue-black colour.

Helicopters fly over-head.
Geese quack as they float by.
Words fly out of my brain.
I can pretend that I’m rich,
In the south of France,
Buying expensive trinkets to take back to my villa by the sea.
Or I can just sit here,
Soaking in the exquisite melting beauty of the July day.

Learning lines for a play,
Is not as much fun as doing lines with a straw.
The former is better for your brain, though.
Life is a very quirky deal.

The geese are squawking away,
Like a symphonic cacophony.
They sound like singers warming up before a show.
What has thrilled them so,
As they drift by in the dirty, murky fluid?

This enormous lake must have been incredibly pure and perfect
Two hundred years in the past.
Those were hardy, trying days
For the people who lived beside it.
No machines to make life easier.
No electronic entertainment.

I’m hearing the strains of sweet music in my head,
At a down-home barn dance long ago.
Woven straw hats.
The smell of hay and a Mr. Greenjeans look-alike
Playing the fiddle and tapping his foot to the beat.

That was the equivalent of Internet dating,
Meeting a new beau to the sounds of bluegrass music
And the swelling aroma of sage.

Georgia O’Keefe liked to use pastel shades in her work.
Pinks and blues and yellows.
Emily Carr was more like Van Gogh.
Pulsing colours and swirling, vibrant hues.
O’Keefe’s paintings are calming and sexual.
Carr’s are passionate and in-your-face.
Wish I could afford to buy their masterpieces.

The cars whiz by on one side.
Lake Ontario sits laughing on the other.
It knows it’ll still be here long after I’m gone.
My ashes will be poured into its soothing liquid,
Just like my mother’s were.
Ashes to cigarette ashes, as Jackie B. says.
It’s time to continue my walk.

SITTING BESIDE THE LAKE

Thursday, April 22, 2010

SITTING BESIDE THE LAKE

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

The oak tree speaks to me with incandescent whispers.
Jewels of delight pour from the depths of her marrow.
Sapphires of wisdom shoot from her roots straight into my thumping heart.
I’m disappointed, as usual,
For we don’t always speak the same language.

The blue-grey water saunters by,
Minding her own business.
A nasty, aggressive goose keeps attacking its fellow citizens,
Angry for some unfathomable reason.
Its squawking disturbs the tranquility of the lake.

Seagulls scream when they discover food.
A pure white swan dives for fish or just watches the world go by.
Pretty under-dressed women rollerblade along the pavement,
Chattering and gossiping in a loud, annoying manner.
Dark, spooky rainclouds hover ominously in the distance.

Despite the drizzle,
The sun peaks out,
Every once in a while,
Just for the hell of it.
Far away are tall, swaying buildings.

The Goddess manifests herself in blinding sun rays and light blue mist,
Way out by the horizon line.
I sit pondering the Afterlife and good friends I have known.
My dwindling bank balance hovers over my tense shoulders,
Preying on my jangling monkey mind.

A siren screams in terror as a fit young man rows by,
Followed by a bossy guy in a motor boat.
A red-winged bird shouts and prances as it digs for food,
Calling out to its cohorts.

All is calm and peaceful,
Despite the highway and the city cacophony in the background.
My mind suddenly becomes as still as a meditating yogi,
Down by the shimmering lake that I love.

We’ve gone through so much together,
Over the years.
You are my dear companion.
Water is my favourite element.

Speak to me, again,
Beautiful oak tree.
This time, I promise to decipher your profound, secret code.

MENTALLY ILL

Saturday, April 10, 2010

MENTALLY ILL

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

I did a performance-piece, in the summer, about depression.
I got a great review on the Net.
Now, word has gotten around that I’m mentally ill,
That I suffer from clinical depression.
People are afraid to hire me as an actor,
Because of this.

I’m mentally ill!!
I’m a nut job!!!
Now I can get away with murder.
I can tell people to fuck off,
When I really want to.
I can be mean and evil.
I can wear weird clothes
And act foolish and be bitchy.
I’ll just blame it on my illness.

“But, your Honour, I’m mentally ill.
That’s why I slapped that asshole.
I can’t help myself.
I’m nuts.”

This is fun.
I can steal things from variety stores.
I can spit at people on the street.
I can even expose myself on the subway,
If I so desire.

I’m loony.
I’m bonkers.
I can get ODSP from the government.
I’ll never have to work in shitty call centres,
Ever again.
I’ll get government grants for sick artists,
I can show my paintings in lots of exhibitions with other nut cases,
I can appear in documentary films about crazy writers.
I’ll be famous.

