thursdays 2 chapbook

poems and prose

ThursdaysWritings from the Carnegie Centre

Elee Kraljii Gardiner John Mikhail Asfour

Edited by

Thursdays 2: Writings from the Carnegie Centrewww.thursdayspoemsandprose.ca

ISBN 970-0-9811835-1-0Otter Press, Vancouver, BCCopyright 2009

Design by Trica Thompson & Kei Baritugo

Printed on 100% recycled paper

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ThursdaysWritings from the Carnegie Centre

Thursdays 2: Writings from the Carnegie Centre 5

AcknowledgementsTo the Coast Salish Peoples, whose spirit imbues the land where we write;Simon Fraser University, The Writers Studio and Betsy Warland; the Historic Joy Kogawa House; Carnegie Community Centre; Hemlock Press and Richard Kouwenhoven; The Brickhouse; Trica Thompson and Kei Baritugo for design and production; Danielle Arsenault, an apprentice whose commitment is inspirational. To the generous anonymous donor. To the writers who turned a third floor classroom in a building at Hastings and Main into a playground.

Introduction“Talking hasn’t worked and writing is all that’s left.” For many of the writers in this second anthology from the Thursdays Writing class at the Carnegie Community Centre in Vancouver, Neil Benson's comment on fighting the development adjacent to his First Nations reserve rings true. For others, such as James McLean, writing and voice are one in the same. McLean’s piece, “Slipping Away,” confronts class struggle in a dialect that twines itself into the storytelling. In her stark coming-of-age poem, Muriel Marjorie moves away from sophisticated line construction to testify about child abuse with compelling directness. Other pieces experiment with form via stream of consciousness, prose poetry and even 12 bar blues constructions. All are evidence of how the contributors have taken control of the text.

What remains constant is the energy of expression. Several authors commented that our time in the classroom, “unleashed a beast in me,” “jumpstarted my creativity,” “made something click after writing on my own for 20 years on the streets.” For some, having their words edited was a surprising experience, despite our caveat that editing suggestions were just that: suggestions, and that the onus of the words rests with the authors. The open-mindedness the writers exhibited, sometimes challenging and accepting changes within remarkably short periods, is testimony to their readiness to reach an audience. These are writers who know their message. It has been a joyful voyage to the page with them. —Elee Kraljii Gardiner & John Mikhail Asfour

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6 Thursdays 2: Writings from the Carnegie Centre

Table of Contents

16

by Muriel Marjorie

Dance Lightly

by Brenda PrinceUnderground Room

by Henry Doyle

Slipping Through

by James McLeanDownturn

by Leith Harris

Two Dogs from Chinada

by Dr. John Z. M.Chen

Grab the Light

by Ann YoungIn My Heart

by Graham Cunningham

A Choice

by Mike Hejazi

Air x 3

by Irit Shimrat

9

1817

1615

1413

1211

10

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Soft Success

by Danielle Arsenault

Stereotyping: A Thorny Crown

by Neil Benson

Random Scenes From Native Land

by Bakir Junaideen

Subject to Change

by Robyn LivingstoneIn Threes

by Trica Thompson

Slip Into Skin

by Elee Kraljii G

ardiner

Dealing With Big Words

by John Asfour

Handmade

by Carmen Joy King

We Don’t Want You Here No More

by Patrick Foley

Panel Problems

by Joan MorelliThe Writer

In Me

by Arthur Weiss

2623

22

21

20

32

30

28

27

2419

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Dance Lightly by Brenda Prince

for the love of innocenceshe remains a child

for a good mealshe uses all four burners

she unplugs the phonefor the love of solitude

and for the love of the pow wowshe dances lightly

for the love of musicshe opens her mind

for a good movieshe lets the phone bill slide

and she waits for the right momentfor a good laugh

she borrows widelyfor the love of her cat

and for the love of loveshe rereads wuthering heights

she rearranges her schedulefor the love of her friends

and for the love of her childrenshe did what she had to do

for the love of her partnershe bares her soul

and for the love of mother earthshe remains an indian


Underground Roomby Henry Doyle

Trying not to disturb sleeping madnessin my little underground welfare room,drinking yesterday away and hiding from today in my typewriter,I look into a black hole of depressionand type out a lost life spent in society’s wasteland.

