Poem-a-Day for Carl Leggo

she sits on the kitchen floor crumbles sage into a shell sage dried crackly scent of healing seashell from the Sunshine Coast Powell River a place she spent time as a child sage and shell she lights the sage smoke drifts wispy plumes thought is broken smoke winds its way cuts through scent fills the […]

From the forthcoming ISPI Click on link above to read Dedication

This is what I seek to do in my poetry—to be attentive, listening with care, seeking to learn by heart. –Carl Leggo Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born. –Anais Nin   What the […]

That Blue Ikea Couch   That blue Ikea couch in backstage storage upholstered styrofoam feather light, perfect as a living-room set or a comfy seat on movie nights.   Inherited with the space that blue couch unfolds into a bed where he once rested his head . . .   So I heard the tale […]

Never enough ( for Carl) There is never enough time, but he taught me to attend, that poetry is in everything: in teacups and methodologies , errands and diaper changes, in meetings and grammar rules in me All, all I can think of is how he would say: “how wonderful” aloud or often, just with […]

Writing has always felt like praying —Reverend Ames Gotama saw the faces of his infant son and sleeping wife, shaved his head and beard, put on his yellow robe, and left without saying goodbye. Duties, possessions, ties of the heart: all dust weighing down his soul. He walked and walked, seeing a life wide open, […]

pedagogical fragrance Contributed and written by jeanne adele kentel (for carl leggo) [Click on title link above to read poem]

Contributed by Amanda Gulla Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower Rainer Maria Rilke Quiet friend who has come so far, feel how your breathing makes more space around you. Let this darkness be a bell tower and you the bell. As you ring, what batters you becomes your strength. Move back and forth into […]

by Gisela Ruebsaat   Heart Mechanic In my house something is always broken, on the verge. Roof shingles warped, gutters glutted. Even the door handle stuck. I take up hammer and nails, pick paint colours for cover. Windows are dirty. I speak the monosyllabic talk of unskilled labour.   But you, the heart mechanic just […]

by Juliana Saxton   On a cold winter afternoon, we write together. Monica speaks of you with such love and appreciation she glows I too am warmed. Thank you.