Monday, August 31, 2009

Made in Canada - Michel Pagliaro

Michel Pagliaro (born November 9, 1948, Montreal, Canada), often credited as simply Pagliaro, is a rock singer, songwriter and guitarist from Quebec. Although he writes and records predominantly in French, he has released material in English as well, and was the first Canadian artist to score Top 40 hits on both the anglophone and francophone pop charts in Canada. On May 3, 2008, the Governor General of Canada presented him with the Governor General’s Performing Arts Awards (GGPAA), a lifetime achievement award considered Canada's "most prestigious artistic honour".

Friday, August 28, 2009

Poetry in Vitro - Volume 4, No.2

Mnemonic Reprise
(or What a day for a Daydream.)

Slap me until I bleed
recollections that access synaptic
addresses of memory – a backdraft
of musical encores - stimulating
a piece of relative back-time.

What were we then?
Figments or filaments of each other:
reflections of apprentissage,
the speed at which you speak
syllables of despair.

A morning shave and the nick
that spreads across the universe
of disjointed portraits of a self-
deprecating Dorian Gray existence:
a stab at the Methuselan mystique.

I have a recurring reverie
that does not include
this twenty-first century
schizoid man -
a dream that ends here.


Monday, August 17, 2009

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Sunday, August 09, 2009

Saturday, August 08, 2009

Apparently According to Some Quiz the Poem that Best Personifies me is:

by: Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of the little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.