Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Oh, my my, oh, hell yes
Honey, put on that party dress
Buy me a drink, sing me a song
Take me as I come 'cause I can't stay long

There is something to those long, sweaty nights, whether we are moving our bodies against each other or eating through packs and packs of cigarettes, letting our worries and reassurances slide out with the curls of smoke. It takes a night, and a groggy morning to make our collective thoughts come together. Boring people go to bed hours before we do. They never quite see the morning light.

Hannah Daly

I’ll pay the cost for wanting things that can only be found in the darkness on the edge of town

Monday, July 25, 2011

Who Calls?

I am the one who loved her as my life,
I am the one who heard the spirit voice
Of which the paleface settlers love to tell:
From whose strange story they have made their choice
Of naming this fair valley the "Qu'Appelle."

She had said fondly in my eager ear-
"When Indian summer smiles with dusky lip,
Come to the lakes, I will be first to hear
The welcome music of thy paddle dip.
I will be first to lay on thine my hand,
To whisper words of greeting on the shore;
And when thou would'st return to thine own land,
I'll go with thee, thy wife for evermore."

Not yet a leaf had fallen, not a tone
Of frost upon the plain ere I set forth,
Impatient to possess her as my own -
This queen of all the women of the North.
I rested not at even or at dawn,
But journeyed all the dark and daylight through -
Until I reached the Lakes, and hurrying on,
I launched upon their bosom my canoe.

Of sleep or hunger then I took no heed,
But hastened o'er their leagues of waterways:
But my host heart outstripped my paddle's speed
And waited not for distance or for days,
But flew before me swifter than the blade
Of magic paddle ever cleaved the Lake,
Eager to lay its love before the maid,
And watch the lovelight in her eyes awake.

So the long days went slowly drifting past:
It seemed that half my life must intervene
Before the morrow, then I said at last -
"One more day's journey and I win my queen."
I rested then, and, drifting, dreamed the more
Of all the happiness I was to claim -
When suddenly from out fo the shadowed shore,
I heard a voice speak tenderly my name.

"Who calls?" I answered; no reply; and long
I stilled my paddle blade and listened. Then
Above the night wind's melancholy song
I heard distinctly that strange voice again -
A woman's voice, that through the twilight came
Like to a soul unborn - song unsung.

I leaned and listened - yes, she spoke my name,
And then I answered in the quaint French tongue,
"Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?" No answer, and the night
Seemed stiller for the sound, till round me fell
The far-off echoes from the far-off height -
"Qu'Appelle?" My voice came back, "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?"
This - and no more; I called aloud until
I shuddred as the gloom of night increased,
And, like a pallid specter wan and chill,
The mooon arose in silence in the east.

I dare not linger on the moment when
My boat I beached beside her teepee door;
I heard the wail of women and of men,
I saw the death-fires lighted on the shore
No language tells the torture or the pain,
The bitterness that flooded all my life,
When I was led to look on her again,
That queen of women pledged to be my wife.

To look upon the beauty of her face
The still closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath;
To look, to learn - to realize my place
Had been unsupred by my one rival - Death.
A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and broke
About my heart, and life shut out its light
Till through my anguish someone gently spoke,
And said, "Twice did she call for thee last night."

I started up - and bending o'er my dead,
Asked when her sweet lips in silence close.
"She called thy name - then passed away," they said.
"Just on the hour whereat the moon arose."
Among the lonely Lakes I go no more,
For she who made their beauty is not there;
The paleface reares his teepee on the shore
And says the vale is fairest of fair.

Full many years have vanished since, but still
The voyageurs beside the campfire tell
How, when the moonrise tips the distant hill,
They hear strange voices through the silence swell.
The paleface loves the haunted lakes they say,
And journeys far to watch their beauty spread
Before his vision; but to me the day,
The night, the hour, the seasons are all dead.
I listen heartsick, while the hunters tell
Why white men named the valley The "Qu'Appelle.

E. Pauline Johnson