Sylvie Hill

Catherine Brunnelle of Write Along Radio presents a very special episode funded through the World Wildlife Fund Canada, Hub Ottawa and the Ottawa Wave Makers called Sentimental Stories of an Ocean in Crisis.

LISTEN to Home At Sea. I was fortunate to be invited to read a story from the sea. I chose an excerpt from Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening” — it’s the part where the protagonist Enda Pontellier goes into the Sea, choosing her freedom in death rather than death in a married life.

I am excited to learn about the “Femme Sans Enfant” site from Montréal (Saint Bruno), Québec. It combines a Francophone-culture, sentiment and perspective on the reality not-often spoken of: women without children.

Rallier les femmes sans enfant par circonstances de la vie ou par choix.– Catherine-Emmanuelle Delisle

Kitchen

Let’s be insecure in a kitchen somewhere
washing our dishes the oldskool way
Like, I’d be with the red checkered towelette
slowly, slowly drying inside your favourite mug
and you’d be asking:
“But can you see yourself married
to me…?”

Let’s be insecure in the kitchen out there
cutting vegetables slowly for emu stew
Like, I’d be with the Heinkel knife blade
slicing slowly the tomato as you watch
and you’d be saying:
“But what about this London Muse
fuckin’ guy…?”

Let’s be insecure in the kitchen in PEI
making tea with organic leaves after nine
Like, the sun would be set, tea seeped
and we’d hunker down on sofa
and you’d be insisting:
“But what if I love you more
than you love me…?!”

I can dry tears
like I can slice eyes
I can obsess wild
like I can leave behind.

Trick is to see how I divvy up the dessert
And how I always push my pudding to you
when you’re done yours first.

Sylvie Hill, August 31, 2014

“Someday soon I’ll get a little bit free
I’ll get a little older,
colder”
~ Age of Faith

Target

At 46 and 41
we both know —
no one
has fucked like us.

When we pass each
on the street
you hug me
like you are emptying…

Don’t think your kiss on my cheek
stolen while my crowd surrounded me
didn’t rewind me back to us
me at 27, you at 31.

I just couldn’t stand your drinking
but loved the way it could deepen feeling
the music and our dark minds and the stereo
intensity, but you vulnerable between the sheets.

At 46 and 41
we both know, alas
we have not loved
since us.

When we talk my business
in pub restaurant seats
I watch you
wishing you peace…

I know now how to handle your anger
I tell you what to do, and you don’t stammer
I take control for us and lead our way
You apologize for smelling hungover

…And I ask you if you had fun at the party.

We run the occasional errand together
I secretly wonder, ‘could we get back together?’

But while I’m free
I’m older,
colder:

My slim figure is the same
Just softer, perhaps tidier
But I could still carve your cock
with an angled back in reverse
you could still grab my ass and sides
grinding me into you more
I’d be at home in your anger
and divine in your pleasure
jerking your stink
into where it hurts

But mostly I would get off on your counsel
for the times I kept you from beer at beer gardens
for the times I begged you long to decipher
that guy from London —

“Another guy from London?”
you were there for the first!

“But this guy is someone else!”
What a fucking idiot I was.

“He’s a dick,” you said
“Never talk to him again.”

And while I’m free
I’m older,
colder:

I secretly harbour
a poet’s-past memory
and I am positive and sure
that any man who loves me

will wonder about this Muse
and his effect, you see
And I cannot hold back a smile
when I share this thought:

“he was exquisite”

I am not fit for a good man’s love yet
For I am still a target.

Sylvie Hill 2015

I Ate My Dinner With A Stack of Letters

I ate my dinner
With a stack of letters
From boys who sent me their worlds
Through words from universities and jobs
From faraway cities and the woods
Pouring out their hearts and hopes
And fears of making the grade
Or dreams
And always sending their love to me
Where with another girl, going steady
Or about to be engaged.

I ate my dinner
With a stack of letters
Upon which I can point to what becomes of
The wild women now
We are who they write to
We are who they cry to
We are who they love and thank profusely
For listening and guiding
And putting up with, too.
But we are not the ones they marry
They chase us while in hot pursuit
Of their wedding invitations
And years later they will buy a house
And have babies
And we will be cut loose.

