Sylvie Hill

Image: live-painting by Jax a Muse (Toronto)

In A Tavern Before With An Invite To A Party In Dalston

Well well well they say history does repeat itself so do tell. Once again, the London trip to meet a penpal friend after nights upon nights into days of texts and emails and correspondence we become friends and this girl here takes the aeroplane. Face to face in 2000 wasn’t a match sadly for the chap was a gentleman. Set up tickets to the football, offers to the dog races and to meet up with his friends in Shoreditch and somber this girl chose Pizza Hut acclimatizing to the jet lag and looking for familiarity in provincial tastes and yet less on the style she fit into Camden then as she did in Bloomsbury with her brains and education and profession later in the decades. So 2013 there’s the meet and the she-didn’t-remember-what-he-looked-like thing but familiarity grew when he opened his mouth and he had already sent her a picture of him in a beard at Christmas by himself as it was raining outside and two expensive bottles of wine each fourty pounds he drank as consolation with his dear penpal carrying him through the holiday you wonder if he was missing his ex. And there it was a crossroads where one way was escape to the British Museum for four and a plan and the other was stay with him a Devil in the band. But it began to be fun and he began to be kind and she enjoyed a good kamakazi every now and again and he offered to show this girl a fine sushi joint and in the Bloomsbury Tavern with an invite to a party in Dalston. But the Asahis numbed her brain, she wanted to just return to the Inn again, and like the old refrain rejected the offer and wanted to evaporate. She pushed the drink, she went for their bum-a-smoke thing, and the rest is a fucked up history. Looking back there was opportunity to have a decent meal and chat to solidify a type of verbal contract for continuing with a writing project and a chance to meet his friends and girl at a party in Dalston the place so talked about and the place that Hoxton was like before it became in fashion. But on instinct, this girl knew you can’t pursue such things either with no attraction in such short a time or with fierce attraction for another woman’s man. And deep down this girl knew if she got a bit of a taste of something she’d like it would make it impossible to return to Canada and to leave it behind so best blow it all up – with booze being the quickest ticket out of there and the shortest way to cheaply making love.

SH 2016 for 2013 #RussellSquareStation

On A Stair To A Flat in Camden

Looking for love and couldn’t enjoy myself with the friends I’d found making music with myself singing songs of idealizations and romantic fixations yeah it all sucked anyway and they say it happens when you least expect it but I’m always watching my walk and being too damn careful with my lipstick….It’s so full of noise and smells in London and my snot is black thought I had forgotten all the great tastes to have but really you know I just wanted them back thinking of living large in a really small car think I’ll get back to Canada and just hide myself in a parka and galoshes and forget about loving true and good only once cause once never is enough but it’s all you need to fuck you up. Not even waiting on a stair to a flat in Camden gives me solace for a life I thought I had found but this week is best forgotten. This week is best forgotten. Fuck, I’m an asshole for finding the most beautiful man ugly in his mannerisms we expect too much. Could we strip ourselves of our hair and our watches say that style is timeless Yeah, this week is better forgotten. There are madhouses where all the drinkers drink. Halfway houses for people too bright to think of anything less than consciousness. You wanted me to meet your friends. I declined for there would be too much intense too much this or that I can find an excuse for absolutely anything when I don’t want you I suppose I guess I should of asked if you were looking but just what else where you doing calling and writing everyday there was a hope for something. Looking for love and didn’t appreciate a friend. “Have fun in life, S” — I think it impossible since I can’t enjoy even my own company anxiety is a good friend keeps you waiting for the end and all that went by – I’ll forget it’s so sad. There were plans, offers, kindness and options. So many good things all for the rejecting. But why? I would never find smiles in this town where the windows look sewn-stitched to the brick walls – my friends, my love is at home. Home is not where you make it. Home is where it has made you. And I’ve long since come undone this week – take me on an airplane back to my bed. To my delusions of professions which make me, me. Yeah, it’s sad, that I don’t appreciate nothing. (And knowing what you’ve lost so you’ll know better to not go looking for it next time).

