Julian Jason Haladyn
7 Kilometers
a petting that literally
pulls the skin back from his eyes
the dog looks like a cartoon
black fur extended
so rough are the hands
my grandfather tells me of
working in the mines
7 kilometers to walk
from the barracks to the mine
and 7 kilometers back
like selling fish for his father
the distance is the same
to bring the fish to all the houses
he had to walk 7 kilometers
dogs roaming the ghetto streets
caught and locked away
treated like a bunch of matter
material to be disposed of
like Jewish people
off the streets of Krakow
my grandfather tells me of
his experiences during the war
working in the black coal mines
skin stained
no one had a name
just the number
his worn skin stained black
he walked
7 kilometers there
and 7 back again
Intaglio Landscape 19 x 68 (given)
loose armatures resting quietly
against several unused copper utensils
engraved with scenes of sexual acts performed in nature
and so we all must prepare for bed
washing up
leaving the final edits for tomorrow
so many lights to turn off
the fire is unusually illuminating this evening
castings made of certain newspaper balls
twigs allowed to rest quietly
against engraving plates of copper
tables hold the hands of two amateur astronomers
Pluto is no longer a planet
birds confidently caught in the orbit of this solar system
like two peepholes drilled in a wooden door
Go to the Front
Grandpa’s pajamas are too big for his body
rolled up around his ankles and sleeves
our walk through the hospital
quiet with little sense of direction
lots of woman in this place
he points out three times as we sit by the front door
I ask him if he wants to live in London
his answer is to a different question
we returned to the fifth floor on the elevator
his room right by the administrative desk
he told me two stories three time
the first time was my fault he says
I used two rocks to help me get up
he had fallen in the backyard some weeks ago
my arms no could lift
he adds in the second two versions
it had rained the day before he had fallen
I was on mine bum and it was wet
as I prepared to leave
he snuck in two more tellings of the story
when I got up and told him I had to leave
he got up and was about to walk me out
am I at home
he says to me when I tell him to stay in his room
no grandpa you are in the hospital
he does not respond right away
I want to go to the front
he tries to walk through the nurses station
you must stay in your room
he insists that it is warm and wants to sit out front
on the porch in the front of his house
you must stay in your room grandpa
Intaglio Landscape 8 x 0.06 (missing swarm)
now
crossing the image border
beyond the black and white and copper
to a life beyond paper
to a life beyond the demarcations of maps
colourful and simplistic
as long as you colour within the lines
newspaper articles with missing letters
invisible sounds that fall off the page
making it difficult to understand
the sporadic nuances of language
etched into the world
from which our experience is pulled
paper from the plate
ink pulled out of crevices
and this is why
the bees argue
Waiting for Friends
There are no moments quite like these
friends coming to visit, they are late
the time seems stuck
I try not to anticipate, but I do
considering the circumstances
the graveyard is closed —
a car pulls up, but it is not our friends
— I must postpone my visit to her grave
our dachshund seems to know
barking at every little noise
he anticipates something, not knowing what
and I look out the window each time
the flowers my mother left
and an empty space, for my grandfather
it is a double plot I am constantly reminded
there it is again
car drives by, dog barks, I look
the event is becoming a ritual
it’s been thirty-seven minutes
her whole family was killed in the war
my grandmother’s that is
she left her village
when she came back they were all dead
certainly they would have called
unless they forgot about the visit
or a terrible accident
they probably just forgot
she lived through the war
and never spoke of her family
in fact never really spoke of the war
the house is remarkably clean
as it always is when people come to visit
Miriam cleans and arranges everything
I try my best to help
I remember when my grandmother was sick
she would not go to the doctor
I went to stay with her in Toronto
we sat quietly together
I am sitting here quietly
trying not to look out the window
the floor has the shine of well polished stone
I skipped several days of classes in high school
but she would not go
we had coffee together everyday
sometimes with sweets
people walk by carrying odd things
a yellow plastic chair for children
two broken wooden flowerboxes
a plastic bag filled with something blue
that reminds me of my grandparents house
filled with so many odd things
I was told that much of it was brought from Poland
and my father insists this is true
a ripped screen for a window
a new red tricycle, which I don’t know why they carry