I ate my dinner
With a stack of letters
Knowing they still think of me
But they never would have wed me.
They were just chasing me
For the wildness and openness
They felt was refreshing
But I am not Anais Nin
But it would seem to be the women
With opinions and liveliness
Who do not drone with sheep
Are like me

Suited best only for the mercurial beasts
Which is a life full of misery.

I received many of his letters when I too was in love
Is everyone cheating on some level with someone?
And I sometimes get insecure
Thinking you’re telling your mates I was crazy.
But it lasts as long as the feeling of you inside me
Which is to say not long and numb, doesn’t faze me.

The kind sentiments of attached men who wanted my friendship
Who expressed love and devotion while attached
I see now is their freedom they felt finally
Before their getting shackled

One woman never talked of masturbation
And the other kept talking a house and kids
And none were the kind to whom he could say what he was feeling
But I was a muse to which they confided
In the end

And the kind men and the wild men
Both crossed the same lines without deception
Young at 20 they poured their hearts
And didn’t see the disconnection
That as a refined young lady could see quite clearly
Like Hesse’s Steppenwolf with a Maria and a Hermine

Some men need a woman to bore with
While feeling deeply for a woman who makes their lives
easier to bear.

And none of these men I would take
Because they were taken with other women
And with all my wild and free and sexy ways
I judge harshly those who are two-timing

But thus is the unbearable lightness of being
And who can define the true relationship?

Call it love call it what you want
But when I remember the list of songs
If you were reaching out to me
You know then on some level
We belonged.

I spend my days now telling men
“I’m not your type”
and what it signifies
is they will never satisfy.

If I be alone and single and old
Without another man loving me like before
And truthfully how does it happen in this technological world?
Void of letters and penmanship and scents and paper photos?
Then I should ask but only thing
That I be tucked in at night with my letters from these:
Gary, Damien, Paul and Andrew
A bedsit in Camden, a remote site in the woods
On the road building shit and skateboarding in Windsor

I ate my dinner
With a stack of letters
From boys who sent me their worlds
In words.

Sylvie Hill (November 30, 2015)

The Only Time I Cheated (aka Poet’s-Past)

The only time I cheated
I did not
we were drunk
me, you and Jer
walking back from Equinox
arm in arm like a bunch of nuts
you dropped my arm
and we held hands
I transgressed:
I rubbed your thumb
I was only 21.

The only time I cheated
I did not
you were more drunk
Jer left, me waiting
at your apartment above
Lieutenant’s Pub
waiting for a lift from mom
you crashed out
you asked a kiss
it wasn’t me
you on automatic
It didn’t happen
at 21.

The only time I cheated
I did not
but came clean
“I’ve done a horrible thing!”
I said to him!
Confessed to the thumb!
Confessed to the non kiss!
Exclaimed: “He was my obsession!
For him I wrote
A TONNE OF POEMS!
Got them published!
And tattooed here:
do you see it?!!!”

My lover laughed.
There was no punishment.
My lover loved.
He understood ‘poet’s-past.’

The only time I cheated
I did not
and it was with the tall man
with floppy hair
big brown eyes
who drank and wrote songs.
I wrote so many words
that magazines would print
It was my way to communicate
a lust, adoration
for him
before days of the Internet.

I tattooed his band’s CD emblem
a band of flowers around my arm
to symbolize a sealed ring
from which flowed inspiration
from brain and groin
to pen and journals
to magazines and broadsheets
and to arts sections in newspapers
I couldn’t stop channelling my interest
in him.

I tattooed our essence, Muse,
over top the flowers upon my arm
to symbolize my dance with your devil
by a sea in the dark
and a garland of monster
tentacles wrapped around your bod
like my words you inspired
in one book, two books
Russell Square Station, now.

I tattooed our essence, Muse,
over top the flowers upon my arm
to finalize this musing business
for once and once for all SHALL STOP!
From 21 to 41, that’s 20 years of
focused thought
on creative men who write their songs
and never give me a second thought.