Hating myself with evidence, and yes, you, also,I head out into the dark rains of January in steel boots to the slave labour pool.I walk into a stale-aired office to put my mark on the worksheet.The place is packed like rotting sardines and an old man sleeping in his workboots has pissed himself.Moving seats as I watch in disbelief while skinny rat-faced drug addicts get all the jobs.

I end up on a construction site making $8 an hourworking beside some kid half my age.He tells me he’s making $22.50 an hour with hated eyes on me.Society has tried to stop me from becoming a loser,not understanding its part of my destiny.It hangs it’s heavy signs on meas I march through rush hour heading for the Downtown Eastsideto pick up a cheque for 52 bucks minus the $12 government fee.

I head now for the bar,sit in a dirty fish bowl smoking roomin the corner behind blue eyes with pen, paperand write down the sleeping madness of poetry.

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16by Muriel Marjorie

At sixteen I thoughtwould I ever get kissed, would I ever get kissed, get kissedby a strange boy my age?

I hide, my hair cascades to my shoulders,peek-a-boo from beneath the veil.Too afraid to wimper.I pretend, preenin my smock top, ragged faded jeansan insert at the kneecausing them to flare.Thick dark glasses.Not an inch of fat.Forever in the same size bra.32AA: developed and stalled at 13.Waiting. For the promise of change.Run-a-way, run-a-way mirage of whoI’ve been. I pretend in a Barbie doll gamewhat normal is. Smoking cigarettes, fanning myneed, my addiction. Smoke screen,hanging out in the back of the school.Easy talk with the cool kids.Admiring their language. Taking notes.Mirroring courage to speak.“Cool,” and “groovy” on my lips.Nothing spacious, nothing to elaborate.

One night I perform in theback alley all my foster father taught me. Clairol shampoo was the prototype,moaning what I learned to dofrom these movies just us two viewed.Mimicking love,for a moment I belonged.


Air x 3 by Irit Shimrat

1. Air and being up in it: Airplanes make no sense to me. How can all that metal, equipment, cargo, canned air and human life get up into the sky as though gravity were a joke, and then zoom away? But: the joy of moving through the air like, yet not at all like, a bird. The orgasmic thrill of taking off. Looking down at clouds and mountains, seas and cities, I can never get over being able to fly through thin air.

2. Air in a sandstorm:Israel. Walking home remembering the pleasures of the day. Sudden wind lifts a desert full of sand and sends it swirling, hissing. Pull kefiya up over head and face. Breathe through it, grateful for air making its way into your lungs as land and sky, seen through the cotton fabric, disappear. Arriving home, then in, and bang! Close the door. Windows shuttered against a storm the opposite of rain. Inside, familiar objects — and air, transparent again.

3. Air on the psych ward:Gasping for it. Wrists and ankles tied to bed, another emergency admission. Nurses chatter. A day like any other. “I’m choking!” I try to tell them. “There’s no air in here - I can’t breathe!” Of course it’s all in my mind, in among cluttered visions the drugs they’ve shot me up with only intensify. Airlessness: metaphor risen up to devour me. No escape. Restraint and locked door read as suffocation. I know I’ll be in hospital pajamas, my brain a medicated pudding, for weeks like centuries. This knowledge sits on my chest, stops my mouth and nostrils, smothers me. How long before fresh air is mine to breathe again?


Slipping Throughby James McLean

A door to which I found no key, there was a veil through which I could not see.Some little talk a while of me and theethere seemed - and then no more of thee and me. —Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam, 32

