river valley trees

{river valley trees on the running trail to hawrelak}

on the promontory the old tree
unravels with sticky sap trails
of trailing memory, floating like
aspen fuzz, days that creak with uncertainty

rolling past summer thunderstorms
lightning-struck branches reaching
beyond his hospital windows &
tired concrete

rain aches his bones hollowed
ivory pelicans black-tipped wings receding
over the silt-swollen river,
the crumbling rust of their banks

he watches her running in the tunnels
of the woods below,
foxtails silver ghosts brushing ankles,
remembering what the body is meant for

as she plunges down the riverside
gravelly footsteps shedding their
small avalanche trails rushing behind her,
ochred stain blood of rock on her shoes

(do you remember the taste of dust & salt
trickling down your face, slow green flow
& the air thick with pollen & light?)

on the promontory the old tree
waits & he sees her legs’ blue blur,
approach of thunder rustling up,
echoing in decaying cambium

(do you remember how once too
your running legs could become
limbs of trees, the green leaves of her breath
rising falling, the lungs of earth)

but only the pain now, in the very marrow,
the lightning on the blue of his eyes –

kananaskis mountains

mt. elpoca, looking down from highwood pass at dusk

looking down the kananaskis valley at dusk

"Я візьму тебе на Верховину

Де ми знайдем чудовий край,

Поглянемо на полонину

На чарівний, безмежний рай."

-- Чекання

very small morsels of kananaskis

lady's-slipper orchid, campsite

fawn at the salt-lick

i am very lucky.

{a picture taken by bryna. i am performing a very special dance move in our living room}

I have now lived in my new abode for one month now, and despite the sinkpipe exploding & loosing its green algal contents all over everything, & the raucous magpie conferences at 5 a.m. outside my window, it has been a lovely month indeed. Here is a brief list of particular things I enjoy about my dwelling place:

-- the good, nourishing food that we cook in the kitchen, which is rather spacious & full of light & contains a rolling spice drawer & three shelves of tea.

-- the light shining on the hardwood floor in late afternoon; the ridiculous slipperyness & possibilities for dancing on that floor (see above photo)

-- the shadows: on the white walls, the 'waves' on the kitchen floor in the morning

-- the constant chirping & singing of birds (not so much the indignant magpies, though)

-- the lilac tree that was in full bloom when we moved in, the honeysuckle, the shade of the elms

-- the gravelly back alley, the green sweep of the old trees & the houses nestled between them, the kitchen view

-- tigerlilies, russian sage, peonies, irises, asters, delphinium...

-- hearing the united church choir across the street singing on sunday mornings, coming in my open window

-- riding my bicycle home on 115th avenue after the rain, the certain swoop of the slick road, the arches of trees above me

-- the night june air coming in my window, direct ambrosia to my nostrils, it pulls me, unravels, makes me want to go out walking forever.

pigeon poem.

{the remains of a pigeon i found on my way to work.}

today on the sidewalk
i found the splayed skeleton of a pigeon

wings barely attached to bones, but legs still pink,
with toes curling like a baby’s fingers
caught in the soft tight grip
of that sleep –

& it caught in my body, the sadness:
empty cambium of the heart carved out,
aery avian wingbones to pestle down ache
& slowly digest –

for an empty nest will haunt us, frightens us,
the little lobes of the beak still intact, mouth
open half in song –

for when a bird falls suddenly out of the sky
death comes to the breathing
to hollow us out,
remind us that

death is felt only by those still living,
a strange reflecting of sun on wings
falling not on the dead
but those who are left clinging, clinging

as beloved things leave us
& we try to hold, to hold
with soft pink pigeon-toes
to the birds of their souls –

run on (for a long time)

{weeping birch shadow out the kitchen window}
{mottled sky}

I can't believe how often I seem to forget how good it is to run, how truly good running is for me. How it's such a good alternative to being trapped in my head, where I spend far too much time -- especially with my job, which accentuates my tendency to overthink, overanalyse, overintellectualize absolutely everything. Sometimes I wonder about all the things I should let myself do, but don't because I'm too busy theorizing about implications & complications & such. It can get completely ridiculous.

So sometimes it's just so good to go running simply because I can. It's good to just breathe & be (with unshaven legs & little blue running shorts) & not theorize or scrutinize. It's good to do something like run, that is purposeful yet natural, freeing & yet so corporeal -- so good to remember what the body is for, to remember that I am inhabiting a body, that my mind lives somewhere. It brings me to far more awareness, it is far more meditative that any other activity I could think of.

& I love where I live now, very very much -- the air is so thick in the river valley, thick & pendulous in the aspens, thick as the cottony veils. Air like curtains of pollen, air & light. Gravelly footsteps, dust & salt on damp skin gather like silt in the slow green of the river, only the sound of breath & pulse, everything very very close, nested in the calm lungs of trees; trees are lungs transpiring, surrounding you with breath held waiting for rain & night & sleep.

burya buryakiv (a storm of beets)

{i like shadows & poppy teacups}

Yesterday Bryna & I made borshch for her friend Dawn, who had been estranged from beets for quite some time. But now, thanks to this recipe, I am happy to report that Dawn & beets are friends again. My baba would be proud of that, & also of the purple-brown rings of juice still staining my fingertips.

