Lighthouse Bay
So you’ll leave the light on for me?
That’s nice, dear.
But it’s a ….lighthouse.
That’s what it does.
It keeps the light on.
I’m going to tell you now “there is no light without dark”
so turn off the sky, now
and disappear.
You want to do something fine?
Something right?
— Bring me starlight —
It is nice you did nothing by leaving a light on,
tonight.
Thanks for trying.
© Sylvie Hill
I did not wear a padded bra
It was an American Apparel bralet
Can’t even remember if you saw
Or when you actually removed it.
Nothing on me is fake
And your kiss was frankly unreal
My mouth was not yours to take
No asking, no request, no appeal.
How hard you worked to show you didn’t care
How easy it was to show no tenderness.
Sylvie Hill 2014
DOWNRIGHT MY’IRONIC
I thought it was funny how I taught you to talk like the other guy.
I said “you’re too nice” and helped you talk like the other guy.
You nailed it. Talking like the other guy.
I was loving it. You talking like the other guy.
You got asshole and mean-like just like the other guy!
You were going like the other guy, it was out of sight!
But it got creepy as fuck, and we were starting to fight.
So I said: “I miss the Nice You,” stop being the other guy.
But, you didn’t stop acting like the other guy.
In my fervour and passion for my liking you more when you pretended you were the other guy
I shut it all down saying I wasn’t into sleeping around and nothing was going to happen so why
even BOTHER
going on chatting as you, and me or as the other guy?
To that you said:
“Well, we have nothing more to talk about.” Point blank. Crisp. Concise. Like the other guy.
As which guy?! I panicked: “Are you serious?!!” I never heard from him again.
I’m sure there is a girl friend out there who would tell me:
“You hurt his feelings saying you liked him better when he was the ‘other guy’!!”
I laugh in my pants, a bit juvenile …
Then I rise up saying “If that guy only wanted to be the other guy to get into me,
Why should I cry?”
Or care. Fair’s fair.
Doesn’t he know I like him better now for even trying on trying to be the other guy?
The other guy is NOT nice. Both are near 45.
But this guy lied, where the other guy protects me from the sidelines.
But this guy is eight years running by my side.
Until, that is, I made him act like the other guy.
Now, I have nothing. Neither guy.
No one by side, just those wanting to fit inside.
I wish you’d write. Ask “how goes” and talk like you were ‘my’ guy.
No guy is ever my guy, I keep them safely on the outside.
I interact with them always as “fake guys” guarding my tender insides.
There was one guy I flew to. We capsized.
All because his “real” wasn’t my “imagined.”
There went our piece of mind.
I thought it was funny how I taught you to talk like the other guy.
I said “you’re too nice” and helped you talk like the other guy.
You had a mouth full of attitude, going full ‘other guy’ on automatic.
I pushed you further to feel him closer. This is my game:
Downright my’ironic.
Sylvie Hill
Down In A Blaze of Sorry
She likes it when her feet are clean
and squishes her heels into his belly
feels his hairy chest on her arches
massages her toes into his nipples
jokes of walking on his torso
he’s strong:
he can handle it.
She likes it because his arms are lean
then flexes and the bulges appear
how he doesn’t show off and lays them dormant
until there’s a box to lift
a table to move
a jar to open:
he can handle it.
She likes it when he lets her lead
hands behind his chest, waiting
watching her as she works his body
smiling as he knows she does it
out of love and need
he’s willing to give:
he can handle it.
She liked it when with arms outstretched
he whimpered for a hug as she left.
“Oh, you gorgeous baby!” she said
hopping in between covers and bed
“I’d fuck you silly
If I wouldn’t be late for work”
He grabs her
“I’ll drive you in”:
he can handle it.
She likes it often and she likes it strong
and she likes him weak if he can’t be on
and she likes him passionate
and she likes him mad
and she likes when he says he’s sad.
But his strength runs out
and he cried a lot
and his passion was mostly stress relief
and Heineken
and his madness was childish
and his muscles won’t support her writing
(even if they brought her table)
and his sadness never translated into the
big house on the hill he said he’d build them.