Could I slip through a door as it closed without touching it? Being a slippery fellow, my response was, “but of course.’’ Which begs another question: once in, how do I get out? During WWII in Glasgow, Scotland, my family of six brothers and sisters had no coal or money. Solution simple: steal some coal. Done during a snow fall. It was throwing the coal over the wall that led to my downfall. The origin of carbon footprints was all. Leading to our door. My solace was “Oh, Mammy, oh Daddy, wish I had not done it!” Being 16 years old at the time, not acquainted with expletives, it was all I could cry. Now then, once the fire got going there was no place for my conscience. At midnight I pondered, weak and weary, will I go to gaol? Being a hunter and gatherer, it’s a simple fact of life, those footprints setting me on an incorrigible path and lifestyle. After graduation from Her Majesty’s Prison Dartmouth Devon, my pals and colleagues named me as “Summa Cum Laddie.” Now age 82, my title of “Summa Cum Laddie,” is replaced with the curious appellation of agent provocateur, lumpen proletariat, a senior man about town, A PERSON OF INTEREST KNOWN TO THE POLICE. Am I a butterfly, just an everyday chameleon? James, a slippery fellow slipping through the door. NIL DESPERANDUM


Downturnby Leith Harris

Bubble of plastic bliss;pumped with glee,balloon flying high in the sky,busy, rich and freepops.

Deflated into deficit abyss;bankruptcy,hoping to get by.Scary.

Those who invested claim to be hit hardest;lies concealed and truths exposed level the landing field.

Could recession lead to greater compassion,cure obesity and heart disease?Could reality inflate equality?


Two Dogs from Chinada by Dr. John Z. M. Chen

I am a white dog from the Eastside of Vancouver I have a stub for a tail and a long shirt

I was neutered and my sister was spayed so we can frolic without producing litters

A Chinese couple says, Your dogs behave so well, they never mount each other, though they do sniff between men’s and women’s legs

I eat Chow-Chow for food from the shelves of Safeway My siblings’ faces decorate the colorful can

I wear clothes in winter, get shampooed daily; my sister wears perfume that turns men’s heads

I eat any meat but my own kind I sleep with my lady I’m never in the pot

I get “Good boy,” “honey” all the way;men envy me after my lady kisses me. I’m put on a leash.

a yellow dogfrom Cantona tail that wagsnot a single piece of clothing

I was never sterilizedI run anyway I like, this and that waymy partners are everywhere,my children are dozens

Foreigners in my countrysay the one-family-one-child policyis killing the nation. I showthem how to make loveand grow to be a billion people

I eat the leftovers and am unable to drink what he drinksNo special meals for me wear nature’s clothes,dive into the river for a bathMy mother, after giving birth to litters,attracts attention from men

I am free to make a mealof all sorts of meat, including my kindI have never slept in a human bedIt’s too clean for me

I’ve been playing in the outhouse. I long to lick his lipsbut I have only baby’s bottoms.I roam.


A Choiceby Mike Hejazi

Tomorrow is the basis of today and yesterday is what we have been through today and the accumulation of what we have acquired of knowledge and experience!

I am here because of yesterday’s journey in life and I don’t know how to make the journey more pleasant than the experience of yesterday. I do not know how I could possibly separate both those concepts.

Yesterday and tomorrow are so much inseparable and I would like to have them both as they affect me in the same way.


Grab the Light by Anne Young

Why is itseparatedby grief and painyou never see your friends again?

Is it contagious?Avoiding her like leprosy -does this seem sad, or outrageous?

Has she fallen off the ends of the earthor into its bowelsspiralling into darknessin the black, black abyss?

Why can’t friends have the courageto have a change of heartand practice kindness?

It has never been her fault.He was mean, abusive, plus secret dealingswas the name of his game.

And all she wantsis equality,a chance to be herself,be “just me.”

She has come a long wayfrom despair,somehow, she has to reach outand grab the light.


In My Heartby Graham Cunningham

Forgive me for telling truth from lies at an early age, but not speaking up till now, for being independent, for speaking out against popular beliefs, for standing up to oppression.

Forgive me for not loving my parents, for testing friendships and losing friends, for not returning unconditional love, for ignoring the contracts of love.

Forgive me for not helping others more, for not considering some worthy of help for having feelings in a world of calculation for loving the sea more than sailors.


Panel Problemsby Joan Morelli

Last night I was a panel member,downtown venue as I remember.Olympics, housing, political talk,a seasoned activist, no reason to balk.Walking out, however, I was alone.Out of the downtown eastside zoneon a deserted business street,an athletic con man I did meet.