two large Napoleon statues fully painted
I loved to explore through that house
looking inside the innumerable cupboards
and spaces and crawlspaces
time passing slowly
remembering the odd things in relation to —
well I am not sure, I am just waiting
the cancer spread through her body
by the time she went to the hospital —
I think they are here, wait
it is not them
we prepared way too much food
if our friends do not come
it will be like so many family gatherings
when my grandmother would make enough food for an army
the first time I visited her in the hospital
she looked so sick and small in the bed
it was the first time she was really nice to my mother
Miriam is talking on the phone
I wonder if it is to our friends
it has been well over an hour now
we did not stay much more than an hour
grandma spoke very little
my mother gave her a pair of slippers
I drew a picture of her in bed
four people and a dog walk by
the floor, smooth as polished stone
Miriam is talking to her mother
I could only make out the words “and she called them back”
the second time everyone visited her in the hospital
I stayed home
she died within the week
the call came in the middle of the night
I think I should call them
see if they are still coming
cars continue to catch my interest
that reminds me of when I was in Nice
on a side street, there is a small shop
it had halva in the window
I bought a lot of halva for their visit
Miriam doesn’t like it but it appeals to me
it reminds me of my grandmother
when I mentioned halva to my father
he told me that it was my grandmothers favorite
so much made sense to me at that moment –
wait, I think they are here
Julian Jason Haladyn is a Canadian artist and writer. His poems have appeared in, among others, apt, Ditch, Elimae, Istanbul Literature Review, Identity Theory, Laika Poetry Review, Otoliths, and The Southernmost Review, as well as the collection Nuit Blanche: Poetry for Late Nights (Toronto: Royal Sarcophagus Society Press, 2007). His poetry book 17/13 was published by Blue Medium in 2007 and his chapbook Convulsive Hotel Dreams was published by Trainwreck Press in 2008. In addition, Julian has published collaborative critical articles and reviews with Miriam Jordan in Parachute, Broken Pencil, C Magazine, On Site Review, and a chapter in Stanley Kubrick: Essays on His Films and Legacy (McFarland and Company 2007).
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7 Kilometers
a petting that literally
pulls the skin back from his eyes
the dog looks like a cartoon
black fur extended
so rough are the hands
my grandfather tells me of
working in the mines
7 kilometers to walk
from the barracks to the mine
and 7 kilometers back
like selling fish for his father
the distance is the same
to bring the fish to all the houses
he had to walk 7 kilometers
dogs roaming the ghetto streets
caught and locked away
treated like a bunch of matter
material to be disposed of
like Jewish people
off the streets of Krakow
my grandfather tells me of
his experiences during the war
working in the black coal mines
skin stained
no one had a name
just the number
his worn skin stained black
he walked
7 kilometers there
and 7 back again
Intaglio Landscape 19 x 68 (given)
the grain is lifted like intaglio prints of serene landscapesfor Marcel Duchamp
loose armatures resting quietly
against several unused copper utensils
engraved with scenes of sexual acts performed in nature
and so we all must prepare for bed
washing up
leaving the final edits for tomorrow
so many lights to turn off
the fire is unusually illuminating this evening
castings made of certain newspaper balls
twigs allowed to rest quietly
against engraving plates of copper
tables hold the hands of two amateur astronomers
Pluto is no longer a planet
birds confidently caught in the orbit of this solar system
like two peepholes drilled in a wooden door
Go to the Front
Grandpa’s pajamas are too big for his body
rolled up around his ankles and sleeves
our walk through the hospital
quiet with little sense of direction
lots of woman in this place
he points out three times as we sit by the front door
I ask him if he wants to live in London
his answer is to a different question
we returned to the fifth floor on the elevator
his room right by the administrative desk
he told me two stories three time
the first time was my fault he says
I used two rocks to help me get up
he had fallen in the backyard some weeks ago
my arms no could lift
he adds in the second two versions
it had rained the day before he had fallen
I was on mine bum and it was wet
as I prepared to leave
he snuck in two more tellings of the story
when I got up and told him I had to leave
he got up and was about to walk me out
am I at home
he says to me when I tell him to stay in his room
no grandpa you are in the hospital
he does not respond right away
I want to go to the front
he tries to walk through the nurses station
you must stay in your room