She couldn’t handle it.
He couldn’t handle it.
He cried “I failed you! I’m sorry”
so many times
as they embraced their way down
in a blaze of glory
She tired of the tears and all his
sorries…
and gory goodbyes
it was getting embarrassing.
She heard from a girl that he’s doing it again
he’s with his best friend’s girl cuz they split up again
he does that: goes with the chicks who are unavailable
and cry and are emotional talking of other men.
He’s happy to help them
doesn’t matter if they don’t fuck him
He’s happy to be useful like a fake boyfriend
or a husband.
He heard from someone that she’s doing it again
she mused a man TransAtlantic cuz a second time, again
she does that: goes for dudes who are unavailable
and are mean, raging and have issues with women.
She’s happy to save them
mistakes love as befriending them
She’s happy to be in a fake bond like a girlfriend
or a confidante.
She likes it when she sees this clear
No guilt, no confusion, no anger, no fear
and wishes the best for the sad man for sure
thankful for his muscles, his message
his gorgeous hands and his beard
she’s been sexually frustrated before
it’s been three years:
she’ll handle it.
© Sylvie Hill 2014
dixon / “Blaze” / spray paint and synthetic enamel on paper / 2009
Caramel
Two heads at a table
Bus on the old streets go by in
New Edinburgh
Do you see them in
living rooms lit for dinner
Soft studio lighting golden, like caramel
As if it was vapour?
I am poor – I do not live
In an architecturally beautiful
Neighbourhood
Where the brick facades
And decorative lintels
Shelter families sat on hardwood
Watching movies on big screens
Or enjoying good food at a big table, which
a loving father prepares
Together, with his family
And for his kids’ friends
As they gather on a Friday night
To laugh, talk and share,
Happily.
I pretend to live there in the rich houses,
With character, as the bus goes by in
New Edinburgh.
But I am poor – I have bought a cement condo
It is all I can afford.
And if you Google map/street-me
You’ll see it’s ugly and deplorable.
And the view is spectacular.
I can probably see more
Beyond, and above to the mountains
The stretch of Ottawa River to
Fortune
Parliament Hill
Little houses
lit up in Overbook
Where the rockstar families
Moved to.
But what is it all worth when
A view can’t be shared
And you console yourself with things like
“at least I have eyes
and legs!”
until I fall sick, that is,
or end up in a wheelchair?
Milan Kundera says the person who wishes to move
Is not a happy person.
I realized that in my flat
In Paris,
I had it all!
And yet I still questioned
Is it sudden death from a leap from the 4th floor?
Jane Birkin’s daughter did it.
Two heads at a table
Bus on the old streets go by in
New Edinburgh
Do you see them in
living rooms lit for dinner
Soft studio lighting golden, like caramel
As if it was vapour?
You would once have seen me
In the dim light from soft flea-market
Mismatched lampshades, glowing
Peacefully in my cabin
If you drove along a quiet road
Connecting Lanark
To Highway 7.
I was not alone –
I had frogs, earwigs, bats and spiders
Walleye, birds, geese and crackles
From a campfire.
A cousin playing Kathleen Edwards’
“Sure As Shit” filled our dusk
While we heated water
To wash our cottage dishes.
I am not cosmopolitan.
But I would choose a big city
In which to be anonymous.
I want sweetest remoteness
To feel enveloped by a Universe.
How is it —
How do we become —
Why can it be —
That we are more lonely around people
And houses
In cities
Where technology has replaced delivery
Of chicken noodle soup from a friend
When you’re sick
With
Nothing…
See, this is where you —
Having sat around tables
with a thousand candles,
photo from outside the
home showing
your festive faces lit,
Could tell me to
“Get a grip.”
Do we all think
Some other place will make us happy
And how do we go about
Finding it?
Is it in Paris?
Perhaps if it were available,
It’d be another planet?
No: because people don’t exist there
And regardless of the block,
The house or the bay,
We are looking for someone
With whom to spend our days
And our nights after supper
Like they do in
New Edinburgh
Do you see them in
living rooms lit for dinner
Soft studio lighting golden, like caramel
As if it was vapour?