I’d gone to help, to lend my voiceand I met the artist without a choice.He threatened me with, “May I carry your bag?”“No, thank you,” I’m not a foolish hag.A potential user with an ordinary look he stepped closer with this hook:“May I have some money?”I moved away, it wasn’t funny.

I suppose I look an easy markbut to such artists aren’t we all in the dark?


The Writer in Meby Arthur Weiss

He needs to put things into words, explain himself to the world. His world is papers and he knows where every sheet is, what is written on it. He has a supply of inkwells and quill pens. Parchment by the baleful. He places each word in order. He writes with passion and flair, and seldom puts the pen down. He stops for a cup of tea and some cookies. He has no idea how knowledge accumulates in his head. He lights another candle and writes. It is a wonder how he scripts his thoughts into a style; Baroque or Roman or Italicized. Throughout the night and into the day, he writes and the housekeeper makes sure there is a good supply of hot liquid for him. Writing flows into his mind as if from the infinite universe. There was a time when he found himself empty of ideas; all drained out. He panics; why are there no letters, no context, no flourish? It’s as dry as a dead stream bed. Not a drop of an idea. He pales; he is despondent. Why has this happened to me? I have always had a flood of ideas and a flow of emotion I can put on paper: dry, dry! Like a well without water. He prays and pleads. Thoughts begin to materialize. His abilities and feelings are uplifted. His thirst is quenched. He is renewed.


Soft Success by Danielle Arsenault

Each morning the girl stepped into her boat aloneand rowed to the middle of her sea.

All day long she sat; her line hung low, the blood in herlilting back and forth with the waves,singing the fishes to her.

Her song was a wing against the open air,the fish willed themselves to itand her baskets steadily filled. But as each day neared its end, the girl rowed herself backto a tenderness that pressed upon hermore than her own. As she busied herself on that familiar shore, the prize in her basketsbegan to spoil. Each night as she slept, her glistening catchswam itself back to sea. There were years worth of days like theseand yet-

she continued to row herself further out to sea each morningpulling for the day she would tasteher own song.


Sterotyping: A Thorny Crownby Neil Benson

Before the European traders arrived on our shores, the Indian art of living life on the land involved fishing, hunting, crop cultivation, food processing, and the harvesting of natural resources. Animals and plants were a spiritual resource and provided food for Amerindians. Early accounts reported Amerindians living only on herbs. Some believed that animals caused disease in humans and that plants provided the cure. The folklore of Native people is known for beliefs entrenched in Traditional Environmental Knowledge (TEK). TEK teaches respect and gratitude for the gifts of nature by blending the spiritual, political and social elements of normal life with the “wisdom of God that is manifested in the works of creations.” The lore of Native people is a social science that informs us of our relationship to all substances and restores integrity. It commands each being in the Universe to sustain personal relationships on a daily basis. “With the coming of the whites’ guns and horses there had been important changes in the Indians’ lifestyle and in their relationship to the gifts of nature. Horses being mobile, were a type of material wealth that could be accumulated by individuals, which eroded the old egalitarian structure of society.” The “Columbian discoveries” effect was the domination of ethically and morally degenerate, anti-social settlers’ perceptions and exploitations of prehistoric customs. Historians noted in their deliberation on the pre-Columbian era the absence of farm animals and have tended to underplay, and even disregard, Amerindian plant expertise, allowing the impression that Amerindians were essentially ignorant hunters and gatherers. The repercussions of this stereotyping have long since been a thorny crown and a source of resentment for Aboriginal people. There is a great need to remedy all the wrongs that have been inflicted on us. Most importantly, increased awareness through education of the need to improve living conditions, health services and communication, as well as the elimination of poverty and disease should be mandatory. If governments and private service assistance are not applied, Natives will always suffer and our situation will not be improved. It’s inspirational for me to use someone else’s words. Like a salmon that comes up the stream to spawn and then goes out to the ocean, I’m using their words.

