Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond For my sister Denise (1952-1999)
I’m in some motel room in Omaha I’m not sure why I’m here it’s supposed to be about the music but these days nothing is very clear nobody knows me in Omaha nobody meets my eyes I walk the streets invisible like I’m wearing some disguise
there’s a river by the highway in Omaha and paths on its grassy banks and a little arched bridge like in a Japanese print and I cross on its wooden planks and the slanting light is silvery gold the way it gets at the end of the day and though it’s only Omaha it’s like a painting by Monet
And you’re the one I’d have shared this with who’d have seen just what I’d seen who knew about light and shadow and the infinite shades of green you were the one always took the most delight in my delight so now I keep these things inside where they never shine so bright
oh once there were three sisters just like in an old folk tale and the gentlest one had eyes of blue and skin so fine and pale but someone put a spell on her and we watched her fade away and no white witch or faerie queen turned up to save the day
so I went to sleep in this motel room and in the morning on the floor I found a small grey perfect feather I swear wasn’t there the night before but even if I believed in ghosts or that supernatural stuff I’d be lying if I said a sign like this would ever be enough
still I took that feather and I tucked it in with the picture I carry of you in the face of the unspeakable, I mean what else is there to do? And the sun still rises every day and the world keeps spinning blind but me it seems I’m frozen here in the space you left behind
so I’m writing these lines in Omaha because writing’s all I’ve got though I’m thinking now that it’s a pretty poor bridge between what is and what is not and I’d trade all the music in the world all the paintings by Monet oh I would gladly give my voice to have you back just one more day
I’m in some motel room in Omaha and I’m not sure why I’m here
Isabeau s’y promène le long de son jardin le long de son jardin sur le bord de l’île le long de son jardin sur le bord de l’eau sur le bord du vaisseau
elle fit une rencontre de trente matelots… le plus jeune des trente il se mit a chanter… la chanson que tu chantes je voudrais la savoir… embarque dans ma barque je te la chanterai… quand elle fut dans la barque elle se mit a pleurer… qu’avez-vous donc la belle, qu’a-vous a tant pleurer… je pleure mon anneau d’or, dans l’eau-z-il a tombé… ne pleurez-point la belle, je vous la plongerai… de la première plonge, il n’a rien ramèné… de la seconde plonge, l’anneau-z-a voltigé… de la troisième plonge, le galant s’est noyé…
Translation: Isabeau walks the length of her garden on the shore of the island at the water’s edge alongside of the ship
she meets a band of sailors and the youngest starts to sing… that song you’re singing, I’d like to learn it… come board my ship and I will sing it for you… when she was on board, she started to weep… why are you crying, my pretty one… I weep for my gold ring, which has fallen into the water… don’t cry, my pretty one, I will dive and get it for you… on the first dive, he came up empty-handed… on the second dive, the ring spun away from him… on the third dive, the young man drowned…
when I was twelve my daddy and me stood on a point of golden sand and looked out over the water his eyes were blue as the sky we watched the sailboats flashing by and all I knew or needed to know was that I was his precious daughter then he told me about his twelfth year he went to a fancy private school full of British pretensions and hard, hard rule but oh the school was on the water and when the daily lessons were done how he loved to take a boat and sail into the setting sun
and the gulls traced circles over our heads time traced its circles too and oh something was slipping away into the blue
but the world can turn right over in the space of a day or year or in the time it takes for a little sailboat to appear or disappear and the masts are split and rotted now the canvas sails are torn out of the bay of innocence this broken ship is born
here is a picture of a girl and a man far in the background sails a tiny catamaran his face is in shadow hers is rather blurred like she’s turning to a distant sound she thinks she might have heard and the boat sails on forever on these fading swells of grey the girl and man stand side by side yet each slightly leaning away
and the gulls trace circles over their heads time traces circles too and oh something is slipping away into the blue
whisky tumbler in his hand and when he lets it fall the spangled glass will spark and crash like a wave against a wall a piece will lodge deep in her heart and thirty years will pass before time enough and tears have washed away the jagged glass