he insists that it is warm and wants to sit out front
on the porch in the front of his house
you must stay in your room grandpa
Intaglio Landscape 8 x 0.06 (missing swarm)
The bees have got so farAfter Sylvia Plath
now
crossing the image border
beyond the black and white and copper
to a life beyond paper
to a life beyond the demarcations of maps
colourful and simplistic
as long as you colour within the lines
newspaper articles with missing letters
invisible sounds that fall off the page
making it difficult to understand
the sporadic nuances of language
etched into the world
from which our experience is pulled
paper from the plate
ink pulled out of crevices
and this is why
the bees argue
Waiting for Friends
There are no moments quite like these
friends coming to visit, they are late
the time seems stuck
I try not to anticipate, but I do
considering the circumstances
the graveyard is closed —
a car pulls up, but it is not our friends
— I must postpone my visit to her grave
our dachshund seems to know
barking at every little noise
he anticipates something, not knowing what
and I look out the window each time
the flowers my mother left
and an empty space, for my grandfather
it is a double plot I am constantly reminded
there it is again
car drives by, dog barks, I look
the event is becoming a ritual
it’s been thirty-seven minutes
her whole family was killed in the war
my grandmother’s that is
she left her village
when she came back they were all dead
certainly they would have called
unless they forgot about the visit
or a terrible accident
they probably just forgot
she lived through the war
and never spoke of her family
in fact never really spoke of the war
the house is remarkably clean
as it always is when people come to visit
Miriam cleans and arranges everything
I try my best to help
I remember when my grandmother was sick
she would not go to the doctor
I went to stay with her in Toronto
we sat quietly together
I am sitting here quietly
trying not to look out the window
the floor has the shine of well polished stone
I skipped several days of classes in high school
but she would not go
we had coffee together everyday
sometimes with sweets
people walk by carrying odd things
a yellow plastic chair for children
two broken wooden flowerboxes
a plastic bag filled with something blue
that reminds me of my grandparents house
filled with so many odd things
I was told that much of it was brought from Poland
and my father insists this is true
a ripped screen for a window
a new red tricycle, which I don’t know why they carry
two large Napoleon statues fully painted
I loved to explore through that house
looking inside the innumerable cupboards
and spaces and crawlspaces
time passing slowly
remembering the odd things in relation to —
well I am not sure, I am just waiting
the cancer spread through her body
by the time she went to the hospital —
I think they are here, wait
it is not them
we prepared way too much food
if our friends do not come
it will be like so many family gatherings
when my grandmother would make enough food for an army
the first time I visited her in the hospital
she looked so sick and small in the bed
it was the first time she was really nice to my mother
Miriam is talking on the phone
I wonder if it is to our friends
it has been well over an hour now
we did not stay much more than an hour
grandma spoke very little
my mother gave her a pair of slippers
I drew a picture of her in bed
four people and a dog walk by
the floor, smooth as polished stone
Miriam is talking to her mother
I could only make out the words “and she called them back”
the second time everyone visited her in the hospital
I stayed home
she died within the week
the call came in the middle of the night
I think I should call them
see if they are still coming
cars continue to catch my interest
that reminds me of when I was in Nice
on a side street, there is a small shop
it had halva in the window
I bought a lot of halva for their visit
Miriam doesn’t like it but it appeals to me
it reminds me of my grandmother
when I mentioned halva to my father
he told me that it was my grandmothers favorite
so much made sense to me at that moment –
wait, I think they are here
Julian Jason Haladyn is a Canadian artist and writer. His poems have appeared in, among others, apt, Ditch, Elimae, Istanbul Literature Review, Identity Theory, Laika Poetry Review, Otoliths, and The Southernmost Review, as well as the collection Nuit Blanche: Poetry for Late Nights (Toronto: Royal Sarcophagus Society Press, 2007). His poetry book 17/13 was published by Blue Medium in 2007 and his chapbook Convulsive Hotel Dreams was published by Trainwreck Press in 2008. In addition, Julian has published collaborative critical articles and reviews with Miriam Jordan in Parachute, Broken Pencil, C Magazine, On Site Review, and a chapter in Stanley Kubrick: Essays on His Films and Legacy (McFarland and Company 2007).
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