FROM THAT MOMENT*

lock, stock and barrel – along with thousands

of others, we were joined together over the

Seine – such a cheesy sentimental thing to do.

But somehow it felt portentous, important,

eternal – so even though the wind was howling

crazy like home, arctic-wolf colder-than-cold,

and snow was spitting sideways at us, we knelt

down and slid that sucker hasp through two

bars on the bridge, twisted it tight and clicked

it home – used the key to check for safekeeping.

Is it possible to lock love in place – in Paris?

You know it.

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem Wild Grass

  from the book Home of Sudden Service.

AFTER A WHILE*

I get over the shock of being here. Being in Paris, 

being in Rodin's garden outside Rodin's house

– now a museum, and finally, standing beside 

a really large edition of Rodin’s ultra-famous 

The Thinker. It’s so big, it's surreal. I love Rodin

– especially because everything he did is larger

than life and he was never afraid to show 

all the warts and wrinkles on his subjects, so much

so, he took a lot of heat from the public. I wonder 

what Rodin had his Thinker thinking -- his art

was always motivated by deeper layers than what

shows. Or so it’s said.

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem 

Home of Sudden Service from the book of the same name.

LOVELY THOUGHT TO HAVE HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF AN*

excavation in the shadow of an extinct volcano.

Even in late afternoon, I can hear the ancients whispering

as the amateur archaeologists—we’ve nick-named them

crypt-kickers—begin shrouding the site, 

especially the graves, finished for the day.

I sit off to the side near the well,

writing in my notebook. From my vantage point, if

I look one way, I don’t even see the scavi**, only the farm-

land and off in the distance, the gentle hills that were

once volcanoes. And the ancients’ voices are filled with

quietude and peace as the shadows march longer across

the field.

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem Sometimes Boys 

  Go Missing III from the book Home of Sudden Service.

**scavi - slang abbreviation for excavation area in an archaeology dig

YOU CAN’T GET WARM*

A common complaint amongst pelicans that

migrate from the Arctic Circle to Florida and

further south – every single year—then fly on

back again. They didn’t used to fly so far north

but food reserves are disappearing and the great

birds are in danger, their numbers decreasing

alarmingly. Birds are thought to be cold-blooded

(no blooded?) but you can see them shiver if you

watch carefully. It might mean they’re frightened

but it could also mean they’re cold…it could.

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem Petit Mal, 

  Petit Mort from the book Home of Sudden Service.

WHAT TEMPERAMENTAL INSTRUMENTS*

they be, these graceful as champagne flutes, 

drooping down in seemingly benign beauty – especially these—

these butter-yellow bells, their throats painted with a sprinkling 

of pale freckles. Such loveliness can conceal

lethal secrets: foxglove – known for its healing powers

is also renowned for being deadly poisonous. It grows

in an array of colours: purple, pink, white and yellow

but the defining characteristics are those pale freckles

coating their throats. 

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem At Fifteen from

the book Home of Sudden Service

INTO THE PALE FOREST LIGHT*

I slink, padding softly as a moccasin-wearing native

from any of the North American tribes. If I am

hunting, my prey is unlikely to hear my approach but

should the herd mentality alert them, no matter. I am

one of the fastest beings on the planet. I can go from 

0-60 mph in 3 seconds, and run flat out at 75 mph.

My acceleration makes me faster than a Lamborghini, 

a Ferrari, even a McLaren. My flexible spine and unique 

physique make me able to turn on a dime, run like mercury, 

grip most any surface…When I am running my fastest, 

all four paws spend more time in the air than on the ground

 – simultaneously! Stretched out, I can measure twenty-five 

feet. I sleep high in trees for thirteen or fourteen hours most 

nights, and hunt during the day. I am beautiful.

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem Of a Time 

from the book home of Sudden Service.

OUR BODIES’ THRILLED THE MOMENT*

Even fenced within this place, we roam as if we

own the earth. Born to majesty cannot be

shrugged off just because captivity is the

order of the day. One can become acclimated

to anything given enough time. Besides, there

is little to worry about here – food is plentiful,

disease is not—our prides are many and we

live in peace, wrestling for fun but never to the

death. Once I almost killed an elder and my

blood roared as loud as my mouth but the fight

was ended before any real damage took place.

I was left oddly out of sorts.

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem Of A Time

  from the book home of Sudden Service.

POSTCARD FEST 2018 August/September– the reflection

This was my fifth year taking part in August’s Poetry Fest.

It's one of my favourite things to do and has the added bonus of making me look forward to summer. Believe it or not, summer is my least favourite season – maybe because I’m a child of winter, born in February and born in the northern hemisphere, and I’ve always lived in a cold climate. There’s something about being able to layer up if  I'm cold that appeals to me, of having a fire in the fireplace, making me cozy.

But trying to get cool when it’s baking hot out, feeling sticky and close to melting - that holds no allure for me.  Have I always felt like this? I can’t remember. Maybe it’s because I developed a sensitivity to sunlight after I had my kids. 

