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Sean Wiebe CANADA Sean Wiebe, educator and writer, lives in Vancouver and is completing a doctoral degree which explores what it means to live and teach poetically. His papers and poetry appear in a variety of journals and book chapters in the areas of the arts, teacher education and curriculum studies. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Skies, Standards, The Windsor Review, and Arabesques. He has edited two collections of poetry, The Last Red Smartie (1996) and A Nocturnal Reverie (1994). Walking on Water
We still hope that love will prevail.
~hooks, 2000, xxvii.
On the beach below Point Grey road, the unspoiled
mist is sacred music, moist torpor,
a shared plenty for city
mariners lured by the Pacific not so rugged now, I deepen
toward salted shores Graceful sky winds wind up
the leaves, trails of whatever This rain—greyish and
hospitable—grooms the loose gravel in rubbers avoid puddles,
their artists and angels decided, set down in stone.
In fall, bare trees, bent branches of plenty, bosoms cradled
by the tide’s sense of swing or tracing out the womb
blossoms on one’s palm. scarred wood invites
wanting coffee table time, cozy home grown memories,
knit mittens, a woollen For all this, I am here in
hope only that you will walk my heart will tumble toward
the island evening Marechal Foch
waits, where drowsy rain slows
A world of isotopes It’s because
once one has tasted life, The long
stretch of sun wakens scone is
company, learning to be alone the recent R’s
of poetry, Rumi in the deep hair finally
long enough to poke out Rilke in my
mouth, all his flaws fit in the
afternoon break over my shoulders shadows under
your chin, in the eye too
much. I turn away this bone
tingle so deep inside, my vertebrae There in the
dark with my body I see lift-up-your-nightgown,
kiss you fall together
gently asleep, even this fruit where voices
can echo silent, where furniture I prefer
wicker, and the candle’s flicker, There are
holes everywhere to sink into trusting in
healing and your own beauty organic
orgasmic oregano, sea salt an angel with
butternut wings, spring from the wind.
O for that strength holding back
this slippery want—whoosh my yellow fear
rises, comes out like that to steady
myself with memories of my father fisherman’s
knots were for hands that did not Whoosh—all
alone. Whoosh—no more words
Self Love Self-love
cannot flourish in isolation. On Broadway
and main
dangling and
squirming, a living becomes
difficult because of the crumbs, state of
cartoon catharsis,
strapped caught in the
thrum of hot air rising Cro-Magnon
howls, there is her music, him at the
forge, cathectic, beating out
Copyright,
Sean Wiebe.
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