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gratitude songs

by Jill Battson

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1.
The Stone House for Susi Reinink House whose walls are cut from the crust of the earth pre-Cambrian reliquary for farmers resurrected from tatters of neglect you were built on the quiet land before cars made distances nothing your stones worn soft by prevailing winds darkened to ochre and charcoal by rain catching a glimpse of your welcoming lights when walking the fields on drizzle-darkened autumn evenings or your grey-yellow stones through summer’s heavy trees means the house forms its word around a meaning of home blissful centering that promises belonging house that will soothe city-tense psyche shield me from the larger world here is a softness that protects small light and quietness in winter cool breezes and subtle scents in summer house, you are rock risen and hewn older than time shaped in the cradle of your history I have found my home.
2.
The Language of Love for Mike and Sergey Language rolls off my tongue like a port city’s ancient grand hotel or bronzed roses in a rolled-sleeve snowscape naked as a painter’s muse, a rush of purple flesh tones and black my memories target the small points of affection framed in a constant shifting landscape across America as you shape my history a wind blown gorge edge wears a leather wedding kilt fetish dark corners and the crisp cold of a soon-coming Canada is sharp and poignant as a summer-hot sidewalk kiss or wind across the salt drenched plain burning my feet electric and you finding the prize in an unexpected easter egg hunt of love, campus coloured when rain-slick black pavements reflect the cast of pale skin I am struck by a loss and gain in equal measure a trepidation soothed by beautiful manners and kind gestures spray of baby’s breath and roses, red and blood red green open candidness a balm on turbulent tongue, emotional disquiet my feet rolling pebbles over a clacking grey beach, green water heaviness of head caves my chest, a trust, a love, thoughts direct to my heart and together union cast from the unknown, a cultural diversity of learning sweet conclusion of skin that belongs in the hands of the beloved to press shoulders against challenge, to love beyond difference silver emulsive second when an apex soothes a static flash and two men held in my soul, the united force of love and respect together: this means everything in the language of the world
3.
Lessons from Frank for Frank Morgan When Frank said put something of you in the place he plunged me into a rest-of-the day funk I could never be the jazz-loosened loose bone thing he is the improv that jazz is all about a conversation that moves across the stage lightning moments between the instruments as the response is rethought the voice that jazz speaks tell me in that voice When Frank plays his horn it’s like yesterday never happened or tomorrow doesn’t need thinking about the music is just there, his breath following the voice his fingers squeezing the notes melody he sees on his darkened retina like nothing written and everything felt when Frank says Always leave room to do what’s in your heart I feel squeezed like an exhalation of breath like I cannot do what he does even with my words When Frank plays live I am hearing the breathy intake of air beneath music the tack of saliva between tongue and reed a cushioned tap of brass keys his life’s history in the metallic edge of methadone I am hearing a life lived, a man learning I am hearing Bird and Miles and Louis in countless hotel rooms and back alleys, the weed urine aroma when Frank says I’m no good at taking care of myself I remember Thelonius with his wife packing a cardboard suitcase and Frank’s toffee skin, the reed leaning bottom teeth I know it’s too late for me to live that life When Frank’s music envelopes me in 7am rising light, the Chamisa blooming in my breathing I am driving up through mountains, along the high road past Chimayo carried away with the salty extravagance of sound the smooth quality of knowing one’s heart remembrance of love lost and regained a floating cushion of familiarity and Frank’s notes breathing across a landscape serene the modulated security of distance when Frank says All I want to do is rehearse my craft I understand the need for selfishness the quality of genius.
4.