Sources used: Transcript of The Way of the Indian broadcast on CBC Radio; Aboriginal Resource Use In Canada. Kerry Abel and Jan Frieson, 1991: 12; Bridging Native and Western Science. Convergence, Vol. XXI, Number 2/3, 1988: 55.; Aboriginal Resource Use In Canada. Kerry Abel and Jan Frieson, 1991: 85


Handmade by Carmen Joy King

She traveled to Tunisia to lose herself. Two summers ago, she saw a quote on a magnet in a Calgary gift shop that said, In order to find yourself you’ve got to get lost. At first glance she thought it meant, If you’re talking to me about trying to find yourself, then get lost. The quote washed around her head for the next year until one day when she picked up an Economist in her gynecologist’s office and skimmed an article about Libyan gangs. She stared at the tiny map in the sidebar. Six months later she found herself in Tunisia in a guesthouse located between a synagogue and a mosque.

“Handmade, Madam”, Luc said.

She beds this clever, smooth-skinned boy who took one look at her in his father’s paper shop and knew.

“How old are you?” the boy asks.

“I was born in 1978.”

“Ah, oui,” he says. “So you 27?”

“Yep. 27,” she whispers, peeking out the curtain of a small window behind the bed.

“And you?”

“I was born in the 1988.” He grins, softly batting her earlobe with the tip of his index finger.

“Oh, right, you’re 17 then. Just make sure nobody sees you when you leave, OK?” She gets up from the bed and pulls on her long, white skirt.

“Ne t’inquiètes pas, don’t worry, ma chère. I slip out here like Tigre Snake.” He makes a hissing sound, moving his hand up her bare back and onto her neck.

“Leave however you want to, Teegruh. Just leave this between us.”

She runs her hand across the bumpy surface of the paper.

“Yes, I thinking you like feel something real.”


Random Scenes From Native LandBy Bakir Junaideen

Along the crowded streetshoulders brush, narrow roads, traffic jams,clouds of exhaust spin out from sardine-packed busses.Bajaj full of sari-clad, bejeweled wives,all-white uniformed kidsall take one-way lane.

Even at the Ayurveda hospitallined up early to get a number,a woman murmers her condition,the clerk needs to send her to the right clinic.He bawls, “You can go to room four,fertility doctor will see you.”

Giving high interest–saving counselto the man wearing white sarong,the Customer Service Representative calls the waiting, “Yes, what can I do for you?”“I need talk to you about getting a personal loan,” informs the thin mustache.“Come, sit down.” CSR offers a seat, two opened windowson his desktop, side by side.

The Food City and other so-called supermarketsare making inroads, the village pola, still holds grip in the community life, a range of clatters, some are unmelodiclike someone weeping in a coconutor a frog singing at BMICH hall.Labai labai …lot for 25 rupees, mangos for 10 rupees.Saphire-blue skirt and orange scarf lady on her way back home from a job in the town,gets her fresh coconut for the evening feastwithout having to stand in line.Pathola, karawila, boanchi, and brinjals,fresh from organic farmer’s back yard,available at the pola.


The forgotten art of weaving:old craftsman seems to have a lot of fun, imagines all the pretty young things in their swim suits coming to him on their way to the beach, for sun hats made of young palm fronds;they last only a day. Talking about a good customer base!

At a tiny shop with an oversized sign board,“Bombay Sweets Cafe.”Front of red and white-bricked mosque,young man with a prayer hat,debates what to be indulged, gulab jamun, ras malai or faluda,after Asar, the late afternoon prayers.


