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The Interdisciplinary Work of Lyss Warmland.

Posts tagged poem

Check out my conversation with Jessica Outram!


We talk about:
– Writing poetry, plays, and more
– The idea of “home” and “place”
– Being Cobourg’s Poet Laureate
– Poetry Present (submit your poem here!)
– How writing keeps Jessica well
and more!

Featured Tunes by:
Cadence Weapon
Hayden
Sarah Harmer
Lauryn Hill

Check out my Lyssmas Eve Eve Special!Screen Shot 2020-01-04 at 11.26.55 AM

Featuring very important production assistant: Luna! And cohost Ashley Bouman!

Coming up: Port Hope Goes Punk
port hope goes punkIG

Top 10 of Season 2:

10. Smokii Sumac, episode 2!

Check out his book here: “You Are Enough: Love Poems for the End of the World”

9. Susan K, episode 17!

Listen to a clip in the episode.

8. Nickola Magnolia, episode 4!

Listen to a live update and live performance of one of her beautiful original songs in the episode.

7. Robert Washburn, episode 26!

6. Josh Noiseux, episode 20!

Listen to a clip in the episode.

5. Katie Hoogandam, episode 23

Listen to a reading of one of the poems from her chapbook, Mothertongue, available at Let’s Talk Books in Cobourg in the episode.

4. Psychedelics, episode 18

Listen to a clip in the episode.

3. Kristie Salter, episode 13

Listen to a clip in the episode.

2. Maureen Pollard, episode 11

Listen to a clip in the episode.

1. Holly Barclay, episode 19

Listen to a clip in the episode.

Featured Tunes:

Corn Dog Sonnet No. 7- Sincere Engineer
Failed Imagineer- Propagandhi
My Favourite Chords- Weakerthans

I’ve been falling in love
with my bellybutton
as it slowly pops out, being
pushed out into the world along
with this someday soon task-
motherhood.

Thicker ribcage where he’s pushed
my organs
up and out of his way as he grows and
for once, my body doesn’t struggle
in fact,
it turns out growing this being
feels like
what I was made for.

No more hip bones
protruding, just
soft curves, softer still.

This body
simultaneously mine/not mine
it’s magic it’s
home
to my baby and I
while we grow us one
just for a while longer.

Sometimes I think I’ll miss him
when he’s not a part of my body
yet I know
I’ll dance in every moment
he breathes on his own
because motherhood is simultaneously
mine/not mine.

Because this body can only hold
temporary truths
as he grows,
this body can be home
mine, his
soft, and softer still.

My grief has looked a lot like
taking the long way home,
ugly sing-screaming to a band all
my friends hate

“I don’t care about anything as much as I used to”

the words another grad school reject
wrote feeling like the ones
I wish i’d written
instead of words with no consistent pattern
no structure
no plan.

But I guess when it comes to grief,
I’ve learned that no plan I make
no work I do
is going to change the simple fact that
I lost them
I might lose this one-
but maybe I won’t.

So when I ugly sing along with
someone who doesn’t know I exist
about beings I’ve lost who never existed
I feel the spark carried by my voice
her words
my meaning
I let it light the candle that
holds some space for hope.

(quote from “Overbite” by Sincere Engineer.)

Give yourself time
even when your people are
impatient.

When they’re used to you either
saving the day
or falling apart
(appearances only)
those are the times,
4am,
waking like you just
ran some sort of marathon,
when you hold yourself
and you reach out
still breathing hard,
to do everything you ever dreamed of

not to prove them wrong
but because it’s your
still-ugly truth.

 

When I was a little girl,
I lived in a house with a big garden
that gently sloped into a ravine.
Across the water, lived a willow tree
and when my brother and I
followed the stream against the current,
it lead to an open field full of
huge rocks- islands to our childminds
and we swore the water there was magic.

When mom got sick,
I used to walk up stream to
sit, skinny legs folded up against my chest,
smoke cigarettes, let the stream that
has held me my entire life
hold me then

I questioned a lot then, but never that the water
was magic.

And when she died,
I planted a tree beside her grave
one with purple flowers
like the ones in her garden
like the ones on the kitchen table
passed down from her mother to her
the ones that died when she did

because I’ve never been great with houseplants
but I know a few things about putting down roots.

When I grew up to experience
the first bookend loss,
I drove to Lake Ontario
just like she would have done
and scoured the shore
for a jar full of lake glass
and with my own hope for comfort,
the kind I’ve always felt
rooted in water,
I almost forgot to listen
to the messages she sent through the lake-

Something about collecting and purging
what fills her without any control of her own.

So when the second bookend loss came,
it was waterless winter ice
and it’s taken until spring to thaw
and I can’t help but think that maybe

if I stop

listen

connect

my body

I
motherless child
I
childless mother

might find that I can
simultaneously be
mother-child
to the elements that have held me my whole life
and maybe by feeling held,
I can hold her too.