Always the Scent of Gardenias at the Laurentian Room with Darryl In ten seconds the weight in your grasp fricassees to an urgency through the delicacy of politeness twin lozenge of soft caved burgundy a dropped ceiling that crushes sound, crushes heat down into the crowd spritz of sweat sheens my top lip as red tones wash everything the cinnamon bartender looking like Hemingway’s Cuba the pale cocktail into a climaxed gold glow the thin fabric of your too-tight tee shirt pulling erect nipple flat lilac the pink prints your fingers erupt into my flesh as I am microcosm’d into a frenzy of desire for the way your shirt pulls its fan of fabric across your armpit, chest the room stops still as I watch the muscles of your cheek pull your mouth into a smile ‘Laurentian’ has always evoked a sadness of evergreen in me snow-bent winter limbs over glossy winding mountain roads a singular car journey laced with open-eyed loneliness not the promise of this heat-stunned sickness flooding my mouth slick as saliva, viscous as desire as your fingers ache me, your knee forces its bone into my groin martini glasses glint orange over the cherry wood bar clatter of ice soundtracks the colour of your eye I lean into you, catch the smell of soap, tinge of your body, the rum warming your mouth and the slight fragrance of heavy gardenia blooms
5.
Garden Love Poem In the garden my heart relaxes its beat in the chlorophyll idyll haze of verdant tones, yellow to blue the earth, dark after summer rains, is a pure sifted canvas a dark warm incubator for sturdy points of onions wet sparkle of young leaves here is where I breathe satisfaction hard work a tangible reward I pluck invaders my hands are a fine line map of soil and juice I kneel at the edge of rows surrounded and comforted by plants who hide their bounty under leaves and beneath soil or flaunt it in the heat of the sun I thrill when a single green trail shifts earth straight rows of variant heights luxuriant vegetation overflow morning reflection is a walk through dew and I exhale green.
6.
Love Poems for Singers 3. Calvin In the house of the voice a rumble consistent with the vibrato of sex shift echo soft tissue rugged space of breath expansion chest scarlet musculature these delicate wrist bones fingers run favours across cerebral pages of curiosity In the house of the voice backs turn inward gentle lingering of flesh impossibilities ring ears coffee cascade voice demands attention hazel rush sand tears twinkle shifting chimeratic mood cacophony of contrition as gesture breaks a heaven of possibility lets sunlight flood roof of the house.
7.
Channeling Thelonious for David Virelles Genetically inherited coffee tones the twenty seven bones in the span of a hand channel Monk from the keys Rise up, Monk! Rise up pull those tunes out of this boy his head turned to the side listening to the hollow of the grand as it charismas its notes into the world cork, ivory, tap of felt his fingers a blurred vision of strength or soft melancholy reticence as if really hearing the tune for the first time, in wonder … And should it be played this way, Monk? or this …? discordant notes dragging behind just a little longer than you’d expect caught in this moment where music – felt by the body, driven by the body – moves into fingers as they make their way with the weight of melody into the keys singing with unconscious expression unearthly, emotive six feet four inches of Monk rises up ebony ghost fingers touching this young soul playing the tune from the next world or in the turbulent world of himself eccentricity of two hand spans translates Monk’s energy into music channels language with finesse
8.
My Boys 00:57
My Boys My boys ride with me in the truck I am girl squashed between love a grey muzzle next to my neck peripheral green eye a black shoulder against mine, leaning they watch cows and horses trying to imagine them as bigger dogs follow the raven’s flight across fields scan mountainsides for clues and guard the truck even though the street dog is oblivious of their presence My boys stretch out in the back or curl tiny on the passenger seat their nose juice forming patterns over windows.
9.
Snapshot 01:41
Snapshot for bill bissett there is a smack of palm on dried gourd skin as the spray-rain rattle fills the air his rich-toned voice clear a blue remembrance of Pyramid Lake hot spring peyote warrior and a damp hug on a humid city day when impossibilities overwhelm … box of rolled canvas splashed acrylic red yellow winds, a single eye the airport looms transcanada living and sliced oranges on a china plate sweet citrus, his gentle spirit enigmatic history a felt hat away black and white west coast photo in still frame, movie clip, a brain catalogue and where poems layer the atmosphere like songs, like chants, like incantations a body politic, the night dance fresh spindrift of life and salt words curled from his tongue forming a column of energy, a splash of stars and his spirit, unfettered in the emulsion of the living …