now once again my daddy and me we’re on a point of golden sand and I’m looking out over the water I open up the vessel I’m letting something go see how light the ashes fly as the warm June breezes blow
and it’s just like swirls of golden smoke like sand as fine as dreams while out on the horizon a white sail gleams he’s finally going home but I wonder what about me as I watch the air grow blue again I’m either free—or else I’m empty
quanniqtaq – snow that has recently fallen kavisilaq – snow that’s been roughened by frost or rain quisuquq – snow that has melted and then been frozen again
pataqun – snow that sparkles by moonlight apingaut – the very first fall of autumn snow piqsiqtuk – snow that will fly in the air when the polar winds blow
this is the world we live in to survive we have to know not just the ways of the animals but also the ways of the snow will the sleds get stuck when the snow’s too soft can we walk, or is it too deep will it drift around our snow house door through the long night while we sleep
quanniqtaq – snow that has recently fallen kavisilaq – snow that’s been roughened by frost or rain quisuquq – snow that has melted and then been frozen again
your city has streets and each has a name you’d never think they were all the same so it is with us, our city is snow and it’s never the same two days in a row so we name each change, each difference we see you have one word “snow,” we have twenty-three…
oh, snow like powder, snow like crystal hard snow, soft snow heavy and light snow snow in a ripple and snow in a drift wet snow, frozen snow falling-at-night snow
pataqun – snow that sparkles by moonlight apingaut – the very first fall of autumn snow piqsiqtuk – snow that will fly in the air when the polar winds blow
I share my house with half a dozen felines it wasn’t planned, it just turned out that way and one thing I have found when you have animals around is that you’ll never have another boring day
oh a kitty must have walked across my keyboard when I went downstairs to get myself a snack a kitty must have walked across my keyboard ’cause this was on the screen when I got back
(it said) AAAA EEEE S O S O G I P P , , , , [ ] [ ] I X L 4 U AAAA EEEE U C Y I M A Q T 1 2 3 U R A Q T 2
at first I thought this was some coded message from aliens who’d come from outer space but then I saw Miss Pippin slinking underneath my desk with a smug yet guilty look upon her face
oh always thought my cats were pretty clever but frankly this display was something new hey bp nichol better move on over this kitty she’s more avant-guarde than you
She wrote AAAA (etc.)
on Friday my computer wasn’t working I called some geeky expert to my house he fiddled for an hour then he charged me ninety bucks and said “Your problem’s too much cat hair in your mouse!”
“Too much cat hair in my mouse?” “Too much cat hair in your mouse— lady, my advice is get these cats out of your house!” I said “Mister you don’t know me or you’d probably change your pitch now I don’t mean to sound catty but computers drive me batty, while the kitties are my treasure and they bring me so much pleasure so if something’s gotta go it’s the computer that I’m gonna ditch!”
oh a kitty must have walked across my keyboard when I went downstairs to get myself a snack a kitty must have walked across my keyboard ’cause this was on the screen when I came back
The Canadian Horse was declared the National Horse of Canada by an act of Parliament in 2002, but most Canadian citizens, sadly, have still never heard of it. In the 1960s these horses were close to extinction; they currently number only around 6,000 and are classified as “at risk.” Smallish, tough and powerful, incredibly smart and versatile, and well adapted to our northern climate, they deserve far more recognition! This song details their storied history. More info: http://is.gd/HqfMgr
Well he’s not too big and he’s not too tall overall he’s kinda small next to your Clydes or your fancy breeds you mightn’t give him a second look heavy mane and tail, broad round back, Not too flashy, usually brown or black but here’s a case where you shouldn’t be goin’ by the cover to judge the book
now my grandpapa he used to say when he was a young man in Gaspé he had a mare like that, a Canadian they called Rosette ploughing fields, hauling rocks or wood that little horse was better than good you could ride or drive her 50 miles and she’d never even break a sweat
and Grandpapa made up a song that he’d sing to that little mare all day long –
Chorus: Mon p’tit canadien mon p’tit cheval de fer
My first Canadian, Mainguy Bismark Joé, aka Beau (photo by Sue Byford)
a’ec sa tête en l’air pis sa belle crinière y’est pas ben grand y’est pas ben gros mais y’est fort comme le diable pis ben plus beau! diddle aï don, marche donc giddy-up Mon p’tit canadien
