Sylvie Hill

I’ve got a NEW book in the works! Be a part of it: Sign up here to be notified of the Kickstarter campaign kickoff to publish this:

Check out my NEW FourCulture review of Joseph Arthur’s show in Montreal, July 17.

Hello Ms Elizabeth Renzetti!

I so enjoyed listening to your interview this morning on CBC’s The Sunday Edition! It reminded me so much of the mercurial personality of my Male Muse who I write about in my upcoming book of spoken-word poetry, featuring art by Juan Carlos Noria (aka dixon) where London, England is a character and backdrop. Take a look:

YOUR BOOK:

Augusta Price isn’t the kind of woman you’d invite to an intimate dinner party. Nor is she someone you’d want to count on for anything. She is an unlikeable British actress, a has-been who’s self-centred when she’s sober and self-destructive when she’s inebriated. Which is pretty much all of the time.

From word one, the central character of Based on a True Story is transparently awful.

MY BOOK:

Russell Square Station: mine the trash takes its name from the literary Bloomsbury borough of Camden, London UK and is also the site of an infamous bomb attack in 2005. Ottawa (Canadian) poet Sylvie Hill laments with feverish expression, and raw recollection through the colourful art of Juan Carlos Noria (aka dixon), the devastation of her own experience with [m]using a bombastic British man (who also featured as a desired one-night stand in her first book, Hoxton Square Circles: starfucking tales of sexless one-night stands). A decade later, the fated reunion off Tottenham Court Road is more Stockholm Syndrome than Brit stiff upper lip. Hill’s apparent temerity facing a devilish rockstar is bourbon-soaked and reeks of naivety. Whether it is the man or her own morals that oppress, she tramples through the aftermath, and writes everything with her boots on.

Kickstarting in Fall. Publishers welcome!

I had so much fun on stage at WESTFEST on Saturday, June 14, 2014 co-hosting with Council Leadership Candidate of Kitchissippi Ward, Michelle Reimer! Thank you to Elaina Martin for inviting me — what a treat!

Westfest, Westboro Village’s Festival of Music, Art & Life, celebrating its 11th edition in 2014!

Westfest is a party like no other! Each year more than 100,000 people attend Westfest during our outdoor, three day celebration of Canadian art and culture. As a free multidisciplinary art festival dedicated to showcasing Canadian artists and their work in an accessible and inclusive setting, Westfest fills 14 city blocks with a variety of artistic disciplines, such as music, contemporary dance, visual art, media art, performance art, spoken word, poetry and fiction readings, Aboriginal art forms, children’s entertainment, buskers, street performers, and much more.

I am so excited to be invited to join CBC Radio/TV Hosts on stage to introduce a few of the fabulous acts for 2014! See you there!

“Not for the faint of heart. Not for those who find offence in the particulars of life.” ~ Jeff Ross, Author (Orca Press)

“Sylvie Hill successfully straddles the zone between the colloquial and the quixotic with her sassy, tell-it-like-it-is spoken word. This is a performer to watch out for.”
~Alexis O’Hara, Performance Artist

“Sylvie Hill is a troubadour with a voracious appetite. Think the sentiments of Rufus Wainwright punctuated in urban rap that is naked both in its power and honesty ”¦ Sylvie attacks topics that women aren’t supposed to experience and people aren’t supposed to talk about.”
~Nichole McGill, author of 13 Cautionary Tales (Gutter Press)

“[Her] energy infects me.”
~Chris Chambers, co-author, with Derek McCormack, of the carnival book Wild Mouse, and Lake Where No One Swims (Pedlar Press).

“Sylvie Hill lives her poetry at such pace and volume it’s impossible to not pay attention. Acrobatic leaps from vulnerability to rage to raw sexuality. She writes everything with her boots on.”
~John Degen, author of Life in Bucharest (Pedlar Press)

“Sylvie Hill is the one performance poet who makes me wish I were a man.”
~Melanie Noll, spoken-word poet, 2004 CBC Poetry Face-Off.

“Sylvie Hill is the only reader I’ve ever heard who could call me an asshole and I’d find myself standing graciously and yelling, ‘Encore!'”
~Darryl G. Wright, former co-director of Tree Reading Series, Ottawa.

I bet you after he did what he did
And let me off at Russell Square Station
Put his sunglasses on, went looking for some breakfast, said:
“Well, that sure will give the girl something to write about, then.”

WHAT’S THIS BOOK ABOUT?

Read/Listen to samples here.

Russell Square Station: mine the trash is a collection of spoken-word poetry confessing one woman’s journey through a sexual landscape of London, England. So, it’s a fierce book. And who are we kidding – the author is a Canadian lightweight. Russell Square Station spills the nitty gritty of a fated one-night stand with an irascible rockstar from the author’s 2001 book, Hoxton Square Circles: starfucking tales of sexless one-night stands, for whom Hill rapped, “Stand a little closer, yeah, light my cigarette / If this were Ottawa (Canada), I’d take you home in a sec.”