My doctor jokingly tells me I have “Michael Jackson's disease” – he’s teasing of course –  I thought I was getting age spots, but no - I have vitiligo; the sun was bleaching whole swaths of my skin and that which was left, looked tan or gravy-stained. The pale parts were pretty much the white that Jackson ended up being by the end of his life. (I doubt he had vitiligo, but maybe...)

I protect my skin with a vigilance I didn’t think I had in me.

Well, that was more of a prelude than I had planned…

The photo I'm showing on the Po Po FaceBook page, and here, are the cards I’ve received as of yesterday, September 28, 2018 – they include 26 from Group 3 (3, I’m still trying to identify the senders – see them posted on FB, plus one I rec’d after posting the group shot – that’s yours Colette – love the photo – I’m guessing it’s Venice? And the poem knocked my socks off), plus 6 bonus cards.

I see many people have talked about their process this year and I had intended to do likewise but there’s not a whole lot to say that’s very interesting. I may have mentioned that I like to use lines or phrases from other poets or writers as jumping off points, prompts if you will.

Last year I paid tribute to the great Leonard Cohen as he had just recently died. This year I used Canadian poet Elizabeth Bachinsky’s work and exclusively her poems from the book Home of Sudden Service – nothing that would be recognizable as hers, but hers all the same.

I finally came to the realization this year also, that I enjoy using my own photographs for the postcards more than any others, and tend to write poems I like the best when I do– I’m not saying they’re the best poems, just that I find them enjoyable to write. Keeping that in mind, I will start taking more pictures during the year that I hope to make into postcards.

August’s Poetry Fest is one of my more sociable times. I am a bit of a hermit, or as my husband says, a slightly agoraphobic poet. For some reason, it is often difficult for me to make myself go out of the house and “mingle”. The computer and social media, plus email and online courses have saved me from me in a lot of ways.

So, thanks once again to Paul for doing this every year – it really is rewarding. And especially thanks this year for suggesting the “internationals” get bonus cards. That was very sweet. Not only did I get a bunch, it made me want to send some – I may even send a few more!

And thanks to all the regulars for the cards and for the chit-chat on the FB page – it feels like having a family; a very nice, warm family.

Here’s where the cards I sent are stored – because some were late going out, they will be late showing up here, but they will show up sooner or later; they’re scheduled.

The cards that I sent should be available to view at the link to this site - if you are interested and can't see some, scroll to the bottom and click on either "older posts" or "newer posts" and it should take you to the others.

I remind everyone - I was late with about eight on my list (group 3) this year and they might not show up until mid to late October, plus any bonus cards ... same deal.

Thanks to anyone who takes the time to look, read, and even comment. I appreciate you to the moon and back. SEI

DEPENDING ON WHERE YOU STAND*

A Magpie can appear deadly dull – just black and

white, a little larger than a Robin, with either a black

or yellow beak, spindly legs, thick at the top and sturdy

but splayed bony feet—also, the light – if the day is dull,

the bird will appear likewise. However, should the bird

be seen in sunlight – its black bits will appear phosphorescent

 – almost the way oil on water looks.

They’re really quite handsome, have been referred to

as tuxedoed. Their calls are raucous, hoarse, cawing-like 

and also like crows, jays and ravens, other members 

of the corvid group, they are tricksters. Seen in a flock, 

they’re also referred to as a tiding.

 *From E. Bachinsky’s poem Wild Grass from the book Home of Sudden Service.

TO KNOW THAT BEAUTY COULD CHANGE US*

is the secret found deep in rosebuds; beautiful

from birth, they know innately that they will only

grow more gorgeous as they blossom – whether

milk-white, ruby-ribbon red, or baby blush pink—

their petals will unfurl in patterns perfect and

they will undeniably be breath-taking.

*From E.Bachinsky’s poem FOR THE PAGEANT GIRLS:

MISS MOTEL 6, ET AL from the book Home of Sudden

Service.

THE TRUTH IS*

you can’t believe everything nature guides tell you.

She said these waterfowl are anti-social, that one of

the ways to know you are spotting one was, it will be

solitary. And it was borne out. For the next few weeks,

every time I saw a lone black bird that I thought might

be a cormorant, once I sited through my binocs, sure

enough – the snake-like neck, the sharp beak, the awk-

ward ducklike stance – showed it to be an anhinga.

Croaking hoarsely further identifies this odd fowl that

also swims underwater to spear fish with just its head

out – hence its nickname, snakebird - the anhinga is

weirdly intriguing.

. *From E.Bachinsky’s poem St.Sarah II from the book

Home of Sudden Service.

HERE IS THE PLACE*

they sealed their love, a nondescript building in a city

that was anything but…Oh Venezia, the tales you could

tell – of the Doges, the Medicis, the Borgias—to name

but a few. Home to explorer Marco Polo, weren’t they

surprised to find his place is now an apartment block

with just a plaque to designate it once his? They wanted

to tour all the bridges until they learned there were 409

of them! They hired a small water-taxi and toured the

canals instead, did an informal bridge count themselves

but gave up around 350 when they realized that some

were only accessible by walking. Dusk was colouring

everything a powdery gold by the time they were

dropped near the Rialto for dinner, still so in love.