© Sylvie Hill 2014
ALL MY LIFE
Nothing gold can stay
But a diamond lasts forever?
We’re diamonds, sort of.
Made of materials from shooting stars that exploded in a galaxy afar.
Spun about to make our Earth
And now we have a place to hang.
Nothing gold can stay
But a diamond lasts forever is the cliché
They use that to sell life-long marriages and vows and babies in baby carriages.
And here I am, trying to cheat the system.
Figure I’ll wait until ‘the rest of our lives’ doesn’t seem like such a long sentence.
So that ‘the rest of our lives’ feels a bit desperate.
Maybe I’ll be forced to commit to some guy that is somewhat of a sort of interest.
Speaking of interesting do you remember the time the stars were shooting out of the sky?
I was showering after love-making
Oh how you loved, I was in the tub and you blasted in with a beer in one hand
A smoke dangling from your mouth,
“You gotta come see this! The Light! The light!”
And after all these years I have the balls to say you were the boring one.
“Yeah, give me a drag, k, I might. I might…”
Never did. Went to bed.
Nothing gold can stay
But diamonds last forever.
I clearly fucked with precious gems. Never knowing their value.
For all the men who loved me longtime, lots, and all my tortures…
The ring he made, a band of braille, it read a message all in dots.
A clever morse-code piece of uniqueness, crafted with all his love.
It wasn’t good enough.
Our golden hour, that disappointing response in the shower
Has long since vanished but he shines on regardless.
I’m silver. I tarnish.
The soft touch polishes, and I may shine.
But how often I feel like I’m nothing more than made of copper or of dime.
Because if I was golden, I’d feel pressured to stay bright, and light,
And a diamond ring on my finger petrifies.
I’ve never loved steady for more than two years at a time
But felt longing for some all my life…
© Sylvie Hill 2013
This Is What Guys Have Done
When you make excuses to not get to yoga
Cause your pedicure’s old, heels cracking,
He lifts your legs, and creams your feet:
This is what guys have done.
When you couldn’t find anything to wear
For the dinner party with his bosses
He takes you to your closet & proposes “ensembles:”
This is what guys have done.
When you couldn’t find a direction for your essay
Paralyzed in fear that you couldn’t be logical
He takes Side A, makes you think in debate:
This is what guys have done.
When you said that you don’t do it like in the movies enough
That you wanted more smooching and touch
He pitched an entire afternoon to dress you up, then down:
This is what guys have done.
When it was your birthday or a holiday
And your parents didn’t get you anything
He gave you that thing you saw in-store from passed months:
This is what guys have done.
Guys have done groceries, deciphered ‘To Do’ Lists
Made the place behind the oven sparkle like magic.
Cleaned the toilet, mopped the floor
Carted laundry back and forth.
Made you dinner, poured you wine
Got you tea when it was ‘that time.’
Got you a film, bought you dessert
Kept calm when you went berserk.
This is what guys have done:
Drank and drugged, not cared, or gave a fuck.
Not called her back, or messed around…
But have you seen what they’ve done
For Love?
Yes, when they are done, they are gone and,
Turn off.
© Sylvie Hill 2014
The Gentle Art of Ignoring
On your marks!
Get set!
Ready?
GO!
Race to ignore the traffic sounds
Beneath, in the streets and reach toward
The landscape beyond, fight to see trees
Or squint and see the heritage houses covered in ivy!
It is not a gentle art to “ignore”:
It is VIOLENT and takes energy
To divert our thoughts, beliefs, bodies
Beyond the reality of NOISY cities!
On your marks!
Get set!
Ready?
GO!
Bolt to Nature, for what is “natural” is indeed
Where you notice your body retreating
RELAXING, your being flows
A branch scratches calves, humbling with its markings.
GO! Buy that boat you’ll only use sparingly!
GO! Get the tent you’ll use only at vacation!
GO! Purchase hiking boots, which replaces therapy!
GO! Spend gas to get peace that’s temporary!
On your marks!
Get set!
Ready?
GO!
