Cec Frazer Macky my brother and I
constructed intricate networks
of roads and tunnels in the autumn
after Skipper dug up the potatoes
where we drove our trucks, cranes, and tractors
we built snow tunnels so long and deep
we could ride toboggans through them
and snow forts like King Arthur's Camelot
we held daily endless competitions
to prove
who could walk furthest the narrow fence
around Billy Mercer's yard
who could spin up Lynch's Lane on a bicycle
all the way to Old Man Downey's house
who could climb highest in the alders
in Cec's backyard
who could dive from the highest place
in Margaret Bowater Park
we dreamed about Charles Atlas ads in comic books
stuffed jute bags for punching bags
and admired tough rough guys
who smoked and swore and got into fist fights
we pretended to be cowboys, soldiers, gladiators,
knights, conquistadors, pirates, flying aces
we hammered and fired swords, shields, bazookas,
battering rams, sling shots, bows and arrows,
snowballs, and catapults, an arsenal
of weapons for fighting Nazis, Communists,
aliens from Pluto, and one another
and when a few weeks ago I saw
Cec for the first time in years,
now middle-aged like all of us,
we chuckled together shyly
and hid in dark corners of the Majestic
with Mark Wahlberg in Planet of the Apes
not much flows in these coulees
except the cool dry wind
persistently claims ownership
refuses an easy hospitality
shrubs cacti grass
cling to the coulees
like a brush cut
that can't hide the scalp
the sky is a concave ocean
pulled toward the centre
of the universe always moving
prairie grass, sage and wild rye:
no sage would try to name
all the things that grow in these coulees
a coyote writes lines in the wind,
reminds me I cannot
both see and write, and still
I write in order to see
like a gopher, a poet digs
an intricate map
of subterranean lines
with holes for popping up
I see the shadows of birds
but I cannot see the birds
the sun soothes with the wind
woos me into sleep
leaves me woozy even
I dwell in the coulee that does not flow,
this dry, arid coulee where cacti flame
I wait for the coyote
I write nothing
perhaps writing will come
in February when I am far away
flowing with the lines of sun
and trails and gopher hollows
and the roots of cacti
succulents can find water
where there is none,
suck the dry earth
like an orange sucks my dry mouth
Carl Leggo
BIOGRAPHICAL BLURB:
Carl Leggo is a poet and an associate professor in the Department of Language and Literacy Education, and the Graduate Advisor in the Centre for the Study of Curriculum and Instruction, at the University of British Columbia where he teaches courses in writing, curriculum, and narrative research. His poetry, fiction, and scholarly essays have been published in many journals. He is the editor of English Quarterly, and the author of
Two collections of poems, Growing Up Perpendicular on the Side of a Hill (Killick Press, 1994) and View from My Mother's House (Killick Press, 1999), as well as Teaching to Wonder: Responding to Poetry in the Secondary Classroom (Pacific Educational Press, 1997). His new book of poems, I Do Not Find It Easy to Be a Human Being, was recently sent to the publisher. He is this year's recipient of the Sam Black Award for Distinction in Education and the Visual and Performing Arts.
He lives joyfully with his wife, daughter, and son in Steveston near the Fraser River.