Sylvie Hill

The Drinker #5

It takes courage to know
You’re the one you defeat
And it takes courage to know
You’re the one that you seek.
~ Joseph Arthur, “It Takes Courage”

This one hurts.

I’ve been single since 2011.
Never met someone in whom I was interested.
Beautiful diversion with the man who connected
to me via email in London, supporting in friendship.

But physically, sexually – at home: nope, dead horizon.
I vibe with a sweat smell I’d recognize when I met him.
And so it was – a match with a man who felt familiar,
And his touch the first night, kiss, was such pleasure.

I said to the Universe: ‘HVAC, engineer, truck’ as my list.
Kind of silly but I had no hope, couldn’t give a shit.
[Universe did you hear DRUNK instead of TRUCK
and PISSED instead of LIST?]
The first date he explained an HVAC job glitch,
He was an engineer, and he drove me home in, what? – imagine.

But this one hurts.

Three weeks in on our date, he stayed later
At the St-Henri bar for two pints, two shots then drove to the Arts Centre
I had to walk myself, but I’m a big girl, so chill, I tempered
But there he was: fucked-up, jovial, drunk, and buggered.

And so it is with men after a few weeks
They are honest – they tell you who they are in deets.
This one: I drink, I smoke pot, I’m a bit of a dick, and bipolar
I get angry, I cry sometimes, and it all goes in cycles on repeat.

Now I’ve written poems about my electric muse
Who turned me on like Irvine Welsh’s Filthy Bruce
But that’s in poetry, not in real life, to be sure
At least in proximity here in Montreal – it’s no use.

We made out and I quivered and I undulated in pleasure
And his skin and his fur and his cock hard after and again after.
And I pet his body, and I loved him, and kissed him better.
I probably knew after this – there’d be no return.

But this one hurts.

It takes courage to know I am my own worst enemy
It takes courage to articulate without retracting: result of my family
It takes courage to accept after 8 years single: fuck, AGAIN, REALLY???
It takes courage to believe Me deserves a better – me, eventually.

I’ve long stopped blaming these men for my misery.
It is me, I recall saying back in 2013
It is me who called them from bars, who ordered another round “on me”
It is me who is so emotionally detached that I float in their drinks.

So this one hurts.

When the touch is so good, but you know it’s empty
And you know he didn’t listen to a fucking thing I said/wrote anyway
And he’s not someone you can present to your work or friends-family
But you want so much to heal him with your sex, fun, and energy…

It hurts because where the hell is me in you?
And that’s been the story: there is no “me” in their booze.

And while my pints are two at most a month
And I’ve got a maybe-baby I could have had in a storybook from London
And there I’m talking of my not wanting children now
He does not know the story of that child/connection lost…

And this one hurts …

Because like Joseph Arthur says in his poem-refrain:

“It takes courage to utter your name
With a tone of real pride
In the absence of shame
(To not continue to hide)”

I am frightened after all these years
I continue to reverberate with men and their tears
Shameful that I am scared to face my fears –
To accept the love of a giving, stable man who holds my heart dear.

I’m scared to say: “My name is Sylvie, and I’m an alcoholic … lover”
Woman, is it a point of pride that you know how to heal the downtrodden?

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, June 9, 2019.

Because Montreal and the Irish Pub.

Because I was already beaming full I was
Just a trip to the Jean Talon
And the Jean-Coutu
Can set my heart aflame in warmth
Because I am in Montreal was what it was.
Because I saw a Guinness board
On St Laurent and the wood of the Irish Pub
And I was wearing my Guinness sweatshirt
With high-waist pants like a gal pal from Toulouse
Because I felt fresh in my hair cut
Because I felt healthy on a Sunday stroll
Because I remembered all the days and nights
At the Mayflower Pub in Ottawa…
But not that that’s where I met lovers
Because I was not feeling lonely in my alone
Because I’m in Montreal and on my way home.
Because I walked through the door
And smelled the sweet smell of – wood.
Not Royal Oak pubs like in Ottawa out of a box
Manufactured.
Like the sweet wood of the tavern in Bloomsbury.
A sign that pointed to Cork – some miles, of course.
Because a band was playing some Irish jigs
Because I would have myself a Guinness, for sure.
Because I’m not sure how it will go down
If I’ll be hazy Miss Dizzy and full of wobbly anxiety
Because the Guinness went down so well it does
Because of my book, and the Oh! What’s that?!
Because there’s a man in dreadlocks that I love
Because I care more for the James Joyce I just spotted on the wall.
Because I’m with a pint, and the smell of wood
And James Joyce in the Irish Pub in Montreal
Because I’m thinking of the Galway Pub he took me to
And the winding roads he drove from the South to North.
Because the feeling of being quaint in Galway with a pint
Because the feeling of cozying into the familiar Mayflower stout
Because all that desperation is behind me now
Because I bought plants in a box
That I wore on my head in the metro grabbing smiles
Because we needed green around here
Even if it’s in the box on my head now
Because I had brunch with a friend and spoke of work
Because I live just down the street from brunch
Because of all this I enjoyed the pint at the pub
And leaned against the wall up close
Because the band was good and a man said sit down
Because the conversation was calm and interesting – this is Montreal!
Because the man knew the chap in the band
And the band knew him with whom I had the Galway room
Because of the Irish accent
Because of the memory of the Irish accent
Because of the smell and scenes of the rural Ireland
And the simplest of scenes like Kitty Mac’s on the Atlantic
Because I had so much fun drinking one pint
And conversation
Because the girl in the band knew the person who painted Leonard Cohen
Because we’re all connected to something here grand.
And because when I left I said to two people entering:
“C’est bon ‘en dans! It’s great music,”
And the guy said ‘then why don’t you join us!”
Because I was invited but didn’t indulge
Because I have Jean-Talon Market fish to cook at home
Because earlier I took a Portuguese tart
And sprinkled cinnamon just like the man before.
Because I am no more desperate to consume
I kept on
And kept walking home on Sherbrooke.
And I thought of you
Because I often do and the new man mentioned New Zealand.
How he knew a man who visited once
Sat on a mountain and said he could stay there forever.
Because I realize it was never ‘in love’
Because I know now I just wanted to heal you
Soften rib cartilage that you kept private
That punctured your lungs – imagine you with the wind knocked outta ya!
Because you said she could ask you to marry her
Because what, you were too afraid to?
Because for all the insecurity I demonstrated and subservience,
When it lifts away the M.O. is the same for us:
I just wanted to give you love and rescue you from your shaming.
Because I’m not a saviour
Because I like to save
Because I wish to throw my arms around those men
And love them with pleasure and mouth and intellect
Because I wanted to give you tenderness
Because I care not a toss for response
Because I have come finally to the land of immigrants
Because when I step out –
There is always magic and it’s simple:
It’s just humans.
Because there are people who will invite me in
And talk with me about whatever things.
Because I am in contact with sweet wood
And found some James Joyce on the wall
Because I joined the Moroccan
And met his band man who knew him.
Because I have displaced from isolation
In Ottawa from couch and boring streets
Reckon it’s because I took a chance
And Chance is rewarding me now.
Because I am no longer desperate
Because there is always something next
Because I believe in beauty in a moment
Because I have clung to moments slipping from my hands
As they were in my naked lap in London, England
Because if I had put more time between then
And now I would have definitely forgotten
Because I have the chance now to heal
From a mother who cared not much for bonding
And for men moody bastards like my father
Away from a bullying disrespectful sister
Away from all family in Ottawa!
Into the streets of Montreal
On my own not the town of my mom’s choosing at the divorcing
Because I am healthy
Because some care about me
Because he brings me sushi in a nice bag to eat before shopping.
Because seeds on my baguette is enough to please me
Because when the trees grow green
I’ll be weeping
Because I will breathe in activity
And because hope will return to me
Because I yearn deep for intimacy
Because I am not desperate for convenience.
Because I can appreciate the scenery
Without become the scene.
Because if you read this,
You’d say,
“You need to get out more
I think.”