Subject to Change by Robyn Livingstone

Streets scream, alley’s louder. Humming, hawing, creepy-crawling, electric buzzes, blasting, shrill, be still, no way, rubber screeches, sheets of water pelt puddles shallow, slick, winds flap, bullets with back-up, slouch an’ slump! Bumper to bumper coughing cars, trucks belch with rubbish crumpled, bent and twisting, too big, get small, shiny rigs, stand tall. Concern, protect, sustain, alright! Bring your tools, got any smokes ‘r papers, or maybe finish yer butt? Loose change, deranged uncontained, unconstrained pipe dreams, in a coma, chemical scream, belch and wreak havoc. Alright, turn the page, rage, break rigs, bend rules. Twist the tape for timed suspension; body heat, blowing steam, lungs constrict with a suffocating breath. Please touch me, and mean it: am I unreal? Watch your backs ‘cause there’s plenty of robbing and stealing goin’ down, and love in the afternoon - I hurt so hard, aches and pains, steady, I dig contact. I’m cooking with boiling blood, collapsed veins, static brain, glitching body parts, congealing and massive mayhemmed memories, like sterno sludge, coagulating until congealed, the body ticks down in a slow beat into the big sleep. Grim threats, gone to earth, no anchor, no more, no deal. No time to think, computer brain, no doubt is on the blink. The bashing of existence is highly overrated. You’ve got the list, so check it off, create bad dreams - ya get the point? Just stay fast and loose, while piles of pathetic people are left on display for my world to see.


In Threesby Trica Thompson

I

A Toe

I have given you one toebut you insist on the whole leg.

II

Ventured

Each tip venturesIts own regionTo lickTo smotherTo buildTo tearTo caressTo speakTo takeand together createthis verse

III

Mended

If I could see my emotional scarsI could massage them.See and touch themlike this chip on the wall.People would see my cuts and bruises,and know how I have beaten me.But also like this chip on the wallthey would see the puttyI used to mend me.And I could see howI have mended me.


We Don’t Want You Here No More by Patrick Foley

What are you doing on our cornerAt Hastings and Main?You say you pushers are selling dope,Yes, it’s really trouble and pain.

You sell your up and downAnd you sell crack and speed,You even sell them little white pillsBut they ain’t what we need.

All you boys on the cornerListen to what we say.

The sun don’t shine down here no moreAnd the moon she hides her face,And them little white stars don’t twinkle‘Cause it’s such a sad disgrace.

You stand there like big shotsAnd pretend you’re in the know,While someone else pulls the stringsAnd collects all the dough.

All you boys on the corner,You listen to what we say.

Well, the Downtown EastsideIs where the poor folks come,The old, the sick, the lost, the hurtAll live in this here slum.

But when folks are desperateThey’re bound to rob and steal,And when they’re on their last leg,You still want to make a deal.


And another thing you boys should knowIs every dog has his day.

What would your dear old mamma sayIf she saw you standing there?“Don’t you tell me that’s my boy.It’s more than my heart can bear.”

You are blocking up our sidewalkYou are blocking up our door,In fact, you are always in the wayAnd we don’t want you here no more.No, no, more.


Slip Into Skinby Elee Kraljii Gardiner

When I am a man I think in verb.I do not hear tone. I retreat to my man cave It is quiet.

I guard the entrance and no one is allowed in. It is not a place, but a space.I think about one thing at a time.If my hands are empty, I may hear you.Maybe not.

When I am a man I get big; my actions enlarge. I haul cargo from the trunk. I sear meat. I steal the last parking spot and claim the empty chair just for my bag.

When I am a man, I take what I want. I pay attention to whomever I want for as long as I want. On the sidewalk, I make men move out of my wayand I do not look down as they pass. They see me as a womanfor the skirt, the legs,and wink at me. They notice me walk away from them,


stare dumbly untilthey jostle back to life,punch each other in the arm.This is man-math: the more they want me, the less I notice.

Women are wary when I am a man.They smell me out,withdraw, turn towards a different light.They gather their babies in arms and continue chatting.I would like to tell them thenthat I am a mother, too,and know how to soothe,that I was only trying it on.Their backs respond eloquently.I feel bareuntil I pull off the trousers, slip back into the skin of a woman.


Dealing with Big Words by John Asfour

I do not like to deal with them,they are cumbersome, too unwieldy.They make me sound pompous, pervertedand so far removed from the mundane. I want

to use what is promptly manageable, what is readily understood.I do not want to flash a dictionary in people’s faceand do not want to think of the originof each word as Latin or Greek.