10.
Lightning, As Seen from New Mexico for Jacquie Jacobs That night, the cloying Prussian sky – sheet of damask hung from the heavens – we stopped the car, stood along the roadside and watched the Colorado horizon erupt and spark into a white hot electricity that stung the eye tearing, relentless pursuit of oxygen and not a sign of rain, or hint of thunder just the lemon lightning ripping zigzag spaces in the sky as easy as persuading rotten fabric to rip hint of gas-blue static-ing the turned-on, tuned-in radio positive ion smell sparking our nostrils sheets of undulating light sliced by forks and horns, the summer staff later, on the covered adobe porch we breathe iron our lightsome faces spark over glasses of burgundy we sit mindful of rolling thunder lolling north and the full body splash of surprised rain, gutters falling flood-like.
11.
Calendar of Remembered Things for Joy McIntosh Signature sweep of draped wool shawl New Mexico autumnal shades golden aspen and sienna earth your ready, wide-toothed smile, undefended against strangers rustic blush, shock of yellow you walk over wood floors, through the kitchen and are gone warm adobe, jazz, a lighted kiva your suede cowboy hat for nachos in the living room of Taos kitschy east coast Christmas village set up along your hallway shelf you knew the origins of Rumer orange pueblo on Christmas eve and the scarf you gave me that I always wear you walk away down the outside stairs, disappear behind concrete wall all the times we spent driving through the mountains magnificent silence of low rain clouds winter slush on windscreen, not quite spring rain open chasm of the Gorge, surprising and Mesozoic pumice slash of earth’s plates and you now sprinkled there a smear of sage between fingers you drive away from cinema parking lot, my gallery, the Bean your blue Subaru, six sisters of heaven an emerald lake of angel fire your throaty voice, rough with tobacco ordering buffalo mozzarella on Café Renato’s terrace or goat cheese pizza in Peñasco with trapeze artists we shop for precious dipping oil in Santa Fe watch Wynton Marsalis blow trumpet over red plush and concrete clean to Los Alamos you walk away across the stone patio into the cool, scented house quiet ping of toasting glasses over white linen a SantaCafé lunch starts our favourite Target shopping trips your last birthday dinner at the Stakeout we were summer warm, sated with filet mignon back-dropped against the blazing sky and Taos Mountain gloaming purple in the setting sun you wave goodbye to me, a last hug on sun-burnt lawns and you are gone.
12.
Homage to the Lizard for Stephen Bull O lizard, guardian of the quiet house, I have seen you peek from the high shelf above the sink while I washed dishes you are unblinking and still until I fetched a broom to poke you I have seen you scurry along the flagstone and disappear through the smallest crack you have thwarted curious dogs and their dangerous inquiring paws caused me to shriek when I discovered you inside saucepans I have seen you motionless on walls with your suction cup toes you have surprised me with a flicking twist of your scaled tail on the dinner table and o lizard, when I find you this morning upon the living room floor grey and curled, as it fending off foes I am surprised that you are dead.
13.
Away from you When I am away from you it feels like I am wearing my skin inside out I vibrate to capture the echoes from the universe the wind speaks volumes on the nature of existence I hear the pillow talk of Chinese courtesans the enchanted songs of the sirens the muffled hum of satellites the sacred stories of Egyptian gods I track the staccato beat of my own blood and the calm tide of my heart I see colours in a black and white world kaleidoscopic, prismatic, peripheral my fingertips carry the scent of gardenias sage, sweet grass, my own sweat I taste violets and salt on my tongue the sharp, dry, remembered tang of your skin shamanic glistening, the cards read out away from you keeps me coming back.

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released June 17, 2013

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Jill Battson Toronto, Ontario

Jill Battson is an interdisciplinary poet. She has written several plays as well as the libretti for two operas and produced an electro acoustic sound art project. Dark Star Requiem, for which she wrote the libretto, premiered at Toronto’s Luminato Festival in 2010 and was published in book form. Her new collection, The Ecstatic Torture of Gratitude, was recently published by Guernica Editions ... more

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