Poet Laureate

When I was a kid, I was like every single other kid.

I would run around, playing. All of us did.
I have a little brother.
We would go to the park by our house, climb the play structure, use the monkey bars

I was terrified of those monkey bars

I remember I wanted to impress my family, my dad
I was always trying to jump
I tried to jump to the second bar
Further than I knew I probably could.
That happened often.

Everything after that blurs by
I don’t even know if I cried
But this is like every other story
Kids break their arms all the time.
Is this a waste of time?

I CAN remember the doctor telling me
Fifty percent of children break their arms from those monkey bars
It’s common.
What I went through was something common.

I got sent to sick kids hospital
Everybody knows that hospital
To me, it was a place where miracles were performed

I can recall seeing billboards with children’s faces on them
Billboards that told me kids could beat the things they were faced with
The thing I remember most about the hospital?
I remember how the doctors didn’t listen to me

I was six years old, waking up in the middle of the night, screaming in pain
The medication they gave me? It wasn’t enough to quell it.
And what did they say?
They helped me, didn’t they?

They told me I was lying.
Through the furrow in their brows, the worried whispers
They settled on that I was lying.
That part I would always remember the most.

I remember at six years old, being told it was all for attention. That everything would be fine. When
things were anything but fine.

The next morning I woke up elbow down paralyzed.

My fingers curled into a fist
A fist in retaliation
And what did that feel like?
It felt like nothing.

Kind of anticlimactic.

My arm was in a cast.
My arm wasn’t my arm anymore.
It felt as if there was a giant gaping hole.
Nothingness.
And this time, did they help me?
When I was crying and panicking?

No.

They sent me home.
No more stiff hospital sheets
No more of the smell of the sickness
No more feeling in my arm.
And no more moving it either.

We had no choice but to find someone else, somewhere else to help me
One look at my arm
I had the therapist lose her ability of speech
She knew what was wrong with me.

But I think the diagnosis takes away the depth of the severity.
Two words
Compartment Syndrome
Two words that changed me.

That was the moment where instead of being a kid, playing on the monkey bars?
I became a patient.

But this story isn’t all depressing.
Well, maybe it was when she told me,
Sorry, you’ll never be able to move your arm again. There’s no chance.

If you wanted to write nicely
Your dominant hand?
Sorry, you can’t
If you had the dream of being a pianist?
You’ll never touch those keys
But I guess I was a stubborn kid and I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

I worked.

I could fight, and I didn’t need a hospital full of doctors telling me I lied to be able to rise
The next memories weren’t clouded by pain
The next memories I remember.
I can’t forget them

I remember sitting on the couch, with my mom
Girl meets world on the tv
It sounds silly saying it now.
But that insignificant day
Doing the same exercises I did every day
To no avail.
My thumb twitched for the first time.
And I cried.

How is it that a child, who was now seven, could beat the odds
I didn’t know the answer.
Nobody knew how.

But I did beat them.

That didn’t mean things ended.

I had to learn to write, not with my right
I switched hands
Endless days with paper, pencils, shaky a’s, p’s that looked like q’s
But I did it

I remember in class one day, a supply teacher yelled at me
Because I was too slow at writing
Little did she know I slaved over that paper
One word for her was five painstaking letters for me
I kept going

I remember when my fingers straightened for the first time again
I couldn’t pick up a water cup
I would sit with my hand lain limp in my lap
I had to learn what it was like to have two arms again
But one day, I could hold up the cup

People asked why I only used one hand, laughter lilting their words
I didn’t tell them that it was the only thing I could do, before.

I remember the first time I touched a piano.
My parents bought it for me, our inside joke to spite the doctors
I remember the first time my moving fingers touched those keys
I certainly wasn’t good yet.
But just playing one note was enough for me.

I dance.

I try new moves until my knuckles bleed
Because my hand won’t straighten fully
But I do it anyway.

I still struggle
I still have dance teachers tell me to straighten my hand
I can’t
I still have opportunities that get stripped away from me

I still go to Toronto, sitting on a patio
My arm in yet another cast, to fix me
Across from a sign of a little girl from sick kids telling me
You can beat this.

And when I was a kid it felt like a spite at me
Yet now I touch those keys
Now I write
Now I can eat
I can play guitar
I dance freely

I don’t let a setback stop me.

So now when I see those signs
I still have an aching in my chest
But this time
I believe it.

Because I beat all odds
I did what they said I could not
I sit with my story in solace
But I know that though you can’t see it when you see me, unless you truly look,

It bleeds through me

My story
A plethora people who didn’t believe in me
A few that did
So now when they say I’m mature for my age
I smile and thank them
Knowing all that I’ve gone through
They don’t know, but I do.
I smile and I thank them.

