Rebecca is a… hell, I hate writing in the third person. (You mean I don’t have to? Then I won’t.)
I’ve been doing this poetry thing for a long time. Sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes private, sometimes public, but poems always happen regardless. I’ve read them at Raving Poets, at The Roar, at The Stroll of Poets, at events for the Edmonton Small Press Association, at the Edmonton Fringe’s Youth Under Pressure tent, at various open mics over the years, and even on street corners. Most recently, my poems have been published in the magazines Blood Ink, Notebook, and Black Heart, and on the internet at Daily Haiku and Dark Party Review.
What I really want is to tell you about the magpie.
The magpie is a thief, a scold, a scatterbrain, and a nuisance. She doesn’t make any pretensions about any of these things. After all, magpies aren’t good or bad, they’re just magpies. The magpie has a low tolerance for being bored, and she’s the most stubborn creature you could ever hope to meet. The magpie picks up anything and everything that catches her attention, jumbles them together. But she doesn’t hoard, doesn’t like to keep everything for herself. She wants to show off her favourite treasures, and the connections between them.
So poems happen. The magpie mind is always snatching at music and memory, current events and comic books and last night’s curry, people on the bus, people from history, books, art, landscape, fashion, folklore, overheard conversations, conversations with friends, with antagonists… it only has to glimmer for a moment. Everything is fair game. Everything is subject to revision and reinterpretation, subversion and sublimation. The magpie is creating mischief, and she’s also deadly serious. The magpie can’t help contradicting herself. The collection of treasures is constantly changing, and in flight, she has always flashed alternating light and dark. Magpies can’t help being magpies. Cortex is a wonderful encouragement for the magpie mind.