Emily Zarevich has returned to Burlington’s Got Talent with another set of poems on reflection, life, and writing. She also offers some insight on why poetry and creation is so meaningful, particularly in this time where artificial intelligence is becoming ever more present.
Emily’s note: “The rise of AI is daunting. It has never been more vital for people to continue writing poetry. We’re at risk of losing the universal satisfaction of creating something to easy, minimal effort convenience. That’s why I still occasionally write a poem, to remind myself that I am a human being and that a robot cannot replicate a human being’s connection to their emotions or their perceptions of art, nature, or worldly events. It’s not profitable, but it makes me feel like a person. Keep writing poetry, even if it doesn’t turn out perfect the first time. And share your poetry with others, to remind people that the creative process is still a means of communication.”
We encourage you to not only engage with the following poems, but to open the door to creativity in your own life. Pick up a pen, a paintbrush, a crochet hook, or repurpose forgotten items and create. Simply immerse yourself in the freedom of the arts, expression, and creation.
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Kindergarten Clock
Kindergarten clock, red like a thumb tack,
your numbers are barely comprehended.
On the gallery wall you astound
with your vague, halted time
somewhere between eight and nine.
The adult child who painted you
probably wanted to smash Picasso’s plates.
It’s a juvenile competition
between those already in their next phase
and those proudly paddling back.
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House Poor
We will never be poor
though our stomach threaten
to growl in complaint
as the cold seeps through the window cracks.
A circus act. The fraud that we are.
Uncomfortable self-punishment
like the wind that slaps the backs of those
willingly dispossessed.
We live in a home even the ghosts don’t want to haunt,
paid for by complacent shame
and built to wink back at the stars.
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Stairs With the Frozen Steps in Winter
Stairs with the frozen steps in winter.
Bridge between the hollow woods
and the neighbourhood park beyond
where the ticks dwell
in the sweltering summer.
Whatever the season,
the forest has ways of keeping you away.
The defiant hiker dons sturdy boots.
Stretches. Sinks their dirty soles in mud,
slush, puddles. Anything damp.
Spring and autumn are less feisty hosts
when the visitors need to climb those steps
to where the breeze courts the swings
and they’re free to dance.
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Their Night Starts at Union Station
A homeless man limps
from seat to seat
offering everyone a sip
from his McDonald’s cup.
They all shake their heads no.
They’ll buy their own later at the show.
Their night starts at Union Station.
A couple kisses, for minutes,
their wet mouths fused.
tongues lost somewhere
in tunnel darkness.
It might be their rendezvous,
the one day they can meet.
A long-delayed kiss, bittersweet.
Their night starts at Union Station.
A pair of friends discuss cancer
next to the magazine stand.
Celebrity faces bear witness to
a grown daughter’s fearful tears.
There will be no cocktails.
It’s not that kind of night.
Her 1:30 a.m. companion will be the clock light.
Her night starts at Union Station.
A cat, drugged and drowsy
awakens pressed to his owner’s chest.
Every sound but the beating of her human heart
belongs to someone or something strange.
The silence of their Toronto apartment
is only two subway rides away.
Their journey’s almost over; it’s been a long day.
Everyone’s night starts at Union Station.
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The Urge to Write
The urge to write starts
as an itch in the eyes.
You’ve seen many things
in your half a lifetime.
Stories spit up,
like hot grease in the pan.
You saw the way the fox ran
away from the fireworks.
You’ve seen people sleeping rough.
You’ve seen the dramatic curve
of an elder woman’s dowager hump
and wondered
how much your own will hurt.
Your own spine is starting to twist,
less adaptable it is
to a writer’s life.
Nevertheless, you sit
and square off with a blank page.
You’ll assign that woman a world, a stage.
You’ll whiteboard her some strife.
Or give her grandchildren,
many grandchildren,
though they might mock
the way she walks
in her old age.
Yet, still, you write.
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The Winter Cold
The winter cold wants to sink its teeth in my cheeks.
The winter cold wants to lick my skin while I sleep.
I am wrestling with an animal, untamed and uncaged.
Even the bears hide away from the frost’s bitter rage.
My fingers swell red and threaten to burst.
They curl like smoke under the five-month-long curse.
I console myself with my books by a fire
while outside, creatures hide, and the cruel winds conspire.
“Can we,” say they, “Take the warmth from her skin?”
“Can we break her like ice before the next spring begins?”
They do not know that the heat of my blood
will always sustain me until the first snowdrops bud.
I have endured winter before; I feel no fear.
It’s the same winter my ancestors fought year after year.
I too will be strong enough to shovel away winter’s mess.
I too will be strong enough to carry my distress.
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If this beautiful collection of poems has inspired you, we invite you to share your own work with us. Whether it’s poetry, sculpting, singing, photography or any other form of art or talent, we would love to help you share your work and spread the joy of creation. Please send an email to talent.localnews@gmail.com, if you’re interested in being a part of this column. We welcome local works of all styles, regardless of age or experience.
