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pinholepoetry.bsky.social
@pinholepoetry.bsky.social
a digital poetry journal launched in April '22 We love the upside-down view and the fact that some art can only happen in the dark. pinholepoetry.ca
198 followers170 following118 posts
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Reposted by
RMrobmclennan.bsky.social

OTTAWA BOOK LAUNCH: rob mclennan’s On Beauty: stories (University of Alberta Press) , with further to come, presuming i can get myself organized : Kingston? Calgary? Corner Brook? robmclennan.substack.com/p/ottawa-boo...

OTTAWA BOOK LAUNCH: rob mclennan’s On Beauty: stories (University of Alberta Press)
OTTAWA BOOK LAUNCH: rob mclennan’s On Beauty: stories (University of Alberta Press)

, with further to come, presuming i can get myself organized : Kingston? Calgary? Corner Brook?

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pinholepoetry.bsky.social

Brett Warren shares her poem ‘House of Pizza’ today, along with what creative achievement looks like to her, how poems begin, and the in-between space of poetry that invited her in. Thank you for sharing your poem and thoughts with us today Brett! pinholepoetry.ca/an-interview...

ORIGINAL ANTONIO'S PIZZERIA If I could have one wish for my poetry, it would be for it to help people see the poetry of their own lives. It's everywhereeven (especially) in unexpected and ordinary places. Poetry is expansive. It can make US more compassionate and more curious, nudging us away from the human default of "either/or" thinking, closer to a "both/and" sense of what is true in the world. PIZ
BRETT WARREN House of Pizza Forget the tables-the only cool place to sit was at the counter, on a chrome and vinyl stool that spun with some complaint. These days, could you even turn your back on a glass door, forget that nowhere is safe anymore? Could you ignore the darkening outside, pretend it's only weather or the season or day into night? And you haven't eaten cow in decades-how is it you grieve a soggy grinder roll, three meatballs full of hidden gristle and fennel seeds, slabs of white cheese melting like diamonds
of white cheese melting like diamonds on a jester's robe, and all of it laid out like the corpse it was on thin tinfoil and a flimsy paper plate? Yet given half a chance, you'd go. Not to eat, but to absorb the world the way it was, drink in the dreary beauty you didn't know how to drink back then. You'd slog across the railroad tracks, along the grimy sidewalk, past windows steamed by oven heat. Push open the jangly door and in you'd go, even knowing how it all unfolds, even knowing you no longer love any of what you hungered for.
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Reposted by
VZbookgaga.bsky.social

10/31: PINHOLE POETRY VOLUME ONE SELECTED edited by Erin Bedford (2023 @pinhole.bsky.socialtinyurl.com/bdzf56ax@jenwithwords.bsky.social#TheSealeyChallenge#SealeyChallenge#todayspoem#poetry

Reading the poetry collection/chapbook Pinhole Poetry Volume One Selected while riding the subway, with subway seats and passengers visible in the background
Reading a poem by Julie Roorda from the poetry collection/chapbook Pinhole Poetry Volume One Selected while riding the subway, with subway seats and passengers visible in the background
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pinholepoetry.bsky.social

Nathaniel G. Moore shares thoughts about his poem ‘Star-Vue Mall, 1981,’ as well as some humorous takes on what success as a poet looks like and how he revises work. Thanks for sharing your time and thoughts with us NGM! pinholepoetry.ca/an-interview...

Lately, l've been nostalgic for the late seventies and early eighties (from the 20th century) which was a joyous time for me. I enjoy piling things on top of each other in my writing, regardless of genre garrisons that keep them all separated and malnourished.
The Star-Vue Mall, 1981 traffic flow improved nobody stopped to look at birds probably because the Star-Vue on Airway Drive had 56 adult-themed beer cages, 1,200 car spaces on 20 Canadian acres, plus an underground water maze where you could drop your kids off and go shopping for durable green slacks, washable duvet aprons, gold lamé executive swimwear, cocaine vests, a delightful pair of affable vegan leather-fed sandals and a coffee while trained PhD lifeguards dressed as gruesome sewer clowns chased your offspring, the future young offenders of Anytown, Ontario, in a delightful afternoon of blood-curdling throat-burning cries as loud noises, upsetting merry-go-round music, wild animals all join in on the fun win big prizes! Just try to outfox Mr. Scary why don't you kids! That's the punchline from the trashy commercials they used to run late night to get your kids excited about high octane totally illegal adult-child sports while your caffeinated eyes take in the latest in four-whee
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pinholepoetry.bsky.social

One of them has!

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pinholepoetry.bsky.social

Paula Turcotte shares her poem ‘Desire, at last, a remembered landscape,’ what she has been working on lately, and how being witness to the world is essential to her poetry practice. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us Paula! pinholepoetry.ca/an-interview...

