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Another Spring - A Renga in 27 parts by 27 Toronto poets. For Japan.

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Published on Apr 20, 2011

27 poets, 27 stanzas, 1 poem written in response to the Japan earthquake/tsunami. Another Spring will be printed as a broadside by The Emergency Response Unit and sold to raise funds for Second Harvest Japan.

Note that our definition of "Toronto poet" is flexible.

A renga is a collaborative Japanese form. For more information on the renga, please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Renga

Curated by Sachiko Murakami. Contributors are Sachiko Murakami, Melanie Janisse, Nathaniel G Moore, Jacob McArthur mooney, Dani Couture, Paul Vermeersch, Mat Laporte, Angela Hibbs, Jim Johnstone, Shannon Maguire, Adam Seelig, Liz Howard, a.rawlings, Jenny Sampirisi, Natalie Walschots, Carey Toane, Jay MillAr, Aaron Tucker, Jeff Latosik, Aisha Sasha John, Moez Surani, Leigh Nash, Meaghan Strimas, Michael Knox, Elisabeth de Mariaffi, Stuart Ross and Larissa Lai.

ANOTHER SPRING

Another lozenge,
steam-breath prayer for the last thaw --
then check, ok-a-lee --

another steam another
air frost tongue to creator

these tears like talcum
are whipping from wind and rain
I hold these terrors:

light, and light's supervision.
On TV: everyone waddles.

Mud and what's not mud
is smoking, still spring creeps in
one petal, another, more.

A leaf shakes, and another
This time, it's only the wind,

the surge of leafless
March, of secluded trunks, sleep
pressed rough and noon-glazed

spring descends. Finds us yoked to
what we own and do not own:

tremors, mortar re-
positioned on touch, recast
as a folded page --

ebullient syllables
sobered by earth-line's disrupt

links we have and have
to say hello is human
pollen carrying waves,

fracture along immersed light
cloud cover and love of hope,

clover, slobbered, mud
molten, birdsong, pollen, sprung
arch, of Mrch, pressed Mar

winged crocus say on say on
Ochre shore, swan states, lily-

tongue cleaves soft palate
as planet shifts, a sharp breath
carries word, green leaves

and what's left of the morning.
What sounds remain, shallow shores

wish against the rock
peopled by plants and creatures
fingering limbo

in that peopled space cities
bloom fingers leaves tethered fields

and the city in
the city crumbles into
growth, which shrinks, which lifts

as spring is possible, as
forward is not beyond but

possibility.
So new endeavors arise
by the watered fields

despite memory's acute
weight, or broken bloodfeathers,

or, despite fallout,
called in from play at the first
sign of rain. Alight

these human shivers, global,
like our planet, like our them.

Pretend spring. Island fog
drops shady down: crocus, cherry
blossom, heavy snow.

The tidewaters sleep. Silent
hanami picnic. Still air.


Still there, tectonic
body breathes human love, our
weather's intention --

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