Translation: My little Canadian my little iron horse with its head held proudly and its beautiful mane it’s not very tall and not very heavy but it’s strong as the devil and much handsomer! diddle aï don, get along, giddy-up My little Canadian
oh my grandpapa he left Quebec he took his mare and he made the trek by rail to North Alberta where good land was almost free the farmers there all laughed of course at the little French guy with his little French horse figured they wouldn’t last too long out on the vast prairie
But they all stopped laughing when that mare out-pulled every horse at the county fair and word got round she had legs of steel and was never lame a day gentle as a pup and twice as smart an easy keeper with a great big heart but that’s your Canadian horse, my friend, and I’ll tell you how they got that way
My second Canadian, Crossview Eisen Rubicelle, aka Rubi
See, there’s royal blood in their pedigree ’cause the Sun King sent them here by sea he chose the best from his stables for his noblemen in New France and some never made it through the winter gales but the horses that did grew tough as nails and strong and clever, and wove their way through history at every chance
Chorus
they were there on the Plains of Abraham carrying men fighting under Montcalm they were prized by the Yanks as trotters, and mounts in their Civil war they were ridden by the North West Mounted Police in that sad campaign against the Métis and they stood their ground in World War I through the battle’s bloody roar
now ain’t that just the Canadian way it goes to have something special and no one knows and to let it fade and dwindle till it almost disappears thirty years ago they were almost gone but the Little Iron Horse is hanging on and I figure they deserve to be around for the next four hundred years
now my father he spoke French all right but he married my mama who’s a Mennonite so though my name’s Labelle, I never learned how to parlez-vous but I understand my granddad’s song some days I sing it all day long to my little black horse and he pricks his ears, ’cause I swear he understands it too!
I was only the neighbour, I barely knew her fifty years of living with the curtains drawn after she died they went through her things in one moment all her secrecy gone
the auctioneer leads me through overstuffed rooms crammed ceiling to floor with antiques and junk the kind of packrat hoardings that he’s seen before in box and bag and trunk
but here in the kitchen something stops him dead here is what finally makes him shake his head an old biscuit tin with a hand-lettered label that he holds out for me to peruse and it says “bits of string too short to use” bits of string too short to use
oh what shadows must have haunted her fragile dreams what demons of fear, what wolf at the door howling “Waste not want not, fill up all the spaces” till there’s no room to want any more
for sure enough when I lift up the rusty lid brief little circles of cord and twine what makes someone hold on to their everything what makes me hold on to mine?
oh I thought we were different as day and night I could have sworn I was travelling light but see what I’m trailing, seems that lifelines and shackles are easy to confuse bits of string too short to use bits of string too short to use
and these lives that we live full of hurting and passion the blood and the battles, the rapture and lust yet it’s the stones that contain them remain in the end while we crumble to handfuls of dust
but oh how we hunger for something to last, to conjure up gold from the murk of the past but so often we’re left bearing nothing but scars or these fragments and shards from the muse
they’re only bits of string too short to use bits of string too short to use
Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond For my mother, Marie-Thérèse (1919–1998)
great black crow in a white birch tree sun pours gold on a brand new day great black crow looks down at me mama’s spirit has flown away
mama never got to see the spring the buds remain all tightly furled mama’s spirit has taken wing and gone we hope to a brighter world
we kept watch through the dark and deep but mama never liked to trouble us, so she waited till her girls gave in to sleep then she slipped away with the great black crow
mama didn’t have a lot of earthly goods we packed her things in an old suitcase I kept a little statue ’cause she’d said I could of the Virgin Mary with a sad, chipped face
mama should have lived in the south of France and spent her time writing poems and plays mama deserved a long romance and a peaceful passing in her final days
once there was a shining girl with a feathered hat and a rhinestone ring she beams for the camera and out at the world she can’t wait to see what her life will bring
above the lake the crows fly wild the wind churns endless waves to foam and now I am a motherless child a long, long, long, long way from home long way from home