Reunited more than a decade later, the bedsit becomes British. Exploring through feverish expression and raw recollection, Russell Square Station unravels what happens when you [m]use a man trans-Atlantic over the Internet, cross-over to dance with the devil, and live to tell the tale. And there are a couple of poems about demonic cosmopolitan culture that equally rape. The brilliant art of Juan Carlos Noria (aka dixon) is paired with the poems and describes visually the stories of how we trip and fall into crap. The lesson being, to mine the trash.

Shy of being one woman’s testimonial of sexual naivety and penis envy, Russell Square Station, taking its name from the academic and literary Bloomsbury borough of Camden in Central London, UK, is exactly that. A study of one male Muse through her story, Sylvie Hill’s works address the lure toward explosive destinations fuelled by alcohol, and people who come and go, talking of noodles in Soho. God willing, you may relate to the hustle of the hop on, get off and a move on.

This Way Out (of Russell Square Station)

“You got pissed, shit happened, you can’t handle your alcohol,”
is how he said it when shit hit the fan, and I was calling him, crying from Ottawa.
The blackouts, the what-thu’s, the not-making-sense of its
He deciphered with patience, once, two times and a third, closed case.

How many times have you made a mistake,
regretted, then rinsed and repeated?
How many times have you said you’d stop,
only to find yourself again, doing it?

These are the tales of Russell Square Station
Where Hoxton Square Circles was the urge to fit (it) in
Here we have the results of giving in
to what you needed deep down by instinct.

These are the stories underlining the meaning
Of the adage: “Know thyself”
More like a warning, and a very strong caution:
UNDERSTAND your rules that keep you down.

Because one time, someTHING or someONE will tap that source
Of all the shit you keep hidden and stationed
It will erupt like the London commuters at rush hour
And topple the shit out of you and your person.

Sure, you’ll blame them and the transit system
For transporting you to dangerous places
Or maybe if you joined in on the ride for a while
A bomb blast explodes in your face, regardless.

If you can’t beat them
You may not wish to join them.
“Do you know what terminal you’re flying out of?”

“You got pissed, shit happened, you can’t handle your alcohol,”
he knew shit hit the fan, and he saved me snogging the rickshaw in London.
The blackouts, the what-thu’s, the not-making-sense of its
Did he decipher properly with patience, once, two times and a third, closed case?

No you didn’t, in two texts, you were out and playing the blame-game.
But the only way out, completely was for me to invite you in.
It’s a catch-22, innit? Room #7 at the Jesmond?
Trafalgar Square should’ve been the last visit.

Darling, that was not “initiated”
That was “may I sit next to you, please, on the train?”
You told me “I’m not your type” from the get-go
So why would I try to chase?

That said, you knew I wanted an alibi
And to be like the guilty ones who are having fun
Russell Square Station is about people who take you
To scary places you’ve always dreamed of.

It’s about the ones who know you well enough
To laugh at you, saying: “Come on, Sylvie. It’s what you wanted, grow up.”
And Muse, if I be wrong, and you truly wanted to bond
You’ve got my number, I’m in Canada.

I bet you after you did what you did
And let me off at Russell Square Station
Put your sunglasses on, went looking for some breakfast, said:
“Well, that sure will give the girl something to write about, then.”

And faded away into London.
And now I write these poems.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

ART: dixon / “Way Out” / 81x65cm / spray paint and enamel on canvas / 2007

I Stand By, Tempest

Yes, the goddamn storms will rage, man!
Will you fight or take flight?
Will you man up and see the light
Or sulk like a fucking little child?

Yes, the times will be tough, man!
You’ll lose the girl and gain
A new one losing her again
Because of your memory of the old one.

You were a druggie, and you partied
And you put away the drugs, finally.
I saw your dad say you had a time lately
All were loving and supporting.

It’s why I stayed after eggs Florentine.
Oh my, I had viscous things to say
To your friend, “not a fan,” I said
He told me you’re better since the chest explosion operation.

At Trafalgar monument, you were finally quiet.
I said: “Look at you! How much you’ve accomplished!
How did you get all this in London?!”
“Mostly bullshitted my way,” but you didn’t.

Today, I wanted to tell some guy to get a grip!
And I did, told him he was a lightweight!
Didn’t want to hear about his bad fate!
His aches and his pains and his bloody sad state!

I thought of you in your critical way
Chest pains, morphine, in hospital, you said.
And you tell it like it was a big fun game
Played with the Asian nurse who mispronounced your name.