Thank you

Deli

I fear I've lost 
How to be soft.
I no longer long
For delicacies 
Or wasting time
In a delicatessen.
For my delicate sins
Seem tasting fine.
And there's more than I can manage
Right here with me inside. 
I fear I've lost
My entire mind.
Or worse, I've forgotten
How to be kind. 
Or that is not about the time
Or the delicatessen
But the time
Lucky to be wasted
Looking into your eyes
And knowing it's love
When you look through mine.

Henriette

Amidst the singing waters vast
Where stay'd the sun as hours pass'd
So danced my heart a dance at last
Upon San Juan Del Sur -
The lone San Juan Del Sur

Beneath these Golden Laden skies,
None there did'st lie before mine eyes
To contravene my heart's demise - 
The like I had endured -
Such sorrow had endured

T'was thence upon the midnight hour
As death of winter lends the flower
When fate in thy discourse empower'd
A maiden whom befell -
A gentle muse befell

A song within thee did awake
Alas! No mortal could forsake
The wound of love's lamented ache
That sought me with her spell -
That floated on her spell

Betrothed to Heaven's timeless stride
No radiance possessed a bride
As she that in my heart presides
Until the day is met -
Until my time is met

And all my soul lay misaligned 
In prayer imposed to thee divine 
To once again behold the shrine
I nameth Henriette -
Thy dearest Henriette

I Met A Toad

Along the road I met a toad
A toad
Yes a toad
He sat all proud
Eyes to the cloud
He turned to me
To me
Yes to me
He took a breath in then out
He crocked loud as a shout
He could be heard for miles
For miles
Yes for miles
He ran away
Far away
Along the road I met a toad
A toad
Yes a toad

O’ Manless Mirror
An Original Work By Julian Valdez

The man in the mirror looks,
Clawing his face with his hooks,
Fears his coughing skin,
With eyes that could slice and apple thin,
The face he once held has flown away.

The mirror has skin that is fair,
Beautiful in its gleam,
The man no longer dreams,
Of beauty found within.

The mirror holds a shape no one can see,
It is only the man who dare looks closely,
Than all that you would like to be,
Will be swallowed by the hollow tree,
That is a mirror let run free.

Telling Our Stories Through Poetry - a free, virtual discussion held April 2021 with four published Canadian poets in celebration of National Poetry Month. We hope you enjoy the recording of this event hosted by former Poet Laureate, Claudia Ferrraro.

Authors: Phoebe Wang, Laura Ritland, Randy Lundy and Michael Fraser

With financial assistance from The Canada Council for the Arts through The Writers' Union of Canada

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Jillian Morris is a Collingwood writer, poet and storyteller whose work is regularly featured in local and regional publications. During her tenure as Poet Laureate, Jillian has shared the transformative power of poetry, appearing at local events, working with emerging poets, introducing the storytelling series Yonnhe'on:we, integrating poetry into public spaces and recently releasing her first book of poetry, "born, genes, and quash". 

As Kanien'kehaka, a member of Six Nations of the Grand River Territory, Jillian's poetry layers traditional teachings and interconnection with the natural world to explore identity, redress untruths and foster connection. Her poem A Tribute to our Stolen Spirits is installed at the Awen Gathering Circle.

Jillian is a former federal public servant and in addition to writing, she is a researcher, creator, public engager, mother, wife, and bridge builder. Jillian is also a member of the Unity Collective where she finds endless reward in volunteering and working to build relationships, capacity, and understanding. 

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During her term as Collingwood's second Poet Laureate, Claudia Ferraro made numerous appearances at community and civic gatherings, created poetry installations for our parks and trails, led workshops and hosted events and offered us words and prose that brought joy and hope to the commuity during the pandemic while reminding us of the importance of the arts to our health and well-being. 

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"It has been my honour and privilege to serve as Collingwood's first Poet Laureate. Poetry is the most compact and efficient way to express thoughts and feelings and engender a deep response in others. The role of Poet Laureate has given me the opportunity to share my love of poetry and the spoken word as well as inspire both committed word fans and those new to the power of poetry"

What is a Community? 
by Day Merrill, 2019

The roots of the word are far from clear–
It’s not just those whom we live near

It’s that which we hold in common, and share:
Fair land, clear water, fresh air

Some of it’s shaped by geographic forces
Part is our principles, history, resources.

It’s the circumstances that bind us together
When we take initiative to make things better

It’s what we fight to keep or to change 
But never want to give up or exchange

It’s the functions and duties borne by us all
Carried out from home as well as Town Hall.

It’s all who come here to live, work and play
In a place many decide they will stay.

What makes us a community? This in a word:
The choice to be here, and be seen and heard

A place when we talk, we’re heard and believed
Where in life we’re supported and in death we’re grieved.

The place that we start from or end up our days
That nourishes us in so many ways.

If we look, it’s where we can always find good.
It’s the place we call home, our dear Collingwood.