The Sadness of Her Sewing

There she remains,
In the folds of her nightgown
Tucked deeply in her bedside drawer,
Releasing the scent of her Chantilly.

And here, in her treasured clip-on earrings
Of aurora borealis rhinestones,
All the colors of the northern lights,
She explained.

And perhaps most,
Up there on the closet shelf,
Her well-worn sewing basket,
A frayed tapestry on its lid of
A young woman’s gentle face.
There, inside, among the bobbins of thread,
Mother’s tarnished metal thimble,
Its tiny nubs worn smooth from use.

Remembering how whenever she mended,
I would hear her sigh deeply
As the thimble’s cap clicked
Against her flying needle,
Her impatience palpable,
So desperate was she to be done.

Knowing now it reminded her of
Being pulled from school at the age of nine,
Pressed into piecework for a gruff Glasgow furrier,
Stitching together heavy coats in dingy rooms
From piles of animal pelts,
Never to return to school,
Or childhood,
Again.

 

~~ Tricia McCallum

 

You Could Be Anywhere.

Someone asked me recently if I ever prayed. It prompted this…

Ways to Pray

There are a million ways to pray.
Not one of has anything to do with an oak pew
Or a frocked man prompting from a pulpit on high.

Nothing special is needed.
No preparation or special equipment.
The quiet is no prerequisite.
Not solemnity
Nor a bowed head.
A seat on a New York subway will do.
A carnival ride at full tilt.
Or the middle of nowhere, so still
Your breath is its accompaniment.

We think more must be required, so we hesitate.
We edit.
We borrow from scripts of parchment.
But like so much
The opposite is true.

A prayer’s success lies in it being
Entirely and unapologetically
Your own,
Unshackled by dogma,
The counting down of rosary beads,
The mouthing of others’ perceptions.

Be anywhere.
Think of what matters.
Start with the words I wish.
Consider I hope.
End with I tried.

 

~~ Tricia McCallum

 

 

Pinnacles

What is it in me

What is it in me
that needs to tell you this?

 

Never More.

It will never be more summer than this.
This moment.
Every petal and bough, every bloom at its most beautiful
in hue, texture, depth of colour.
Nature at her most potent.

She shows off.
Tomorrow begins the sad inevitable decline,
Her gradual descent toward less.
But today,
Oh, today,
Drink it in,
Every last sip.
Such glory cannot possibly last.

 

A little pixel dust…  my nickname for my micro poems…

Screen Tests

I’d run home after the movies
To act out each scene,
Word for word,
With accents and flourishes,

Mom watching in her housedress
At the little yellow kitchen table,
Smoking.

 

In. Coming.

My druthers would be you
Coming through the door
Soaking wet,
In that fabulous old trench
We bought for a steal,
Brimming over with stories
For tea.

 

Interloper

And just when I think you’re
Listening
I turn and see you
Enraptured
By the girl in the next booth.

 

Forget

In my writer’s group we had an  assignment to set our timers for 10 minutes and write sentences beginning with the letter F. Only the letter F. (Try a list yourself. Choose your own letter.) They’re known as prompts, and they’re credited as indispensable tools to jump start the writing doldrums.

These were my 10 F’s (!) and were I to write another list right this moment, I know it would be utterly different. Therein lies the power of this exercise, to unshackle the writer, wondrously.

Strung together, I quite like the idea of shaping this list of 10 into a poem, and no doubt will.

  1. Forget the times you spoke before thinking and caused pain.
  2. Forget 12 years of priests and nuns looking over your shoulder, inspecting your cuticles, the collar of your blouse, measuring with a wooden ruler how far your blue serge uniform, stiff from too many hot irons,  fell below your knees.
  3. Forget the ad agency owner who said your writing wasn’t up to their standards but would you like to go out for a drink to discuss options.
  4. Forget her face that last morning and how it wasn’t the way  you would always  end up remembering it.
  5.  Forget turning down an impromptu trip to Rio because you had “commitments.”
  6. Forget the silent child in the shopping cart with the unwashed face.
  7. Forget Sister St. Cletus saying she’d excuse me from detention because, after all, your father was not “of the faith.”
  8. Forget the times you took the easy way, and just how many here were.
  9. Forget the icy wind on your face that day on Bloor Street when he said you were lovely. When he said he would never forget you. Ever.
  10. Forget the casual cruelties you inflicted, and those you suffered from. 