But hold on —

Among all our friends and fans and things
who have gotten married and have their kids
There’s you and me — single, you cheating
vibrant, solo, still managing
And having produced something of our own
that artistic connection:
– your album
– my writing
Your loneliness
My life
When people ask you if you’re married
if you have kids, what do you say?
If truly ‘that’ never happened before
then I might not be the only one thinking something
when I come
Is there any part of your brain that registers a bit
that we two made one
and that while I call you a cunt
it’s me the vicious bitch
I gave you no say in your mistake
I should triumph in this.

Yesterday I wrote a vicious poem
ready to whisk you away, did you see it?
Today, that first muse of whom i’m talking
whose music I loved
— was in touch.
How random! It felt quite fun
and light and beyond and above
anything romantic, just nostalgic.

The only time I cheated
I did not
and it was that first Muse
to whom I wrote and published
my words
about whom I got tattooed.
I would love to tell him about you.

I wonder in my future
if like a divorced man I date
has children
and says that his priorities
has always got to be them
If I can say, ‘No problem’
and that I have focus, too
He’s a sonofabitch from London
with a fucking face full of attitude
and a gait that shakes your frame
whose coldness sends chills down spines
whose charm amazes
after he’s soaked his blades
and tongue in hot liquor
sharp find.

Might I wish that my future lover
laughs?
That there will be no punishment?
Will my new lover love and
understand my poet’s-past?

Sylvie Hill 2015

Tell Them (in the starlight)

Tell them that my first year conscious, really at three
I had my fingers on the ebony and ivory keys
that by four they bought me an electric organ
Then parents divorced – end of my piano lessons.

Tell them that only after three years conscious, so seven
I was looking in the adverts in the Ottawa Citizen
for pianos, I recall $700 back then
I wanted so much to learn how to play piano, they didn’t listen.

Tell them that my mom said I’d give in too fast
but it’s not like she had any hobbies or passions
and aren’t parents supposed to instill discipline?
You’re not so sure of that with single parents.

Tell them that I paid for my own violin lessons
Whilst paying my university and working at JACOB
that my mom drove me out once or twice to Richmond
but dropped the ball, too far to go, and cancelled.

Tell them she loved me one day, but was mad the next
that she didn’t care to turn off the TV and visit
that anytime I wanted to share, she’d gossip
and that instead of a BBQ’ed salmon I wanted to make us, she went for Chinese, #7.

Tell them I always thought he was a brilliant dad
Called us EVERY Sunday, never forgot gifts and that
but every time we said he was a great man
mom shat all over him and shat and shat and shat.

Tell them I can remember the many times I needed love
all the times I was sick and just needed a cuddle or a hug
left in a room at the babysitters, with no food and sore stomach
headaches and headaches from being so nervous.

Tell them at 20, I took the summer student job at the place
that I hated so much wanted to be outside instead
And that at 35 when I was approved for a mortgage
I told my mom I didn’t want to move out of Centretown village.

Tell them I was pushed in this and that direction
And that it was natural for a kid to listen
But at 41, with my Dad gone and from Mom – no response
Here I am with the life they saw: and absolutely fucked.

Tell them the things that nourish my soul are all me
that not my father nor my mother supported my poetry
and my teaching intimidates my mother, my sister insulting
and my mom bailed on year on a drive to my Westfest lit thing.

Tell them she wanted to get her haircut that morning
so called to say “yeah, can’t drive you, I’m sorry”
and I felt like a loser, so full of sorry and crying
but I bussed myself there in time and did my spoken-word poetry.

Tell them I’m single because I couldn’t care less anymore
to be hurt by a man who isn’t sure of himself or his future
that I’ve done so well already on my own
that parents dropped the ball at 18 and 34, would I want more?

Tell them walking over Vanier Bridge, I didn’t get killed
That Pye was with me on text as I walked through Sandy Hill
and after my meditation class I walked home, it was still
such FULL trees, heritage architecture and river, until ….

… the shimmer of the moonlight upon the water I watched
… and the lights from apartments and the castle homes lit up
… thinking that my parents truly don’t give a fuck

if I got jacked in Vanier, robbed or beat up.

