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The Journal of Chris Sorrenti Outside Influences - Maureen Glaude
07/18/2016 03:41 p.m.
I first met local poet, Maureen Glaude, here in Ottawa in 1999 at the Sasquatch Writers’ Performance Series, when invited to help out by founder, Juan O’Neill. In sharing the duties of publicity for the group, we quickly became friends.
What I didn’t know at first was that in 1998, she had contracted Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and with chemotherapy had luckily gone into full remission. Maureen or Mo as we liked to call her, remained in remission until April 2007, when she was unexpectedly rushed to hospital. The diagnosis/prognosis were grim, as it was discovered she had Leukemia. With more chemo, Maureen put up a valiant fight, but the disease quickly spread throughout her body, and on July 18th, she succumbed.
Ironic in that her oncologist had told her in 2006 that she no longer had to undergo routine testing, common to all Cancer survivors. Tragic also in that her initial survival had given new meaning to her life. Maureen was so filled with creative ambition and positive energy, many hearts were broken, both here in Ottawa and on the Internet, in her untimely departure.
On the up side, during the period 1998-2007, Maureen’s writing was published extensively in various hard copy creative writing magazines and ventures, including several chap books. Her library here at Pathetic.org has since been locked In Memoriam, should anyone wish to read her work.
Below are a few of my personal favorites:
Pool & Poetry
You ask me why I spend
hours and loonies in the pubs
shooting pool and poetry
it's not real life, you say
I like my venues and ventures
I'm training myself
to master fresh angles
design new ways to
break onto the world
anticipate the slice and hook
align the combinations
when I share my poems
I work to float
and ventilate
feelings across the room
to enter ears of lovers
of freedom and the art
of trading story
I string images to embrace
stretch out to others' souls
turn out my mind and theirs
as on an autumn trail
listening to the others' works
I bathe in holy waters
in this unlikely place
back at the green felt
behind the cue stick
I position myself
focus, draw back, shoot
sink into life's openings
try for surprises
or from old games, sure moves
around the pocket corners
you say that my friends
seated on the barstools
in the readers' pub
are players in life
not grown-up
but you cannot show me
a saltier sample
of the real earth
and so I'll add my name
to the poets' sign-up sheet
but first, I'll play the winner
1998
Cat on a Hot Tin Page
Let me tell you about this cat I know
who makes his rounds, on dry ground or snow
he’s not the cat from Dr. Seuss
nor a treacherous tomcat on the loose
he can make the hair on your arm stand up in alarm
but he purrs a gentle poem, and means no harm
his lines don’t rhyme as in Mother Goose
and he prefers a plane to a train caboose
he maneuvers sly, like the famous Cheshire
he settles down on mousepads and net wires
this dark-haired cat sneaks into souls
meowing his stories of triumphs and tolls
scratching at the mundane to the sensational
topics torrid and forbidden or easily conversational
this cat will prance on any altitude of walk
prowling over keyboards to make them talk
swatting at the humdrum and the things less sure
turning us inside out, looking for his cure
licking avid paws, he pokes through others’ poems
doing the limbo-tiptoe into other poets' homes
he can send out feelers in synergy that’s psychic
natural but uncanny, and whether or not we like it
be he agitated, be he calm, the tomcat makes it clear
what he most despises, and what he most holds dear
sometimes he’ll chase his tail so the end seems
the beginning; the present the past and the future in between
he leaves his mark of mischief, and magic behind
for the archivists of lyrical literature to find
the true origin of his nickname's quite aloof
maybe you think you know it, but maybe you've goofed
after all his daring leaps and ginger steps, I'd wage
he’s just a cool, mischievous cat, up on a hot tin page
27/12/2002
Rural Morning Haiku and a Cup of Yoga
~~~
on a country deck in September
beside two tiny fallen pine cones
cobra posture
~~~
limbs and skin stretched
supine beneath the sun
peace of the corpse
~~~
windrush in the aspen tops
outdoor chimes, intermittent
a hammer on a plank
~~~
boxed begonias
the leaves at autumn matching
petal reds
~~~
sunlight streaks
across the deck floor slabs
between shadows
~~~
Sep.l5/02
originally appeared in
The Ontario Poetry Society (TOPS) Newsletter Jan '03
The Perfect Man
I think I'd rather have
a statue than a man
I pass one every day
Lord of my neighbour's lawn
He marks the arbour entrance
by the clematis vine
he's naked, man-sized, Grecian
a piece of ornate masonry
but to me he seems the promise
of the perfect man
He does not argue back
but stares with gracious eyes
holds his creamy shoulders proud
and even though he's tight-lipped
it's not to shut off his soul
I'm sure his mind holds mysteries
of distant Aegean lands
his torso, hard and constant
carved into virile stance
He does not scoff or curse
and through long, sweltering days
suffers the sun, but doesn't drink
or whine, or get a druggy haze
I swear some days when I walk by
he listens for my step
and wishes he could wink his eye
or kiss away regrets
I always know his whereabouts
he's patient when I'm late
I'll bet he'd never lock me out
he never even shouts!
My only fear is that some year
these neighbours of mine will move
for how could I entreat them
not to uproot their statue, too?
2001
All poems © Maureen Glaude Estate
I am currently Calm
I am listening to Air Conditioner
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