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, April 2019

Book ends.

He offered to take me for sushi in Soho
“I know a nice place,” he said in slow-mo.
Drunk, stupid. I didn’t hear him.

But he offered to bring me sushi at McGill.
“I’ll bring you dinner,” he said to eat on a bench.
Excited, receiving, I ate it, full.

They both know the right sushi places.
They both know restaurants and the lady chefs.
And they both cut crisp with their observations.
And they both are blunt in their expression.

Book ends.

And I thought he was a slut like the last one
But turns out he never slept with anyone.
And yet I gave over to the nasty one
Resisting the one who’s not been around.

Oh wow can timing be off
Meeting at the wrong time for my confidence
And his moving to New Zealand.
Meeting after he has his family set
And me being ready to jump all in.

Book ends.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, April 2019.

Set It Off

I want to race for the splash of scotch
on the rocks and my chocolates!
I want to tell you about it.
Discuss cheesy songs.
Hear about the dresses
And the sushi boxes
And the jogs, the camel toes
And anything elses.

I want to just walk in the mall, looking.
Consider your opinions on the clothing.
I want you to tell me all about it.
Say stupid shit, laughing in text.
And the vegetarian poutines
And the Market detours
And the daily reports of routines
Being a pervert.

Reminds me back in the days of Jeff.
Non-stop phone calls & messages.
Guys and girls can be friends!
Talking so much we’re exhausted
Or not seeing time fly by
What do we even talk about
When we’re spending that time
All the time?

Reminds me back in the days of Karen.
Closing the pubs after our day jobs.
Non-stop chats and philosophizing.
From the school to the bar to office.
And always back again and walking.
And she said we were like kids.
And Karen said no we were not.
And we kept on rocking and talking.

“Find someone you want to spend
all your time with, and spend it.”
Works for lovers, and so it is for friends.
I’ve always needed to learn to shoot the shit.
I always was preoccupied with getting dick.
If after a swig, there’d be a kiss?
How to be less personal and just roll with it.
Having no prompts nor expectations, platonic.

To set it off without exploding it.
To set it off without engorging it.
To set it off without starting anything.
To set it off and never be turned on by it.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, April 2019

These Regal Men

These regal men dressed in suit pants
Like my Dad. And sharp shoes.
The Italian I dated like Vincent Cassel.
This one’s umbrella – like London.
And you in your grey suit.
“Every man needs a good suit.”

These regal men dressed in black coats
Like my Dad. And the umbrella.
And the nice leather shoes, expensive socks
And a bag of sushi dinner – like Los Angeles.
And your nice leather bag you wanted.
“No I’m not buying one for her!”

And you took me to Liverpool Station.
And he took me to McGill Station.
And I took a train home feeling boyish
and hair wild without my leather purse.
Sensible shoes instead of what I’m capable of.
Those nights being a professor
Being paid lots as management
Negotiating contracts and recruitment.

I’m as powered as a man in a suit.
My shoes sharp when I choose to.
But in expensive lace things
And skin so soft, by comparison
maturity and wildness I dress up in
and the stations where I leave them.

These regal men.
I’ve got the Montblanc pen.
The regal men so manly as men
with their mysterious commitments
or loyalties fierce-as for freedom
make me want to be all woman.

Regale me in your wisdom.
I used to wear thigh highs and garter belts.
Good Goddess it was lost on a kid.
These gentlemen, this gentleman
for whom I want to be dirty and juvenile
upon his stylish garments.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, April 2019