But I was not sad, for once.
Tell them that after I got back from London
my story was ended, and so should my life — be done
really there was nothing for me but paying bills and stuff
I was done. I was done. I was robbed. I was not in love.

But enough is enough, and tonight in the starlight
my beauty was natural to me — I felt bright!

Typically I carry with me a whole lot of dark insight
but the depth inside has given me sight.

Tell them I know my Muse doesn’t stand a chance in my league!
That while I think he’s wild, he’s been a drinker and a druggie!
That he’s not a loyal guy, fucks around and acts like a dink!
That he’s just as lonely as I was, insecure and needy.

Tell them that he’s still the only one who’s opinion I crave
about all the shit I go through day after day
I self-talk “get a grip” and “you’re doing my head in”
and remember he said/she said I have absolutely no problems.

Tell them I’m dying
But I’m dreaming
Tell them I’m trying
And I’m scheming
Tell them I’m patient
But I’m worried
that I’ll be a patient
sick, dead, dying…
…before I have time to start living.

But enough is enough, and tonight in the starlight
my beauty was natural to me — I felt bright!
Typically I carry with me a whole lot of dark insight
but the depth inside, tonight, has given me sight.

SH 2015

Supernaturals

I was talking to the Universe earlier today
Asking why it sent someone my way.
When all this weekend, and all day
My phone was ringing with a strange thing.

Code 230, who can that be?
I Googled it and what did I see?
Mauritius country code, I smiled, finally:
Ah, thank you Universe: full circle completely.

I would never have got to Muse 2, geeze
If it wasn’t for Oliver Muse 1, initially.
He was Super Man to my Weak and Ease
He took me to 12 Bar to see Hawksley.

Oliver is British from Mauritius.
And he said, “I’ve found the guy to love this”—
Pointing to the image I sent him
“Dare to Love Me”, a woman and gun depicted.

Oliver sent me JG Ballard: wise.
Book was called “Rushing To Paradise.”
Sometimes we can try too hard to find it, he said
That doesn’t mean don’t go out and get it, he meant…

But while laying in bed to nap my body
I smiled mile-wide thinking of my Life story
The men I’ve known left behind clues to the poetry
That I knit together as I can to discover my Mystery.

Some have religion and put faith in God’s Plan for them.
I chose to believe in Men so wondrous they’ve made my spirit awaken.
And in plain-speak, the unArtful or Egoist will call it “obsession…”
But I never chose it this way – and I cannot undo it.

I love it, and ask by what constellation, then
Do you map your heartache and make sense of rest?
It might be my connections are supernatural at best
And if they continue to guide me toward Peace and Love –

and great sex:

I do not question this.

Sylvie Hill 2017

Sit Solo on Porch, Tortured

Here I sit
Is it memory making or past re-take?
The asphalt roadway is not the lake.
And the burning on the burners of my stove
are chemicals from cleaners not BBQ smoke.
I do enjoy sitting alone.

Here I sit
And recall bringing two lovers to my cabin
One snapping photos to impress an old-girlfriend
Darling, don’t think I didn’t know it
You were selling yourself on Facebook to her
for your future marriage.

And the other was no better.
Cleared off the waterfront of refuse and hedges
Built a dock of stones in the path out to the middle
Dug a fire pit that had my mom in heaven
Hung the hammock for you and your Heineken
We were there together: but I felt all alone.

Here I sit
My God what a lot of bullshit!
Those bearded gents five years younger
Lacking maturity, and relationship experience.
I fared better with the of-age or older gents
With a clue, sense of self and greater awareness
terrific sex.

Here I sit
For them, I’ve given up my cabin.
For them, I’ve left my river.
For them, I paid all the mortgage
For them, I moved two apartments
And stored their shit
And let them have parking.

Here I sit
Reflective: I am six years single
Have I ever met someone since as interesting: no.
As loyal, intelligent, kind and caring since all in one go?
It’s a waiting game for an amalgamation
Of the good men that came that may come too late
For us to come like we used to.