It’s why I stayed after eggs Florentine.
Oh my, I had viscious things to say
To your friend, I told him the truth of that day
His response at once was friendly.

He’s a smooth one that guy, eh?
Knows all the rockstar, cool things to say.
Whether he means a word, is a mystery.
You and him are close, so what am I, anyways.
(We were close at one point, I want to say).

Then the man in you, seems, ran the other away.
But that kid in you, I think, stuck by a bit, stayed.
Even though the dick on you really set the stage
The Girl in me remains your friend; Woman in me – aches.

It’s why I stayed after eggs Florentine.
Trust me: I know how I can be annoying!
I know how you dealt with it all, patiently.
Every email, every need, saving me safely …

… to get what you require,
as did I, walking the high wire.

Be that curious boy you once were
Staring at rabbits with big chocolate orbs
Listing all the animals you cared for
And the chainsaws you like to cut wood.

I know I am not sexy like the lady you took to Turkey.
I know I’m not fast or furious like European divas you meet.
But I hope you’ll always respect me
For staying after eggs Florentine

I’m going to think you are trying to be less mean
In your new life where you take responsibility
For your headspace, your career and your handsome body
And your mind space, which explains ditching me.

Were you surprised how calm I could be
in the morning after the take over?
I stood bold in my pyjamas.
You were childish in yours –

But I womanned up and saw the light
Didn’t sulk like a fucking little child.

… you took what –we– required:
fair is fair,
I’m indebted to our tempests,
Baby, storms are gonna rage,
and I wouldn’t care…

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: dixon / “Tempest” / 35x65cm / spray paint and enamel on canvas / 2008

Presentimiento

I was going on a trip this weekend
I needed to pull out the suitcase.
My body shuddered as I touched the handle
Same one you lugged to the station.

I pretended I’d find a note
Tucked away in one of the pockets
Thought maybe you left me a message
After the morning that we made ‘something’ (love?).

There was no message only memory
Of when I last lugged the suitcase
Across London, and your country
To Paris to visit my friends.

My journey was rather epic
I got so much love, I forgot!
I left those good things far behind
When I met with your explosion.

At Russell Square Station you kissed me
On the lips, I think it was twice
I got into travel mode quickly with my suitcase
Hunkered down and did not cry.

I was stunned in the execution
Zombified by a morning after
Lagged behind in your footprints
Free, taken and in wonder.

The only clue I had of this
Was a dream where I was lost in London
The only cue we gave all this
Were scenes I had written in poems.

Do you walk that city and think of me
Do you sometimes walk my footsteps?
Do you take your beer in Bloomsbury?
Do you chuckle at things I said?

I shall never return to London again
For fear of re-tracing your foot prints
And walk your walk of disregard
Your indifferent heart, zero sentiments.

But in my role as defeated and Victim
I convince myself of this
You cared for me a little bit
To take me to the station, yes?

And in my role as innocent, and naïve
I found it cavalier and romantic
When you helped me shut my suitcase up
With your big man hands, intact.

You said: “You’ll need a man around like this
If you’re going to have my child”
And the mockery was confusing
I felt encouraged as well as chided.

His twisted sense or sensibility
Left me exhausted, resilience ragged.
But with my pure heart, I surrendered
And it’s he who carries the baggage.

You’ll never know cuz his head’s held high
His wit reveals no shame
But I pretend that something weighs in him a bit
When someone calls my name.

I pretend he sinks a bit in his shoes
Feeling heaviness like foreboding
Of some odd connection between his every step
And my spirit abandoned, eroding.

Is this how we were to connect?!
Is this why you carried my luggage?
The push and the pull, the typical flow
For which I had a hunch?

The off and on again of the tides that flow
in and sweep off sand from footprints
Dually work to recede and expose patterns
Of the depth you imprint, instep.

And if you’re searching for his signs
Take yourself to South Bank, London, at night.
You may spot a dark figure,
walking at shore, near the water
his footprints among the rubbish
Collecting souvenirs for a girl in Canada
that he’ll never send but keep in his pocket

until he spots the next bin, trashes them
just like he may do with women,
and if not, reckon I was the exception.

And I should have seen it coming.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: dixon / “Foot Prints” / 80x60cm / spray paint and acrylic on canvas / 2010

FALLING IN LOVE: or, WE ARE TRYING TO SAVE EACH OTHER | In my past, I have chosen men with whom a longterm relationship would not be realistic/possible because of the baggage I was carrying. These men carried my loads intensely and consistently: it breaks bodies down. Other men I have chosen because I was attuned to their load, and was happy to help them unpack. I saw a lot of hurt men…after they helped me and before I rescued them…

Can you relate? Check out Hoxton Square Circle: Starfucking tales of sexless one-night stands (2001) or the upcoming Russell Square Station: mine the trash.