The Man in the Suit has won “his place” in City
By devastating his nature and his being
He expends efforts, sweats violent urges
Covers up his wish to surrender…
Because can you really ignore a thunderstorm?
You hear it.
Or the hot sun heating your skin
You feel it.
Or the long Canadian winter
It depressed us.
You can pump your paddle & fight the current
Upstream, but you’ll never win.
Nature – the forests, desserts and our ecosystems within
is where we rage our harshest devastations.
Rumi says we’ve got a voice inside with no words, do you listen?
Sorry, what did you just say? Too busy fighting
Modernity, Technology, the Traffic outside my building,
promising “an investment” in what – my insanity?
See the man with the hands down on ground
Trying to feel the Earth, dirt, create roots somehow
But his position is back-breaking in spite of his class
He is on his mark, set and ready to take it up the ass.
Humans may have evolved to stand up right
But they are Devastators, few are getting it right.
The trees though, they stand tall and straight
Until a natural, noble force breaks them.
Or until Human Devastators cut them down
Much like they’re doing to themselves right about now …
Fighting so hard to ignore the sounds, a shout
Saying: THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANT!!
Get me out.
I’m clawing my way out.
Thought I had evolved
But I can only grow if I crawl now.
© Sylvie Hill 2014
Art: dixon / “Devastator” / 40x40cm / spray paint and synthetic enamel on canvas / 2010
I Have No Dreams For Sale (Only For Sharing)
No family? No baby? 40?
Easy: no one stood by me.
In my family, not my Father
Sister, judges; ignored by Mother
I’m supposed to Love you?
Why bother…
Fixations? Preoccupations? Yes!
Easy: indeed, I was obsessed.
Thought the Muses hotter
Liked how I profited
I’m supposed to Love you?
Whaddya got…
Hopes? Dreams? Sure.
Easy: rustic, nature + culture.
I’ve had a cabin once by a river
Protected my wood pile under weather
I’m supposed to Love you?
You packin’ lumber?
Am I happy? Am I OK?
Easy: I do know what Love is.
Had a loyal Russian-Cossack Grandmother
Who had to sleep in the barn in Saskatchewan
So I suppose I can Love you.
If you’ve weathered storms like us…
Am I satisfied? Am I content?
Easy: I have had artful displays in relationships.
Owned a Menzies, a Thomson & a Szydlik
The rest of the collection after 32 was shite (except maybe for a Taarek).
How can you really Love me?
If you don’t know about them…
Am I bitter? Am I crazy?
Easy: Sometimes angry. & m-m-maybe.
I’ve no blueprints for the family model
I’ve tried relationships and I have stumbled
Do you know you can Love me?
I have no dreams for sale…
And the value I’ve placed on what I own is … stale.
And the importance of owning a home is … old.
And the prestige of my university degrees is … worn.
And all the things Society said I should be
To procure a man, and be forever happy
Are the very things that enslave me from ME,
So how the fuck can I be any good to thee?
Blow this fucking pop stand?
Easy: Let’s head off among the trees.
I can make us a bed of bamboo shoots
You fish our dinner, I like oyster soup!
Do you think our Love can last this way?
I have only dreams to share with you…
Leave the cars behind tonight
I am not going to drive through the city’s lights.
Let’s fire up the sails, get in our boats
Fuck off to an island, somewhere remote.
With no guides and no signals
And a world that is down under
I promise it will all get better
Uh-oh! What’s that…?
SOLD!
© Sylvie Hill 2014
ART: dixon / “Dreams for Sale” / 40x100cm / enamel on canvas / 2003
The Real Villain
I say one funny thing about a pick-up line
He gets mad, says: “I don’t tell you mine!”
In person, I keep it platonic.
He spends the time telling me how he likes it.
I post news of having published a book of sexy stories
He starts Tweeting that I must be wild and risky!
In person, I keep it neutral.
He spends the time telling me I’m beautiful.
I perform poems of sexcapades
The guy in the audience asks why I hate men!
In person, I’ve loved what men do bring me.
He spends the time telling me I don’t understand a thing.