Impossible Gardens

 

Somewhere between the Canna lilies and the Delphinium Blue King,
he started in on mask wearers.
A local, I could tell,
the turns of phrase and the mandatory team jersey.

He had already launched into his rant when I pulled my truck
into the lot of the garden centre,
sermonizing before a small sullen crowd
about the Nano particles that will be released from inside our vaccines
once the government unleashes the 5G network.

His voice booming behind me, I surveyed the dahlias and wondered
what dinner plate really meant. Smacked of overreach.
The marigolds were next, resplendent in their yellowness,
but always smelled to me like my Grade 12 chemistry lab.

His fan base had grown by the time I reached the blue Flax,
a perennial I had always avoided. Too frail to last.
I heard a woman in the crowd ask what he had against science.
Your science or mine, he snarled,
the irony seemingly lost on the crowd.

His vitriol flowed seamlessly, the rhetoric ramped sky high.
He had moved on to personal freedom, chiding us and our mindless lockstep.
Do you know Bill Gates can track your every move?
I wondered how many would jump aboard.

Hey, Red. Your mask is useless,
he yelled out behind me.
But this was not a hill I would die on. Not today.

Driving home to get my hands dirty,
I turn up Highway on Sirius,
leaving him in my rearview,
Steve Earle now my perfect companion,
my annuals waving a riot of colour in the flatbed behind me,
even if only for a while.

Poetry Out Loud at WACC

Poetry Rhythms & Revelry

An Evening of Poetic Expression with Tricia McCallum

When? Saturday, June 15th at 7:30 pm

Where? WACC, 475 Whitevale Rd

Join us for a captivating night of verse and vibrance as acclaimed poet

Tricia McCallum hosts her annual Poetry Out Loud event. This year’s gathering promises to be a melodic feast for the senses, where the written word takes center stage.

Tricia, known for her wit and way with words, will delight attendees with a curated selection of her latest works. Her poems explore the depth of human experience with equal parts humour and poignancy.

But the evening is not just about Tricia’s poetry! We invite you to share a poem that holds a special place in your heart, one that resonates deeply or brings you joy. Whether it’s a beloved classic or an original piece, this is a chance to celebrate the power of poetry together.

Before the event, ponder the verse you’d like to contribute and email Tricia at writer@triciamccallum.com to let her know you’ll be participating.

Get ready to be inspired, moved, and uplifted in this one-of-a-kind community event, which weaves Tricia’s talents with our shared love for poetry. Remember, spaces are limited, so secure your spot today!

A Poetry Interview

Katherine Barrett interviews Poet Tricia McCallum

Katherine Barrett is the founder and editor-in-chief of Understorey Magazine, which publishes literary writing and visual art by and about Canadian women. She has also served as Editor with the Afghan Women’s Writing Project and Demeter Press.

 

KB: You’ve just completed your third collection of poems called Icarus Also Flew. You’ve also published many poems in journals, anthologies and magazines. Can you tell us how you came to poetry?

TM: I was always a huge reader. In fact my greatest regret is that I never found a job that would pay me to read books in air conditioning. It was from a very young age that I started writing down my own stories. And reading them to anyone who would listen.

Later I paid my bills with freelance writing because, as Garrison Keillor said, “Burglary beats poetry when it comes to making money.” But I wrote poems in my off hours, finding homes for them where I could. Creating them is as much a part of me as my red hair or my left-handedness.

Poetry has helped me figure out what I think. About this life of mine, these lives of ours. I don’t think I would have navigated my life half as well without it.

Poetry is my church.  It’s where I have found my courage.

 

KB: Your poems entice through telling details from around the world: tiger balm in Kuala Lumpur, a motel in Cape May, a record shop in Ontario. Does this reflect your personal travelling or work experience? How do you think a keen sense of observation helps to inspire writers?

TM: All those places are ones I have actually been. I did dispense tiger balm to the Cambodian refugees I helped return by the planeload to Canada following Pol Pot. I did in fact stay in a rundown quirky motel in Cape May for a period of time and come to know some of the residents. A boyfriend of my youth, in a very small Canadian town, once took me by the hand into a record store for a birthday surprise. All of these pieces, and so many others of mine, come straight from my experiences. You’ll find a pretty clear map of my life in my writing. Case in point: I wrote one about the trials, nay, horrors, of working as a freelance wedding photographer, which I did for a time to bolster my writing income.