This is great.
I always wanted to be a star.
From now on, I’ve got it made.
I’ll never have to go to a food bank, ever again.

“Don’t hire that guy.
He’s crazy.
You can’t take a chance on him.
I hear he’s clinically depressed.”

I’m in the Twilight Zone.
You get Welfare.
You pay MasterCard, rent and phone
And you have $7 left to last you
Until your $94 paycheque comes in two weeks
From your shitty little part-time job,
And Welfare deducts half of that from your next fucking cheque.
Who wouldn’t be depressed!?

Loony tunes, nut bar, dingbat, whack-job.
On top of that: gay, semi-vegetarian, overweight, middle-aged, male artiste.
A tragedy has turned into a Sandra Bullock comedy.
A one night performance can change your whole life.
One review on the Internet can brand you for eternity.
An opportunity to perform can mark you forever.

“I’ve never seen him depressed.
He must be on medication.
He’s totally disabled.”

Hey, I’m not bonkers.
I’m just a slightly eccentric guy
Who likes to wear jewellery and purple shirts.
Who likes to write and paint and act.
Now I’m “mentally ill”.
Well, then, call up the loony bin.
Get out the butterfly nets.
Clean out the padded cell.
I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.
Take me away to bliss and eternal nirvana.
Throw away the key.
This situation is truly, truly crazy.

RANDOM THOUGHTS/JEWELS OF DELIGHT

Sunday, April 18, 2010

RANDOM THOUGHTS/JEWELS OF DELIGHT

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

Emeralds are shooting out of my crown chakra.
Tiny rubies fall gently from my tearing eye sockets.
I’m spitting deep blue star sapphires from my mouth.
There is no pain,
Just jubilation and sparkling colours.

The bitter old man was tarred and feathered with vicious lies.
Vile allegations of dark troubles and misplaced fears.
The twang of deep-rooted illness hovered over his head.
It was all profoundly untrue.

The paintbrush shook in the artist’s slender hand.
Indecision and self-loathing prevented him
From diving into the sea of discovery,
The bejewelled well of creativity.
The critical dialogue in his head played, repeatedly.

Listen to the wonderful words of dance legend Martha Graham.
Don’t question or criticize.
Just do it.
Let it flow.
Use your Goddess-given talents without fear or crippling uncertainty.

Create the new dance.
Sing higher than you can.
Dive off the mountain without a net.
You will surely land in a safe place.

Let the spirit of Rembrandt or Rimbaud inhabit you.
Throw out the soiled detritus.
Sometimes the world won’t understand or even care.
March forward to the sound of the soothing music in your head.

You might fall into that bleak rabbit hole, one careless day,
The bottomless pit of despair,
Hitting the hard sides of the abyss, as you tumble down, down.
Listen to the faint, cheerful words calling out to help you.

He put on a wig of sunflower yellow.
A sleeveless black dress with silver overlay.
High-heeled shoes covered in rhinestones and sequins.
Glossy lips of ruby red.

The fit young man danced like a dervish on the float in the parade.
He flirted with musclemen and twinks.
He gossiped and giggled, had the time of his life.
He’s dancing in the Gay Pride parade.

Baby-faced gym rats, transgendered delights.
Bull dykes and fem boys and bears.
Drag queens and leather men and PFLAG moms.
They’re all marching in the Gay Pride Parade.

A diamond popped out of my ear canal.
I attached it to my lobe with a piece of golden wire.
Freshwater pearls swirled fashionably around the width of my over-fed neck.
Pink pearls hung round my slender wrist.

The middle-aged man got in a pale blue car and drove to the Pacific Ocean.
He lay on the beach and lapped up the soothing breeze.
The tiny white bikini he wore attracted no crowd.
Solitude engulfed him like a warm cocoon.
He captured the glorious seascape on his artist’s canvas,
With layers and swirls of acrylic paint.
Blue, pink, yellow, mauve and lime green.

The ephemeral fish tank was full of delights.
Shells of every colour and design.
Semi-precious stones were shimmering placidly in the hot sand.
A sense of peace and calm soothed his tense nerves.
A tiny quartz crystal sat right in the middle of his Third Eye chakra.

Just breathe in the vibrations of the stars.
It takes no effort whatsoever.
Think of the timeless questions of the infinite Universe.
Living your life is the hard part.

HOW TO WRITE A POEM

Friday, March 26, 2010

HOW TO WRITE A POEM

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

Never use the word “I” in a poem.
“I”, as in, “I am so deliciously happy.”
It’s too personal.
Not intellectual enough.

