#CanadianWriters
The bronze clock brought with such care over the sea, which ticked like the fat slow hea… of a cedar, of a grandmother, melted and its hundred years
Confess: it’s my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to d… though Lord knows I don’t go out… I wear dresses of sensible cut
i In view of the fading animals the proliferation of sewers and fe… the sea clogging, the air nearing extinction
The eye is the organ of vision, and the third eye is no exception to that. Open it and it sees, close it and it doesn’t. Most people have a third eye but they don’t trust it. That wasn’...
Those whose houses were burned burned houses. What else ever happ… once you start? While the roofs plunged into the root-filled cellars,
The water turns a long way down over the raw stone… ice crusts around it We walk separately along the hill to the open
In the burned house I am eating b… You understand: there is no house,… yet here I am. The spoon which was melted scrapes… the bowl which was melted also.
This is a word we use to plug holes with. It's the right size fo… blanks in speech, for those red he… shaped vacancies on the page that… like real hearts. Add lace
1. Men’s novels are about men. Women’s novels are about men too but from a different point of view. You can have a men’s novel with no women in it except possibly the landlady or the ho...
Your lungs fill & spread themselve… wings of pink blood, and your bone… empty themselves and become hollow… When you breathe in you’ll lift li… and your heart is light too & huge…
She has been condemned to death by… may escape this death by becoming… woman by marrying the hangman. But… time there is no hangman; thus the… There is only a death, indefinitel…
I do not mean the symbol of love, a candy shape to decorate cakes with, the heart that is supposed to belong or break;
Whether he will go on singing or not, knowing what he knows of the horror of this world: He was not wandering among meadows all this time. He was down there
An other sense tugs at us: we have lost something, some key to these things which must be writings and are locked against us
Evening comes on and the hills thi… red and yellow bleaching out of th… The chill pines grow their shadows… Below them the water stills itself… a sunset shivering in it.