*From E. Bachinsky’s poem Of a Time from the book Home of Sudden Silence.

A VINYL-SIDED WET DREAM*

that’s what I’ve been described as – imagine – it must

be because of my sleek, slippery, coat; I am rarely dry,

preferring to spend most of my time in the ocean. In case

you mistake me for a seal – don’t – I am the much more

interesting sea-lion. I can bark! Yes, it’s true – as loud

and precise as any dog, but again, more enthrallingly.

Oh – and I love to pose for photos—maybe you guessed

that already from the front of this card…

*From E. Bachinsky’s poem Valley from the book Home of Sudden Service

I WANT THE CHILLED BLUE NIGHTS*

that canopy Virunga, embrace stars

that peek through jungle leaves high

in the mountains where I’m from…

I’ve never been there but my Mama’s

told me about the place so often, I can 

smell the thick foliage and the dusk of

other apes. She’s also told me how lucky  

I am to be here in this zoo where there 

are no poachers and no disease either. 

Still, the longing for home runs deep

in my blood.

*From E. Bachinsky’s poem Night Voices

from the book Home of Sudden Service.

HIS BROW A CONSTANT LINE ACROSS HIS FACE*

makes his deep-set eyes seem that much more recessed. But as 

we regard each other with unwavering gaze, I find I am 

swimming deep within brownish-black orbs, so like human 

eyes, I find it difficult – no impossible—to look away. Neither 

of us blinks for what seems the longest time. Finally, I risk 

bringing two fingers to my forehead – still not looking away—

then touch the same two fingers to my heart. A crowd has 

been watching us but I don’t realize it until I hear the chorus 

of “awwws” when the mighty silverback mimics my actions 

with his own. We continue gazing at each other, communing 

on a level it’s hopeless to try to explain.

*From E.Bachinsky’s poem Outcasts from the book Home Of Sudden Service.

I WANT THEIR LONG COOL LIMBS*

so slim it seems there’d be no way to hold

them up when standing, but even on land,

they carry themselves with a certain stateliness.

It’s nothing compared to the way they soar

in the air. Great Egrets have a buoyancy 

as they fly and are so white, they might

be mistaken for fluffy clouds until they

slowly flap their wondrous wings.

*From E. Bachinsky’s poem Night Voices from

the book Home of Sudden Service.

WHAT WAS ITS NAME AGAIN?*

The bridge that spanned the river after the dam

before the lake? The one that witnessed some

that hung, some that jumped, but mostly just

the water passing slowly beneath, the water

filled with stories and tears wept, the water

from far away and from nearby. The bridge

observed it all.

*From E. Bachinsky’s poem For the Pageant

Girls: Miss Teen Motel 6, ET AL, from the book,

Home of Sudden Service.

QUICK, LIKE AN ANIMAL…*

Like a meerkat? That would be me alright. I’m

from a mob, a gang, a clan, a manner – isn’t that

fascinating? So many collectives for such a wee

mammal. We’re known as one of the most cooperative

groups of mammals in the world because of the way

we’re able to live together, raise our families, look

out for each other; at night we sleep together in one

big pile. We might not be able to always fend off

a poisonous snake like our cousin, the mongoose,

but we can disarm a scorpion and teach our young

to do likewise – and eat it! Yeah, and we’re cute.

*From E.Bachinsky’s poem St.Sarah.1 from the book

Home of Sudden Service.

THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS*

too many of us! It’s Insulting that sign out there

 – right where you enter the park—to see us, and

on the map, there’s a hand-lettered warning…a warning!

It reads, “Here’s your chance to

bypass the monkeys (baboons are unpredictable and

have been known to damage cars) – feel free to take 

the road to the right.” What? Bypass us? We’re the

most entertaining bunch of bananas of all. The rest

of them just laze around, or pick leaves off trees, or

soak in the ponds. Sheesh! We stage pretend fights,

hang upside down from your roof and look right at you,

oh – okay – occasionally we might tamper with a wind-

shield wiper or an antenna or something but really,

we’re very well-behaved. Especially since that incident

with Baboo – never mind, he doesn’t live here anymore.

*From E.Bachinsky’s poem How to Bag Your Small Town Girl 

from the book Home of Sudden Service.

AT SCHOOL WHERE YOU LEARN*

all sorts of things – about people and countries

and animals – did you happen to learn about

White Lions? I know I didn’t, didn’t even know

they existed until I saw them at a Safari Zoo, then

learned they are not an anomaly but are a breed 

unto themselves. Okay, that’s a bit of a stretch, 

but the rare white lions of Timbavati are not albino, 

their colour is due to a recessive gene variant 

called leucistic. Their skin and coat colour vary 

from pure white to tawny blonde, and, unlike 

albino animals, they don’t have pink/red eyes 

or skin – the colour of their eyes runs the gamut 

from hazel-golden, to green, to blue. They’re in 

danger of extinction but are also being protected 

in zoos around the world.

*From E. Bachinsky’s poem For the Teen Moms 

at the Valley Fair Mall (4.and furthermore) 

from the book, Home of Sudden Service.