SH December 2000

Let Your Lovers Go

Today. I came face to face with my last Lover.
It had been five years. He has grown stronger.
He retains his honest vulnerability.
His admirable grace and honesty.
He has become all he has wanted to be
Since he moved out and I forced our ending.

Let your lovers go.
I guarantee:
It will look good on them.
If they succeed
You will smile—
You were a part of this.

Today. I came face to face with my last Love.
It had been five years minus London 2013.
It has been five years for him minus one New Year’s Eve.
“But I can’t say it was making love.”
“It was not making love,” he said of he, repeating.
I felt rich and honourable: we are decent.

Let your lovers go.
I guarantee:
It will look good on them.
Your own separate histories
You will be surprised—
How far apart you’ve been

And how so more alike.

SH 2016

I Got News Of Your Marriage

Well, there it is and official.
I got news of your marriage.
And I thought then of our years of correspondence:
daily about everything, debates and discussions.
And that last time you were single and playing a gig in town
You said you couldn’t wait to see me and throw your arms around
….me.
Now you’re getting married!
I always knew you were quality.
While people’d misjudge you for a skid
I knew you exceeded each with your intelligence.
Wasn’t surprised your past ex had a PhD
And that you had a decent, kind, educated family.
In 2007, after we first made out
My boyfriend after called you down.
Said: “Why the hell do you like him so much?!
He’s a cheating asshole and I don’t get it all!”
An ENTIRE meal in Vienna devoted to this
to which I kept saying, “I have no problems with K— M—ik!”
But we were 50/50 again in the deceit
Yes, like in 2013 with Reisz.

Well, there it is and official.
I got news of your marriage!
And I thought of the last time in 2014 or 15 we corresponded:
I told you to be more like this London New Zealand man.
And that was the last time you ever talked to me
Me asking you to be like him you didn’t find too funny.
Me.
I’m still single. But goddamn I got good instincts.
I was right about you and your bride isn’t tattooed.
I remember learning to be myself vs punk with you.
You dug brains and intellect and plain looking gals were fine too.
And you coached me on my guitar songs
and told me how to get them out.
And remember how you were trying to get to me in Frisco
But your band had just toured and your boss with his on the go?
And sadly you couldn’t make it but guess who did?
Devil Muse, mate, by song transAtlantic on the television.
That would be his and my fate
and that would be our missed Frisco date.
Congrats on being married – they’re leaving wishes on the page.
They’re calling you by that special funny nickname…
It was mine I gave to you in 2007.
Remember?
A little piece of me with you still goes a long way, eh?
Minus my embarrassing evil I displayed
that guaranteed we’d never speak again.
What can I say, I infected by a Devil Muse?
Yeah, didn’t think it was a good enough excuse.

Well, there it is and official.
I got news of your marriage.
And this will last and you’ll make it good
And you deserve love, support and lots of cheese on tacos too!
Here’s hoping you don’t argue over tables like with S–.
And that you do what you said you’d do and that is SPEAK UP
and know this time round it’s more than
“companionship, sex, a shared apartment”
buddy, here’s your Longtime Love…