Observation may be the one thing indispensable to a poet. It might all just come down to noticing the details, if not in fact being entranced by them.

My poetry is not really simple, I don’t think, but it is about commonplace things. I’m not an abstract thinker. I’m interested in ordinary life, the so-called mundane details that make up our days. But to me they are not mundane. To me they are rich in possibility, nuance.

To me, they’re magic.

 

KB: You say your poems are simple but your work does broach complex universal themes, particularly loss, remembrance and celebration of life. What attracts you to these ideas?

TM: The poet Shelly said “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.” I could not hope to express it better. Loss, in all its shapes, stages and guises propels so much of what writers create.

I remember someone once asked me, impatiently, “Why don’t you ever write a happy poem?”

Happiness is never fodder for me in this way. When I’m happy I can generally be found out and about, munching on Snickers bars, reading anything and everything within reach, including the Hollywood rags, and wasting inordinate amounts of time, deliciously.

 

KB: Two of your poems in your second book The Music of Leaving have won the Goodreads.com Poetry Contest. And you won the contest for a third time with your poem “The Things I Learned as a Bartender.” Can you tell us about that process? How does winning a contest influence a writer’s career?

TM: My three wins in goodreads.com poetry competitions have been amazing kick starters for my writing and offered incredible exposure. It was thrilling to win each time and so heartening, because the winning compositions are ultimately voted for online by goodreads members themselves from among a group of five finalists chosen by a panel of judges, all fine poets themselves.

All of this puts me in illustrious company. This contest attracts amazingly gifted writers.

It was in a bio of Lisa Genova’s, the author of the novel Still Alice, where I first learned about the power of goodreads.com, its astounding reach and potential for writers. Genova self-published that book, after being unable to find a publisher for it, astounding, I know, and she used goodreads as one of the ways she promoted it. It ended up a bestseller, of course, and then a brilliant movie.

 

KB: How will you celebrate Poetry Month come April?

TM: With very good Scotch. (Actually, tea, but Scotch sounds so much more … literary.)

That, and setting myself the challenge of writing a new poem every day in April, even if it’s only a raw draft. I scribble a new idea down in one go and hope that it eventually morphs into something worthwhile.

Oh, and checking my Inbox with my first coffee alongside for poems that come to me from all over. I can’t imagine a better start to a day.  The coffee sharing equally stellar status…

 

 

 

Beyond the Robot

For the Robot

to write a poem
first
it must survive a kindergarten schoolyard trauma, a sunburn on an overcast day,
bury, in a small paper box that once held a bar of soap,
the thumbnail-sized frog that was once a polliwog it caught at Mrs. Anderson’s
pond whose tail fell off and hind legs emerged like quotation marks & had
been kept in the rinsed Best Foods mayonnaise jar

must worry a tobacco-stained grandfather’s hand
run over a jackrabbit on I-40 in the Arizona desert
get divorced
burn dinner
confess its sins
suffer food poisoning
refuse to eat blue M & M’s
hang, on a sweet-breezy July, laundry in Fishtail, Montana—eye the distant Sawtooth
Mountains & hum “Waltzing Matilda” which it learned from Miss Vineyard
in second grade

must fear thunder
rush to focus its binoculars on the wintering Lazuli Bunting
tell white lies to be kind
shout “Heavens to Betsy!”
be part of a standing ovation
endure recurring nightmares
question the crossing guard about the origin of “fingers crossed”
develop calluses as it learns to play the twelve-string banjo
have its hair smell of campfire smoke
swat, during a humid-summer dusk, at mosquitoes on a dock full of splintered
cypress wood at Half Moon Lake in Eau Claire, Wisconsin

forever dislike Brussels sprouts because it overcooked them and they smelled like
rotten eggs
must watch wind
weep at a funeral
lose anything
imagine infinity
doubt God’s existence
die a little every day
then, perhaps—

~~ Alison Bailey

—from Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge
September 2023, Artist’s Choice

Writer and Poet

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Tricia McCallum profile

Tricia McCallum

Always be a poet. Even in prose.
Charles Baudelaire.

In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]

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