I teach books that were banned because they were sexual
Most if not all the guys being dicks haven’t read them!
In person, I try to educate.
He spends the time telling me I’m obsessed.
A guy got a blowjob first night from a girl at a tavern
Says, “Nice mouth, but I wouldn’t date her!”
In person, she gives him what he wanted
He spends the nighttime, alone, masturbating & forcing it from her.
(A girl named Nora Barnacle gave a hand job to Jim Joyce
He spends the rest of his life writing about her.
He commemorates their first date, by setting Ulysses
On Bloomsday, June 16, 1904.)
My boyfriend liked me civil and polite
But I’ve got a side with a mouth on me like a sailor!
In person, I can speak my mind
He spends the time wishing I was quieter.
So many fucking stories of women speaking their desires
And then men recoiling, uncomfortable and unsure!
In person, I am respectful and ask him what he likes, what to try.
He spends the time asking how I came to know this move and why.
I stood under moonlight at the cottage with my Heineken
He asked me “Why Hoxton? Have you been molested?!”
In person, I can share with you HEALTHY goddamned reasons.
He spends the time wondering why I’m so intense and passionate.
What else,
Right: When I am an active participant and use his cock
To get me up to where I can join him, together, to come
In person, I’m all about collaborating and helping
He spends the time in bed whining he feels alienated.
He says: “Don’t use me like a dildo!”
Ruining the moment, our connection, my ego.
It took a French Canadian well-hung postman-carpenter to laugh me through this
and to dismantle the inherited complex and let go.
And yet another partner wouldn’t change his shorts in front of me
But apparently, I’m too wild cause I may forget to close the door to pee!
I inherit his complex of shame and guilt
Takes me … going on 3 years now to feel comfortable in a kiss.
But it’s the chick’s fault she knows what she wants?
Has had loving experiences and has healthy lust?!
It’s the chick’s fault because she’s had sex before?
Right, she’s supposed to act like your virgin, but a whore.
One man, he got it –
nah, he fucked just so his housemate could hear us.
Sex was for his homoerotic frat applause & to make him feel good,
and to show his future wife he’s apparently awesome.
So that leaves the other One man who got it –
and he was 21, so very young
With the maturity and intelligence and brilliant mind
that comes often through being punk rock.
You can’t tell me ALL the men have superficial intelligence.
That they’re trying to make me an honest woman is rooted in ironic pretense.
You can’t tell me ALL the men just really like me, and in fact just really jealous.
When really we both know, they may be plagued by pornographic expectations.
So there ya have it! I’m fucked.
Without even being fucked or fucking, too!
If you’re a woman, and appreciate making love,
Apparently:
… you’re screwed.
And even the ladies will look at you skewed
Say “that’s private, Shirley” and admit to being a prude.
You think I’m divulging details and truths?
My God, all you judgmental onlookers,
… why the fuck do you think I seek out UK Muses.
But here we go again, it’s a reason in my break-ups
“I liked you because when we met, you wrote so much.”
Right. Think a second about what you just read.
You think a guy I am dating would want you in our bed?
So while it’s perfectly OK for guys to watch porn
It becomes an issue for a chick to write her poems.
They’ll leave a legacy and at worst – an “impression”
I was told it would take a special guy to figure out how to deal with them.
Yet, we all think Leonard Cohen is great!
And we definitely LOVE that Henry Miller!
Yup: we revere the men who talk, write, breathe and live to fuck cunts
But a Canadian lady with an academic, poetic and human interest in sexuality is a nutter.
Even you, Muse, you scoffed in email
Said: “Yes, yes, you talk dirty yet you’re really a dainty lady, I know, sheesh.”
Why do men sound so bloody betrayed?
They should only be mad if they had hopes on getting laid.
They should only be mad if they had hopes on getting laid,
and were mistaken.
Ladies, and gentlemen, I present to you –
Superficial intelligence:
The real villain.
(Go deep
baby, come
please:
find the real me.)
© Sylvie Hill 2014
Art: dixon / “Superficial Intelligence” / 100x100cm / enamel on canvas / 2004