Simultaneously, I’d like to use wordsout of my experience and close to my reality.Like them to come out cajoled,enticed, unruffled and after I caress them, smooth their hairand give them a fresh look, I’d experience themdisentangled, unravelled, a waterfall and having a compos mentis flow. I want them

to rub shoulders as they come outor stick together as they face their fate.Let immigrants use them with no hesitation and refugeesfeel at home in them. I do not like themetched on grave stones and do notlike to see them stumbling on any sidewalks.And there are the small words with multitudes of meanings:yes, no, maybe, never, we all use themevery single day of our lives. Sparingly? Perhaps.And the words we do not mean at all: forgive me,I’m sorry, I hope and I wish: how they all fill out spacesand hang down from rafters!

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I often wonder how Joyce shavedtheir beards, how he extended philologyinto the text with easeand how Maghut turned them into a mouthfor the voiceless and how the woman next to mespoke them and gave love a new embodiment!

Others may have mastered them and rang their necks, but I plead with them at timesand at times I deplore each word, yet not the imageor the nature of its movement. Let them come down from their high,

they may have the same need for my armsas the need I have for their body passion.Let them spill on the page in any shape and any form, stagger, flutter, jump and disassociate, butlet them fall off my tongue and onto my lapunformed, chaotic, unorganized.As for sorting them out or editing them,I will have to deal with that later.

ManifestoOur Collaborative Determination

For all voices to be heard equally.

To accept difference.

To respect honesty.

To encourage each of us.

To keep the pen moving.

To share, and respect each other’s writing.

To write from the heart.

To speak for those who cannot.

To listen, listen, listen. What does the speaker mean?

To use the pen(cil) as an instrument for good, never as a weapon.

Let us abandon pretense and hypocrisy to be who we really are.

To write in such a way that people from all classes, genders and races can understand, appreciate and communicate.


Meet the AuthorsBrenda PrinceCompassionate, artistic, sensitive, funny, introspective, generous.

Brenda, aka Middle of the Sky Woman, is an Anishinabe from Winnipeg, Manitoba who loves her children, grandchildren, her cat, writing poetry and short stories, and participating in ceremonies.

Henry DoyleA warrior poet on a drunk.

Henry is a writer poet from the Downtown Eastside who works part time as a janitor.

Muriel MarjorieMuriel: point of fire, quenched thirst.

Muriel is a returning member of SSSSSSS. F. U.’s Thursdays class.

Irit Shimrat Irit Shimrat is an escaped lunatic.

A longtime antipsychiatry activist, she was first locked up in the late 1970s. In the ‘80s and ‘90’s, she edited the national magazine Phoenix Rising: The Voice of the Psychiatrized; co-founded and coordinated the Ontario Psychiatric Survivors’ Alliance; presented two programs (Analyzing Psychiatry and By Reason of Insanity) on the CBC “Ideas” radio show; and wrote a book, Call Me Crazy: Stories From the Mad Movement (Vancouver: Press Gang Publishers, 1997). She is madly in love with language, and sometimes likes people as well.

James McLeanBorn in 1927. Shelf life: long–term.

James was born in Scotland and is well travelled, having visited 39 jails on one night stands. At 82 he is anonymous. “What’s in the bottle, Scotty?” “Eternal emptiness, Sergeant.” Case dismissed. Free again.


Leith HarrisMother no more, worry far less

Leith lives and writes in the DTES. The Thursdays writing group is a wonderful sounding board for the genius of our neighbourhood.

Dr. John Z.M. ChenFought for fame, fortune; fell short.

Author of The Influence of Daoism on Asian-Canadian Writers and editor of Reshaping Identity, Memory, and Ideology: Essays on Asian North American Literature, Dr. John Z.M. Chen has published poetry in New Voices and Thursdays. He has also interviewed some twenty Asian Canadian writers and published some interviews.

Mike HejaziHuman with a mission in mind.

I am a layman serving humanity. Most of us have an objective in our lives. My objective is to serve under-developed countries! To achieve that is a long and difficult exercise. I believe it is not an unachievable task. Service is my motto.

Anne YoungPassionate about nature, birdsongs calm me.

Nature’s child: that’s me! My forest is my happy spirit. Surrounded by trees I feel as if I’m in my mother’s womb, safe and tranquil. I’m passionate about the rights of women and violence against women. We don’t want much: only equality, fairness and justice. On a fun note, I love jazz and modern dance classes.

