Three photos of poets/friends Alice Notley and Hoa Nguyen at knife |fork | book 14 March 2020.
Photos: Kirby
3 x Alice
“Have you ever fallen in love with a place?”
…and then, The Northern Lights. London ON
Kirby: “How many of you have been called ‘faggot’ on the streets of London?”
More than half the room raise their hands.
Kirby: “Thanks for coming out tonight.”
Nothing is more essential then spaces free from violence to gather, love, play, celebrate.
And, there was nothing more celebratory than this past Friday night at The Variety Café, London ON (home of the famous disco washroom) where brave queer artists meet, create occasions, “make things pretty.”
Thanks to Late Bloomers (Kyle, Donovan, Andrés, & Co) for welcoming Stevie Manning & I into the fold, an extraordinary night of vibrant gaiety including a rare appearance of the Northern Lights on the patio!
“It’s all about the lighting,” Kirby smiles.
The king
JIM JOHNSTONE
104 pages. Coach House Books.
there’s no reason / to stay here // if we just // keep going / through the motions.
I never really know what’s going to happen when I sit down to open, read a new poetry collection.
Often, I’ll expect to skim, jump forward, “where’s the good stuff?”
Last night, the lake rose to meet me as I crossed.
Rarer still to be swallowed whole from the start.
Will we make it to the other side? Will I?
Then I remember, we live on a lake where I’ve stood beside a bandana-ed poet on their rooftop, arm across shoulder, looking out, we cross intersections, sans skateboard, point to things, blossoms, murals, markers, vanishing signs of places, homes destined for landfill.
Do you remember? / I wasn’t alone.
Poet, Jim Johnstone has always been challenging the page, at times (he admits) with an impulsive need to explain. In The King ofTerrors he simply says, “Look here.”
And we do.
At the man in love. His fears. “I’m not ready to leave.” The knife. Dreams in flight. Confessions. Lies. Truths. Abiding friendships. Prior. Loss. Elegies. “Every cell /// hurts” brothers, fathers, family, exes, the poet places us directly in the waves with him, “until we’ve reached the deepest point / the point at which we exhale and look up — “
The future was king until / it stopped delivering
Jim. To see you, read you, here. Still. Always. Delivering. Unsparing, honest writing so fine my core is shaken, my breath returns. Thanks for this lifeline, your latest “terrors,” your passionate love for the work. Congrats on this hard won beauty.
“I GASPED”
KIRBY 