Moonbeams

I see the streaks of yellow
Light up the darken’d sky
Illuminate the airplanes
Like insects they’re so high

And I hear the crashes

Of bombs and neighbours’ screams
Pinch me though I’m waking
Maybe it is all a dream?

Now | taste the wafting
Of guns and blood and smoke

Business in Amelia Douglas Gallery

melia Douglas
Ast: is currently
featuring the oil

paintings of MicMac artist
Roger Simon.
Unfortunately, these
colourful scenes depicting
various native cultures
represent a confusing mix of
media and Hollywood
sterotypes, symbols and
images taken from turn of
the century portrait
photography and a general
sense of cultural tourism for
sale. This confusing mix
made me wonder what the
artist intended and I asked
Simon if he would be willing
to tell me a bit about his
work, if he could answer a
few questions, clarify a few
things, explain some of the
symbols.

“T prefer to let the paint-
ing speak for itself” he told

me. I asked if he could show
me which painting he liked
the most. “Well I like the
one with the thunderbolt...”
but as we started to cross the
floor for a closer look he was
sidetracked by a friend and I
was left in the wings for the
remainder of the show while
he received a number of
cheques.

“But can't I take it home
tonight?” asked a woman
who had just signed over a
grande. “No, you can take it
home after the exhibition
comes down.” Simon tellls
her. I had the time to
observe that at least two
more people were interested
in the same painting.

“The sunflower is popular
tonight.” says a smiling
Simon looking like the
Cheshire Cat in Alice in
Wonderland. His wife, pass-

ing by with a trolley of ban-
nock, salmon and venison for
guests to sample laughs with
obvious delight, “Everyone
likes sunflowers.”

Watching the parade of
buyers, friends and support-
ers got to be a bit boring
after an hour of waiting so I
flash the Mrs. my best smile
asking if she might be will-
ing to tell me something
about a book on display fea-
turing Simon's work. “It’s
over there,” she shrugged in
the direction of the display,
“go look at it.’

Trying once again fifteen
minutes later I ask if she
would talk to me for a few
minutes about her husband's
art. “No. I want to socialize
now.’ she tells me “Business
later.” as she takes off toward
a gathering of admirers.

Simon has passed me

throughout the show and it
occures to me that perhaps
smoozing with admirers and
selling stuff for money is the
big priority at this show.

I stuffed the questions and
reflections into my bag and
left at 6pm. It was time to go
home and eat my dinner. Art
is different things to differ-
ent people. For some art is a
spiritual exercise, whereas for
others art is a means to an
end: it’s a way of a) making
yourself known to people
and it’s b) a business enter-
prize. It dawned on me that
perhaps his lack of interest
in me ties in with the lack of
genuine reflection in the
work itself. Anyway, I suggest
you all have a look for your-
selves, it’s on the fourth floor
and it’s free so fill yer boots.

 

And think of all the words and shells
And embers that they stoke

When I see the yellows

Across the blacken’d night

ll pretend they’re moonbeams
And everything’s alright

 

 

 

(acer
“Poetry is...”

 

Poetry, Poetry,
Oh! What is poetry?

Express the poet's imaginative senses,

Try to use some complicated feelings.

Reuse different words to show this art of beauty,

You may feel this is a difficult theory.

Image brings you into the words of pictures,

Sensuous poetry could become classical literature.

 

by Stella Chan
David Lam Campus

 

 

Sounds ringing people singing;
That is all that they do;
Work is left up entirely to you.

Every evening you surrender to your comfortable bed;
Hoping that tomorrow will be a better day;
Knowing that it won't be in any way.

As you awaken the following day;

People struggling, bustling, or re-emerging from their beds;
In an attempt to not lose their heads;

Seeing only coffeemakers and toast with their tiny eyes.

This is Christmas;

I realized that morning;

Oh dear Lord what shall I say;
I might as well be mourning.
Jochen Biertumpel

 

As they glimpsed across and as they tilted their heads towards the skies;

 

 

shampoo

ARTHUR CHAN
Davip LAM CAMPUS

When you buy shampoo, do you
smell it before buying it?

Can you tell your girlfriend's
or boyfriend’s shampoo by
smelling it?

The smell of the shampoo
doesn’t matter, only the quality
matters. When I meet people,
they don’t pay much attention to
the smell of my shampoo. They
only care if my hair is clean.
Therefore, I don’t care about the
smell.

I cannot forget what kind of
shampoo she used, however; I
still remember the smell. I
remember one night, I went to

 

Teas FROM
ore) Td

her place to visit her. She had a
shower while I was sitting on her
couch. When she came out, she
was drying her hair with a towel.
She put all of her hair to one
side. Her long hair was wet and
straight. I saw the drops on her
hair and finally understood why
people say a girl’s hair looks like
a waterfall. I was paralyzed
because she was so beautiful. A
perfect picture. She smiled and
sat beside me. Her head rested
on my shoulder. I felt her watery
and fragrant smelling hair, a
moment I will never forget.

I've forgotten how long it has
been since she left. Perhaps I’m
too scared to count how long it’s

 

been. I tried hard to forget her.
One day recently I went out to
shop for shampoo. I picked up a
shampoo bottle and returned
back home. When I was taking a
shower, I opened the bottle of
shampoo and the smell roused
my memory. Her face, her body,
flew before my eyes. | even felt
her head lying on my shoulder. I
hadn't forgotten about her and
realized that the shampoo she
was using on that night was the
same one that I was using.

Her image was still fresh, and
I still remembered every part of
her. However, the feeling of love
for her was gone.

 

The Other Press

November 25 1998 Page 7