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Published November 25, 2018

Three Poems by Christopher Penny
(Calgary, Alberta, Canada)

The Inglewood Drinks
Artificial Winds
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The Inglewood Drinks

by Christopher Penny

Noontime sun beams in
    and heats the glass cubicle:

                jutting vestibule of observation
for those kicked
repeatedly to the curb,  making the muse.

Planned and canny architecture
for daytime rummies
on display;
               the sun blanching their faces uncertain
as it makes its ecliptic through
the sky.

The sound fades     clickclacking
as she walks determined  on her way,

hits the street with legs of a stallion
and looks straight down
                                    to avoid a gawked hassle
                                     or hide a small shame.

It’s alright.     All right
                   this time  or for certainly now:
hot and hooch-addled

washed out  by this life perpetually
washed out  by the tracking of skyfire-

               deserted and
              birthed anew
             to the bright function.

Artificial Winds

by Christopher Penny

I would go there often,
when at night  the anti-trades
were scarce
and all worlds longed
for wakening.

Some simple metal turbines
on the skirt
of a city zone

that generated  the winds,

that disrupted a local air
as currents mingled to create

                             at their best,

unheard-of life.

The faithful drone and bracing blast  to turn
an immediate grass to dusty brown and
brittle underneath.

That my patchy earthen stage  and alloyed lectern;
to gust and drive recitations
up high.

Circulating with
rotor,  weal,  and spoke-

the mechanics of a city
                              a world
and by chance persuadable…

Winter always smote
those charitable birrings,

and skys darkened
to such a seasonal change.

The cold,  now an excuse
or a shroud,

   allowing tremor and
shaking in the open

-freezing tears
before they rolled.  

It was the actual wind   Boreas
that blew a temper;   an icy reality.

He confirmed the change,
and dared me to show

if my hot airs alone could
bleat past His ether.


by Christopher Penny

I am not the body    padding through the meadow
                                    and head tilted high-

how can it be otherwise
in this wakened  walking likeness?

This feeling extends that of
rousing to a morning’s small room
and tersely  not knowing myself:

  no false assurances  or learned defiance.

I am  evidently  the body   on the fleshy boardwalk,

or at least the concluding corpse  incited
      to nervous   sympathetic action.

The bump bump

bumptious fool that calls out-

that spies the backsides through light rain
like robust teardrops he wants to rub
into his eyes.

Meditation is bound
          to the unstyled air

          but you will meditate on form
          that crimps it.

My position amounts to a switch
in the stomping ground.

No body  hasn’t any fists to flail.

The self-professed “Satyr”, for 30 years I have made an alternate and
impecunious living by roaming the hinterlands of society to write poetry and
think (at times jotting ideas on aspen or birch bark). With degrees in
science, I have found poetry to be, perhaps counterintuitively, also an act
of quantification. It will almost always start with observation, then measured
words, and at the very least maps a discrete life back to itself. The various
woods have been recipients to many a scattered page of my verse, and the
only civic cred to my name is to have longlisted twice for the CBC Poetry

Cover photo by the poet.
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