SH 2016

With Hearts Like Thunder

Remember you once knew two Indians?
One was of Maori and the other a First Nations?
Were they both ruined when it came to women?
Long-term lookers then a bunch of in-betweeners?
And do you remember they each opened a restaurant?
One bought a pizzeria in the town on the Atlantic Ocean.
Who knows about the other on his island in the South Pacific…
And both in their lives they were living and running.
And both in their ways were building and planning.
The Canadian called you “Hill.”
The New Zealander said “ya Muppet!”
The Mi’kmaq Lennox laughing, “you got it kid.”
The Maori Northlander never letting on one bit
that to both these guys I was that ray of sunshine.
No – better a fire ball bursting in the sky!
And I’d surprise each with my wisdom and professionalism.
The First Nations meeting me once in my pencil skirt office outfit.
And maybe the ex-Brit adoring my resilience and accomplishments?
Remember you once knew two Indians?
You’re of Russian and French Canadian heritage.
Could you ever be their sister, not Lover?
You wanted them to be Guide and Keeper, not Saviour.
You knew each would return to their Land
Take off where the father’s hand
last wove the basket leaving a strand
and picking up a thread to continue tradition.
Proud men, poets/music-men walking strong in the footsteps of their Dads.
Fierce Chief Sark and that Islander resourceful Oyster Businessman.
What does a baby sister do when her big brothers ride on beyond?
But whip off her training wheels and ride fast, and far and strong!
And when she falls there is none else so far
than a sister Aboriginal – you know who you are.
“Fuck these guys,” is what she’d say!
“Follow your own path, you’re an amazing woman, babe!”
And if I recall – I grew up on Native magic and myths:
Wore deerskin bracelets my Aunt made from my uncle’s hunting expeditions.
Little 7-year old feet in beautiful deerskin and white fur moccasins.
In addition to Grandma’s brass plate tattooed as a ship
Was Grandpa’s West Coast tree disc painted with the Haida eagle legend.
And you watched for messages in the fire at the cottage
with a mom whose dominion long ago was usurped by a divorce.
Who worked in Aboriginal medical health for decades and more.
Had famous indigenous art around our low-income home.
And now you know why you linger
upon wild men with hearts like thunder
that beat loud and bold but not for you
but reverberate your soul loud enough so awakened –
you’ll come to.

SH 2016

ART: Brascoupe

Honestly,

The world is a funny place.
It rather respects men who don’t cheat – or so state.
But then those who openly admit it – we castigate.
“I’m going to fuck my ex back home,” he says
barely half hour after he unceremoniously takes.
We tell that story and folks just hate him!
But he may be sharp. And definitely, candid.
We may not like what he proclaims.
Yet there are no lies here. He is honest.

SH 2016

Aw baby, where did you dock your ship?
Somewhere foreseen; they all said you’d go back to it.
Somewhere in history; aha: your life of privilege!
Business advice from your dad you inherit.
From the quiet place to the space where you were fastest.
From the island paradise to the London town pace frenetic.
Now back somewhere, where, is it quiet?
You’ll be retiring on that island, not Britain.

Aw baby, where did you dock your ship?
Ha Ha! I’m still adventuring and sailin’!
Mine’s a modest craft, limited: ill-privileged.
My father left me for two offices of a successful business.
All I have are my wits.
I inherit nothing from mom, dad, sis.
From out West to this capital city with a mom distressed.
From this government town to where now Vancouver reset?
I’m still travelling, in fact haven’t launched yet.
Building my place for my uncertain retirement.

For such a dangerous man, you sure played it the safest.
Familiar lands. Dad’s helpful hand. And an old lover’s breast.
And just when I daily feel I could benefit
From your Life’s advice, blunt observation and “get a grips.”
I smile knowing I’d improve your customer service.
Bring the whole bay in to eating at your restaurant.
Make the place the best in the world like I wanted to with your music
But that is what makes a strong match and what doesn’t…

The man who perceives himself a league above me
in his yacht with his pomp, and his fans and prestige
is a petty partner for me the independent empire builder.
And best be off and best steer clear…
And yet we set sail on some high seas together, dear
Each to each a sailor navigating worlds and mysteries
Then one day, we docked and fucked
And the storm it raged and the boat it rocked
Then in the morning, we each disappeared…

Aw baby, where did you dock your ship?
Some marina with the wealthy, again safest bet yet?
Baby, ever since you cast me adrift…
You’ve no idea the storms I have been in.
You: settled in now and roots-returned in New Zealand
You: last man who filled me with reckless
Should your moral compass (do you have one?) ever guide
Look out through your ocean cove bay and your private Life
And send me a feeling, a thought, and a vibe
Because a weak girl doesn’t respond to your disgrace like my smile.
And a fated true friend never takes you for a ride…

SH 2016

* great title borrowed from Joseph Arthur; unrelated poem