..I don't know that I was in the habit of noticing a lot in my early adulthood. I think it's an essential poetic muscle that needs to be exercised like any other. Look at this flower. Look at that bird. Look at the way that trash can is overflowing. Poetry for me doesn't happen if I'm too wrapped up in my internal world, so I like to practice stepping outside myself in this way.
Desire, at last, a remembered landscape after Charles Wright Houses choked with silt Mothers wiped wedding photos with rubber-gloved thumbs Fathers ripped drywall from basements, spilling across lawns once-green now a sea of brown A fresh twenty-one, purpling with desire, wrung my way out of girlhood at last Handfuls of children darted between soaking mountains of grade-school notebooks moth-eaten granny blankets and jeans worn before geese flocked to higher ground If there's anything from that summer I remember it's my body, suddenly a foreign landscape And me, in maroon rain boots, wading through the life that was my life, knee-deep searching not for what the flood took but for who it left behind
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pinholepoetry.bsky.social

Michael Russell shares his poem ‘he wanted something beautiful’ today, along with some thoughts on artistic success, what he’s inspired by, and some advice he received that changed the way he looks at his own work. Thanks for this thoughtful interview Michael! pinholepoetry.ca/an-interview...

The poetry world as a system is incredibly guarded and gatekept while also feeling like some kind of Hunger Games-esque Casino. Realizing this helped me redefine my expectations of success. Am I being authentic to myself and my voice? Am I writing the things ! Want? Need? Am I refusing to hide? These are the questions I ask when I concern myself with artistic success.
he wanted something beautiful when the therapist asks u to close ur eyes & imagine ur safe place, u don't know why u travel back to the basement. forearms cut against broken laminate, head slung under the desk's guillotine, chopped by mildew & flood water, nose rubbed raw with wet gym socks. maybe-it's the milky halo squashed into the ceiling. maybe. the dead centipede bent like a spine, legs sprawled & radiating. maybe? this branch of mould crawling up the drywall? reaching for a photograph, cherry blossoms! robbed pink, ur face, sliced in basement dark, u remember ur boyfriend wanted something beautiful skin cells congregate in gutters between floorboards sweet as blackberry seeds the dust a field with photos of him & u imagine his fingers sprouting through concrete bird-nested in clay his fingers stretch towards ur rust bucket chest untouched since autumn when leaves fell like mustard & crimson
paint chips o! how many times u rolled wet in the grey unwashed sheet ur lips dried cherry blossoms in every breath he took a seed grains of skin like stars caught in a mason jar mouth the explosion everywhere a poem brown wrapping paper blue ribbon taped in the center the gift of his teeth Sinking into ur lower lip u remember he wanted something beautiful then vanished in morning darkness this branch of mould the withering cherry blossoms
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Reposted by
AEamandaearl.bsky.social

Current and former Ottawa residents, workers and students are invited to submit poems for the September 2024 issue of Bywords.cawww.bywords.ca** then send poems to submissions@bywords.ca. Please share our calls.

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pinholepoetry.bsky.social

Do you think you have a manuscript that might be a Pinhole Poetry chapbook? Then please make your way over to our website to find out how to send us your work! We look forward to reading your manuscript & will respond to every submission by September 20 pinholepoetry.ca/chapbook-contest/

chapbook contest
chapbook contest

Pinhole Poetry runs a chapbook contest every year. The winners of this contest have their work published as part of our fall & spring series

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pinholepoetry.bsky.social

Oisín Breen shares thoughts about his poem ‘Movements in Denim and Corduroy,’ along with his ideas about revision, other art forms that inspire his poetry, and what he’s working on now. Thanks for sharing your time with us Oisín! pinholepoetry.ca/an-interview...

This piece is an approach to describing the physical entry of the protagonist into a bar, and how it unfolds, which is done solely through an atypical approach, from the way they move in their clothes Effectively it's an extremely artsy approach to saying: 'they walked into the bar'. But overall, I do very much enjoy the play of language on show in the work, and I'm a sucker for drilling down into fine detail to find the subtleties and the internal dissonance that allows greater meaning to thrive.
OISÍN BREEN Movements in Denim and Corduroy I could hear the bottom hem and side seams of warp-faced cotton, Its weft spooled first in Nimes, with every step I took, And in its quiet rustling against damp leather cuff and shaft, It became two grains of sand, delicately held by the smallest hands, Pressed together so lightly, their callow music took on a pitch both high And low, an infant squeal, beyond my reach, lost in the memory Of fat fibre, buffed lovingly in waxes, pectin and water air, Till plucked from the boll, and later spooled to denim working wear. I could near hear the disturbance in the atmosphere as the wind curled around The tufted mustard cords of fustian mesh, some sixteen wales an inch, A needlecord pigment dyed, the looped column once bound near Cairo That now fast held against my body, not opening until the neck, That rubbed with every movement against the gabardine twill densely weaved I wore loosely, bound by a belt knotted in a doubled overhand that lightly tappe
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pinholepoetry.bsky.social
@pinholepoetry.bsky.social
a digital poetry journal launched in April '22 We love the upside-down view and the fact that some art can only happen in the dark. pinholepoetry.ca
198 followers170 following118 posts
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