Your audience only wants to hear obscure, abstract concepts,
Like love and romance
And things that even you, the writer, can’t comprehend.
People don’t want to hear your fears and secrets.
They like to hear about inanimate things,
Like daffodils or starfish or sunsets.

If your audience doesn’t understand your poem,
They will be ecstatic.
People with University degrees can sit around at Starbucks
Discussing what you really meant when you wrote,
“Epiphanies of pink sunsets
Dithered by sheltering orange umbrellas
In dire juxtapositions.”

Of course, they will be totally wrong in their interpretations.
They’ll never know that you were being devious.
You deliberately wrote some silly nonsense,
To confuse and stimulate them.

Get out your Thesaurus, writers.
Open the dictionary.
Find words that no one has heard of,
Like “genitive”.
Stick that in your poem.
That’ll thrill your audience.

Don’t write:
“I felt so desperately lonely when I was young.”
Mix it up to confound them.
Write: “Young felt desperately I,
When confound them lonely was.”
You will be helping teachers all over the world.

In English class when they study your poem,
And of course they will,
It will give teachers a chance to include an essay question
Asking students what the poet really meant
When he, or she, wrote those lines.

“Gibbering giblets glopping glockenspiels
In tethered tinkling tantrums over tittering tetracycline.”
What is the poet getting at?
I don’t have a clue.
But that’s what it’s all about, people.

Of course, there’s no need to mention the “f” word
In your poetry, either.
People have been known to mess their pants
When they hear that word at poetry readings.
Perhaps you, the poet, could sell “Depends” diapers,
As well as your chapbooks,
At the merchandise table.
You will become even richer.

Yes, keep them guessing.
Don’t write:
“I attempted suicide when I was 16”.
That’s too simple and concise.
Reality will shock them.
Try this, instead:
“Suicide was a silly anachronism,
When 16 was a bricklayer’s paradigm.”

What does it mean?
Who knows?!
Let the audience figure it out.
That’s their job.
Or give it to your professor.
Get her to explain it to you.

Well, that’s it for today.
Thank you.
Boy, I really fucking enjoyed that.

AMETHYST AND EMERALDS

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

AMETHYST AND EMERALDS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

I placed a hunk of amethyst inside my mouth.
I thought it could cure me of Tourette’s syndrome.
It felt cool and delicious,
Like orchids in a crimson crystal vase.

I’m in love with amethyst.
The deeper the purple, the better.
I buy it by the truck-load.
Brooches, rings, pendants, uncut chunks.

I long for a really good tumble in the hay.
Sweaty, passionate, messy, sweet.
Devouring my partner like a rich bar of dark chocolate.
Slurping, gobbling and rolling around.

Diamonds cascaded from the ceiling of my bachelor apartment, one magical night.
They dazzled and blinded me, as they fell to the floor.
I almost choked, there were so many.
I know they won’t accept them at the grocery store.

Tumbled semi-precious stones, every colour of the rainbow,
Sit inside 2 glass pyramids on my kitchen table.
My psychotic ex-lover might get coked up and smash them to bits.
Thank God I only see him once a year.

Art covers the walls of the actor’s tiny co-op.
Watercolours, coloured pencil drawings, acrylic paintings, photographs.
If he were rich, it would be works by Monet, Renoir, Dali.
No matter: it’s great to support Canadian artists.

Richard Burton loved to buy exquisite jewels for Elizabeth Taylor.
A king’s ransom for every stone imaginable.
Emeralds, rubies, citrine, jade.
Diamonds drip from her like a waterfall.

Most artists struggle and starve.
Working boring shit jobs, on Welfare, teaching.
Still, they churn out their magnificent art.
Nothing stands in their way: only the inner critic tearing things to shreds.

I’m an ass man.
I adore a hard bubble-butt.
Silky and smooth as a baby.
It’s like eating watermelon on a hot, stifling summer day.

If I commit suicide,
I might come back as a diseased baby in Africa,
Dying of malnutrition.
Better to stick around here and face the daily battle.

My beautiful piece of finely cut amethyst
Sits in a delicate, carved gold setting.
Wish I knew when or where the brooch was made.
My heart quickens every time I look at it.

As you get older, you get to know your doll frame body so well.
What it likes, doesn’t like.
What it needs, can live without.
If you could read my mind, you’d slap my face.

Bury me in a coffin full of chunks of raw amethyst.
Throw in some sapphires and quartz crystals.
Burn me on a funeral pyre in Varanasi.
Then scatter my ashes to the sea in Hawaii.