To bend, and to tolerate
To be magicians and to try
I get why we said goodbye.
I get why I say goodbye as I’m greeting you hello
Like an Aspie in his social awkwardness
Or an impulsive ADHD kid in his bluntness
The Poet mind
Of my kind
Sees it crystal clear in minutes, can’t bullshit.

Here I sit
I’m quite a loner!
Explains why Montreal action with people and shows
Stimulates me in my mind and soul!
Shall I remain hopeful? Continue to want to share love
to the kind of men who gave it me so hard and long
and who I rebuffed, doubted and troubled.
No wonder …

I sit solo on porch
Tortured.

Sylvie Hill 2017

Loving The Alien (Story of the Two Same-Named Men)

The Universe came
And gave me a man with your same name
Spelled the exact same way
With a British accent and as strange:

Not from Camber…well
But Camber…ley
Some family equestrian thing
Folks ran businesses: exactly.

I told an ex, I’m dating; name’s “R____”
“What the fuck now, please?”
No! NOT that ONE, sheesh.
Holy fuck, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Is that weird?” I mean, really.
Yeah, he said: pretty freaky.
Is it weird for you? He asked me.
So many coincidences to count, frankly.

It was my push into checking out this guy.
Whose photos scared me: he never smiled.
Whose brevity was like yours and quite ho hum.
A seeming ‘meh’ attitude, sharpe 2, K? Like a son of a gun.

I did not ask for a man with your original name.
I did not ask that he be in wit exactly the same.
Why did the Universe present me this again?
What lessons are there for me here to retain?

In my writing about you did I manifest?
Can I get what I want, shall I re-focus.

Clarity: your impulsive ways and strange retorts.
Your outbursts and inability to sit still for long.
Your on/off again for years with that girl.
Your kindness, but honesty: “I got bored.”

Once at the pub, his eyes locked stiff
And it sent a shiver down me: I recognize this.
I searched mad from his one eye to the next:
WHERE IS HE GONE? WHERE IS HIS FOCUS?

In your big brown eyes with their Maori descent
They were locked and far-off and stared and – vacant.
But at the same time they were childlike, watching me – innocent.
You were a very strange man, you had a secret.

When I asked you “Do you have Aspergers?”
“Err no,” and I never heard from you again.
But when I read about ADHD-ODD for the doppelganger
Is this what you suffer instead?

For all my Life I sought emotionally robust men
To care for my insecurities and solve my problems.
You did that for me daily over the Internet
I could have died in alley, but you got me home safe to #7
at London’s Jesmond.

And he said for me he’d slay dragons.
That I should call his name in dreams if I’m lost in London.
Or, in my dream: “bring your phone next time,” was his logic.
Something you’d say, goddamnit!

Perhaps my lesson then, here on in
Is not to take things so personally as you once said.
That men’s reactions to me aren’t punishments.
They just got shit going on in their own head.

And what of my soft spot for loving the alien?
Universe, why did you bring me two same-named men.

With strange eyes and minds in far-off places?
With biting humour that twists me in faces.
Was it so I can close the chapter that started in 2000?
What message was there for me in this?

Did I villainize again: make myself a victim?
Of a man who never had toward me evil intentions?
When you said “it was a mistake” in blunt fact observation
I cursed you red, and your total lack of emotion.

Lack of emotion the pair you two!
Spock-logic I loved but have a heart, man, too!
And in my quiet, is revealed a truth:
Perhaps you both feel deeper than I can prove.
Perhaps you both feel deeper than I do.

The Universe came
And gave me a man with your same name
Spelled the exact same way
With a British accent and as strange:

And what of my soft spot for loving the alien?

Sylvie Hill 2017

Painting: Erich Heckel’s Two Men at the Table

“Beautiful Nastassya oscilates between the innocent goodness of Myshkin and the harsh character of Rogozhin, until she decides for the worse man, who kills her in the end. Heckel’s painting seems to portray this last encounter between the two men at Rogozhin’s house, where they spent a tense night veiling over Nastassya’s dead body. Dostoyevsky’s experiment to place a good man in an evil world highlights Myshkin’s tragic fate. People don’t know what to do with him; his purity is misunderstood and abused. More…”