Graham CunninghamWithout socks or underwear seemed normal.

Graham treads gently on earth, plays in water, looks inside for answers.

Joan MorelliToo serious, not playful enough today.

Joan is an activist, writer and actor of the Downtown Eastside. Joan hopes to hear the Pantages Theatre will be used for performing arts.


Arthur WeissOptimistic, visionary, jovial, mutable, awed, inspired.

All who know me just call me Art. I am a disabled senior (elder) who writes material regarding social problems in Vancouver’s inner city. I recently completed a sci-fi novel that I hope to publish.

Danielle Arsenault Time ain’t what is was anymore.

Danielle is a graduate of The Writer’s Studio (2005) and has a Masters degree in Education. She lives on the Sunshine Coast with her family, where she is at work on her second poetry manuscript. She recently co-launched Peeled Onion Press and regularly teaches writing and art-making workshops. When spare moments present themselves, she spends them pulling ivy from her various gardens. Selections of her first manuscript have been published in Emerge and under featured writing at www.TheWritersStudio.ca

Neil BensonOntological chronicler, anthropocentric, iconoclast, polemical, pedagogue.

Neil Benson is a defender of traditional life ways and native philosophy. He is a member of the Glen Voewell band near Hazelton, BC.

Carmen Joy KingRecovering hedonist, (where’s the party?)

Carmen read a Salman Rushdie book once where she learned the Arabic word mohajir means “emigrant” or a person who moves. She likes to see herself as a mohajir looking for the next place to land. This fall that place will be Brazil.

Bakir JunaideenBakir searches aesthetic, unexpected, unexplored things

Bakir is a graphic designer and writer. He is currently working on Theme & Image, a reflective image poetry project. His recent projects include promotional materials for “Intellectual Property, Traditional Knowledge, and Access to Essential Medicines,” a conference hosted by global outreach student associations. He also designed the first edition of the Thursdays chapbook.


Robyn LivingstoneMelodramatic, mystifying, mesmerizing, multifaceted, malcontent.

Somewhat of a writer, poet, full-time actor both on and off stage and screen, raconteur, and bon vivant, mischief maker of merriment and mirth, friend to the misbegotten.

Trica ThompsonTrica’s white noise has found a station.

Trica is curious by nature and has therefore moved in various creative directions. She is currently moving her way through the SFU Writing and Publishing Program. Revealing her literary voice is the most frightening, challenging and satisfying exploration yet.

Patrick FoleyA hopeful messenger of the muses.

Patrick ponders really big questions: why was the world created? How do other couples get along? And which shoe is better to put on first: the right or left?

Elee Kraljii GardinerFeels it through the pen nib.

Elee is a freelance writer and mother who is the 2009 Poetry Adjunct at Simon Fraser University’s Writers Studio. She is the founder of Otter Press and teaches creative writing at the Carnegie Centre.

John Mikhail AsfourLeft Vancouver, wants to come back.

John is the inaugural writer-in-residence for the Historic Joy Kogawa House. He has published four books of poetry in English and two in Arabic and is the editor and translator of the landmark anthology entitled When the Words Burn. He lives in Montreal.

Z

www.thursdayspoemsandprose.ca

Brenda Prince • Henry Doyle • Muriel Marjorie • Irit Shimrat • James McLean Leith Harris • Dr. John Z. M. Chen • Mike Hejazi • Anne Young • Graham Cunningham • Joan Morelli • Arthur Weiss • Danielle Arsenault • Neil Benson Carmen Joy King • Bakir Junaideen • Robyn Livingstone • Trica Thompson Patrick Foley • Elee Kraljii Gardiner • John Mikhail Asfour

This second anthology from the Thursdays creative writing class at the Carnegie Community Centre on Vancouver's Downtown Eastside is packed with compelling voices. The honesty of the work is undeniable. Meander through the pages of poetry, prose and nonfiction, but prepare to be jolted by the immediacy of these writers.

thursdays 2 chapbook

Documents

carnegie centrethursdays

carnegie centrewww

thursdays writing class

writers studio

brickhouse trica thompson

threesby trica thompsonslip

otter press

class struggle