Borshch of the most traditional sort

- 1 large onion, chopped
- a couple cloves of crushed, minced garlic
- ½-1 cup of fresh mushrooms
- some vegetable oil, or butter
- 2-3 cups of beets, diced (if you want to be really fancy, you can grate them, but I like to make very chunky, hearty borshch)
-1 cup of diced carrots
-1 diced potato (or more, if you like it chunky)
-2-3 cups shredded cabbage
-lots of freshly ground black pepper
-some (hungarian-style) paprika
-salt if you like
-8-9 cups of water (can used half vegetable broth too, it really brings out the flavours & you won’t need to add salt)
-lots and lots and lots of fresh chopped dill!

First, sauté your onions and garlic in vegetable oil or butter until the onions are translucent. Add the mushrooms and cook until just tender.

Next, cover the beets with just enough water and cook until barely tender, with the lid on. I like to call this ‘sweating’ the beets! Then add the potatoes and carrots & cook until tender as well & all is full of buttery sweet root-vegetable perfection...

Add a little paprika to taste, along with freshly ground pepper, and salt (if not using broth) and then the cabbage. Add the rest of the water (to your desired consistency) Cook until cabbage is barely tender.

Squeeze in a little bit of lemon juice (not too much, just a little for a bit of tartness) and add all of the chopped dill. Bring to a boil and then simmer until all vegetables are as tender as you wish.

Serve with sour cream (or thick plain yogurt) on top! Add extra dill to taste.


July Borshch

essentially the same ingredients as the above version, but use:

- ½-1 cup long green beans,
- 1 diced sweet apple, and
- ½-1 cup of fresh garden peas (unless this repels you too greatly... apparently it does for some)

and leave out the cabbage and mushrooms.

Add these ingredients when you’d normally add the cabbage, and cook until beans are tender. Use a little less paprika and pepper.

ears & hearts

{shadow on the garage door.}

lilacs, remixed.

first night in the new house;
midnight is rainy grasses & the sounds
of weeping birch-braids tangled,

& the bursting lilac tree –

today my mother & uncle
admired these blossoms, called
them lai-luks, just like those under

mama’s window; and the sound

blooms at the root of their tongues;
those two syllables: lai – luk
& i hear my baba’s left an inheritance

because i can hear her voice again

like a persistent pulsar, i can hear her
voice in the air through
that long ai: lai-luk – lai-la-lai-luk

shaping the earth through sound;

a memory like a seed pod
bursting forth, her voice shapes
the earth, the garden of poppies roses cucumbers

in the loam of my cochlea,

& that sweet cool wrinkled skin of summer,
voice like water ripples in the tin washtub
my cousin & i are shelling peas

plink plink plink

& she says, come take some lai-luks, girls
we watch her strong legs under the flowery gusts
of her skirt, veins of periwinkle blue

warm skin flowing so soft under earth

caked to her hands, hands overflowing
with lilacs in little twig bundles, wrapped
in a washcloth given to me as her voice

waves goodbye & i still smell the lilacs,
still hear the lilacs in her voice sounding
into the years of mud & loam &

the dusty brown ghosts of lilacs resonate

& regenerate in the voice of my uncle, my mother
myself we are flowers, we are the roots
that dig down, absorb the sound &

grow from that earth, she is

the earth now, her hands are full of lilacs,
her hands moved her heart, pushed her voice
sounding like the soft remnant of a star

in the middle of thousand purple ears of lilacs

her voice whispers through the earth
now a live little pulse moving through
everything & the seeds of sound scattered

in my voice & i hear i say lai-luks in my hands
my voice my (h)ear(t) --

how to pronounce 'lilac'

{our lilac tree}

I have been thinking of my grandma especially much lately, living in this new house of lilacs & rhubarb & sparrows everywhere. The following is a poem-embryo thing that is not finished at all -- rather, this is the way it emerged out of my head & into my writing book, & hasn't been shaped or smoothed.

When we were moving in, everyone commented on our lilac tree in the backyard, as it was in its prime that weekend... It was lovely at night to press your nose up to the windowscreen & inhale until inebriated by the scent. Everyone would comment on it & I began to notice they all pronounced 'lilac' slightly differently. There was a whole spectrum of vowels; 'lai-leks' & 'lai-laks' & 'lai-liks' (In the song 'Lilac Wine', Nina Simone says 'lai-loks'!) but I noticed that my mother & my uncle pronounced it 'lai-luks' & everytime they said it I could hear my baba's voice, so clearly, echoing & echoing with such presence. & so I had a messy sort of memory come to me like this:

* * *

living in the house now that i am sure
she helped me find
night air of rainy grasses & honeysuckle
& bursting lilac tree
how she used to say ‘lilac’ as lai-luk
& how her son, he daughter still say it like that
beautiful aural inheritance at the root
of their tongues & how i can hear her voice still
her voice like a persistent pulsar
how the sounds shape the night air
that long ai lai-luk
how the sound shapes the earth
like her hands working loam in the garden
the poppies roses & cucumbers of summer
their sweet cool wrinkled skin like my cousin
& i sitting in the tin washtub, pea-pods plinking
against metal in cool water
remembers watching her strong legs moving under
the gusts of her skirt
the periwinkle veins blue & lacy intricacies
under her warm skin flowing so strong she moves
the earth with her hands caked on her golden ring
how she goes still shaping with her voice,
lilacs in bundles twigs wrapped in a washcloth given to me
in the front seat of the car her voice waving goodbye
sounding into the echoes of mud and loam the flowers
violet the roots absorbing the sound & growing from it
that earth she is in that earth now her hands moved
in her heart through the earth now, live little echo moving
through everything she makes growth
& i carry the seeds of sound in my voice & in my hands &
i say lai-luks as the sound shapes my hands my voice my heart