For the summer I’m going back to the series of pieces mythologizing my growing up in Cape Breton.
The Maple Mantras
Juck Jackson
the greatest living Canadian poet
came to our village
as part of his mission
to use his reputation
to close down fission plants
everywhere in the world
he wanted world peace
he dreamed of golden sunsets
unlike the ones we now had
‘of mustard smeared ketchup
suns sinking down in shame’
as he said in one of his poems
in his collection ‘The Maple Mantras’
that had won more prizes
than you could wrap around a strip pole
Booker, Griffin, Governor General
Lambda, Nobel
Juck Jackson
the greatest living Canadian poet
arrived on a rainy day
he refused to step into the rain
lest the chemicals it has absorbed
for the fission plant
sullied his skin
as he wrote
‘the rain is the carrier
of progress’s pernicious poison’
when he appeared to the public
the following day exactly at 12:15
he was wearing
the golden hazmat suit embroidered
with red gulls and beaded maple leaves
his shimmered like an apparition
in the relentless afternoon sun
from one of his pockets
he took an actual maple leaf
he held it over his head
‘this is not a maple leaf’
he declared
‘this is our nation’
I was shaken to my core
the use of image and language
changed how I saw the world
how I saw myself
‘when ever you see
a mottled maple leaf
when ever you see the moose
you will be not be seeing
a leaf or a moose
you will be seeing yourself
these are Gaia mirrors of your soul’
I looked around me
at the crowd filled stadium
these were longer people to me
familiar faces ceased to be memory
they became chains
to hold me here
that kept me from
flying on the wind like a leaf
it was then I decided
it was time to leave my village
to leave the island of isolation
in the dark of a strip club
I cornered Juck Jackson
freed him from his hazmat suit
to thank him for the revelation
of his maple mantras
‘yes fly young man’
he said once he had confirmed
by touch that I was a man
‘you can find a way
but I cannot help you
my funds are limited
I only have a tiny apartment
in the big city
too many people want
what I cannot afford to give
I hope you have purchased
a copy of my Maple Mantras
for an extra $5 I will autograph
it with my blood’
I left him there
feeling his hands
still on my body
his kisses on my lips
knowing they were the taste
of the future
There is no Juck Jackson ‘any resemblance to any person, poet living or dead is not intended or should be inferred’ 🙂 But he does represent an archetype. The name is unreal as well but I wanted something sounded ultra-Canadian yet slightly pretentious – I think Juck does that, it sounds like Jack & joke at the same time.
Growing up in the east coast I don’t think we were ever visited by a great Canadian poet though. If we were they confined themselves to higher academies of learning than high school. We did get visits by Don Gillies – who would choreograph Rotary shows. (https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0319174/) Though when I attended some writer’s workshops at UNB I did get to meet some literary stars, the most notable being Alden Nowlan.
His mission to create change via his reputation is real enough as so many ‘noted’ writer, movie stars, use their fame to bring attention to noble causes. I’m commenting sardonically about the real lack of power poets have regardless of their awards. Awards that rarely result in profit, but maybe the opportunity to teach courses in creativity. The poetry quotes are fiction but reflect a type of Canadian many find worthy of awards. I love his hazmat dash of glamour.
Juck’s visit to the village is chance to sell more of his books while protesting the fission plant. Like my hero my decision to leave was based on freeing myself from my growing isolation in Cape Breton. My example was more of other’s who had left to pursue opportunity, to capitalize on their village success. I’m thinking of a man who won a play festival, went to Toronto & sort of vanished. I did run into him & he was plugging away in the theatre scene & living in a tiny apartment.
Nearly every work of fiction I have read about writers visiting small towns had included their sexual dalliances with locals – cis-hetero conquerers so I had to have Juck get lucky with my hero but I wanted to keep than within the odd naive point of view of my hero. A hero, like me, knowing that kisses were the taste of a future worth pursuing.
Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2018’s capfireslam.org – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet
