Category Archives: Consciousness

Consider That I Am Mistaken

I’m sure there is someone I almost remember Who may have once told me they’d never forget The blue of my eyes in mid-winter sunlight When the geese were long gone and the gulls alone Might be heard over the … Continue reading

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Snow In A Field At Night

I passed a painter all alone Walking in the night, her eyes filled With rods measuring remembered Skies and their uncertain hues Against wide wavefronts of blue Twisting particles and pieces torn From dying stars and galaxies Into figures like … Continue reading

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As It Ever Was

As children and as teenagers It was brother Robert could take Everything apart. Was also The one able to put it all Back together. Or, if needed, Make something new and workable From the pieces. Head bent, molars Grinding slow, you … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Autobiographical, Cliches, Consciousness, Cryptomnesia, Epistemology, John MacKenzie, John MacKenzie Poetry, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, South Shore, The Brain, Time, Tropes | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

While the Wind Tangles Your Hair

I want to sit with you in the shade While the wind tangles your hair Listening to you talk of things that exist Listening to you talk about the spectrum The spectrum on which things are portrayed The arbitrary nature … Continue reading

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Why

Because this and that sperm and egg happened to be reasonably compatible, and the gestation period passed without major complications, and our conditions at birth allowed each of us to continue breathing. Because of random mishaps avoided or not through … Continue reading

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Old Men In Love

Old men in love, awakening stiff In their joints and contemplating the hard Task of getting up into the day, Dream of past mornings. They remember cocked Hips and bent knees, and the pressing Engagements that rose reliably as green … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Consciousness, Harbour, Hillsborough River, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Social Commentary, Sonnet, Spring, Summer, Tide, Time | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

After a Hurricane

The tide green and full in the harbour, the contrary remaining winds stipple the taut swell like skin after a shiver. More rain and lightning in the forecast; the clouds still thick and dark in the west with a chance … Continue reading

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Eidolons, Baby (recent poems, November 2012)

Eidolons, baby,* that’s all we are and all we make; we, our own ghosts, are the blurred after-images the pencil traces, what the waiting shapes. *This one came from a brief conversation with Andrew Griffin about the Walt Whitman poem.

Posted in Andrew Griffin, Art, Art is lies, Art is theft, Consciousness, John MacKenzie, Memory, Poetry, Recent poems, Walt Whitman | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Dead of Winter (a pantoum resurrection pantomime)

In the oaks where the brown leaves loiter as impetuous March approaches singing empty promises of spring, the blackbirds accrete in dark clusters. As impetuous March approaches, strung with palm fronds, smeared with ashes, the blackbirds accrete in dark clusters … Continue reading

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Muffled In Late December Snow

Hello again, Death. You came this year muffled in late December snow, strung yourself with pale blue lights, and waited in yards and trees, watching. We knew you were near. And we tried to prepare, to insulate. But you are … Continue reading

Posted in Biology, Chemistry, Consciousness, Death, Epistemology, Evolution, John MacKenzie, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Science, Sonnet, The Wind, Winter | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Boy, with Skates

His scarf glittering with ice condensed out of breath trailing thin, gray wool past his shoulder in the wind, he sits watching the pond freeze

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In Search of Scraps (a proposed painting for the Legislative Assembly of Prince Edward Island)

I’m not here to paint sunsets, sand dunes, or grinning, freckled redheads for posters, but I’ll show you the fox limping on asphalt in its trot between bin after bin of waste in search of scraps to regurgitate to its … Continue reading

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The Old Moments (that clutter the night)

The pines are black in the dim evening; between them and the house he’s created a host of snow angels to carry away the old moments that clutter the yard. He handled them too often, those moments. Even touched with … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Consciousness, John MacKenzie, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, The Brain, The Moon, Time, Winter | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Spray Light Now Across Black

Much the way I watch stars spray light now across black, in long arcs bent by gravity’s lens, as a child I watched sparks from welding rods each time the welder dipped his grey, long dark-eyed head to run his … Continue reading

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Yesterday’s Poem (notes on process)

I’ll get to yesterday’s poem, as promised, eventually. But first, some generalities. For me, these days, writing poems is a cold-blooded endeavour. I don’t wait for or depend upon a burn of emotion, a flash of insight, a moment of … Continue reading

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Built of Bone (poems from old notebooks, November 2002)

Midnight takes a turn. Moonlight so white it might be Built of bone. Nothing moves But dreams also (of screaming). Consider: He is considering The house and its place in time, Its duration in space, its editions And additions. He … Continue reading

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Everyday Math

The ring-billed gulls descending over the low tide slant of shingle toward dark mudflats are a litter of dirty-white scrap paper scrawled with derivatives measuring the changes of functions in differential equations. Across the harbour the calculus continues; considers a … Continue reading

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Quick in the Night

We all watch the moon swelling and shrinking monthly, rising and falling like our chests—quick in the night with a flutter of secrets

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Consciousness, John MacKenzie, Language, Micropoetry, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Social Commentary, Tanka, The Moon | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Winter Wings of Gulls—a Sestina in Progress: Day 6, Stanzas 1-7

And that’s that. Fought the sestina to a draw, all 7 stanzas done. Looking at it, I think I may see a way to make it a better poem by rearranging the order of some stanzas. Be perfectly happy to … Continue reading

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The Winter Wings of Gulls—a Sestina in Progress: Day 2, Stanzas 1-2

Previous version of the first stanza here. Lines keep being revised as I go. The title will probably end up changing too. The Winter Wings of Gulls When their wings of winter begin to drift, pile up, turn the sky … Continue reading

Posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Consciousness, Creativity, Epistemology, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, Language, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Process, Serial, The Brain, The Sea, The Wind, Time, Winter | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment