Meg Freer was woken up one night in 2015 by a complete poem that flashed in front of her eyes, even though she had never written poetry and didn’t want to. Since then, her poems have come to her less aggressively, sometimes like musical phrases, but still with a strong visual component. Her photos, poems and prose have been published in various North American journals, and her poems have won several awards. Meg grew up in Missoula, Montana and went to school in Minnesota and New Jersey, where she later worked in book publishing. She now teaches piano in Ontario, enjoys the outdoors year-round, and wishes she had more time to write poetry.
Finalist, 2019-2020 COG Poetry Awards
I don’t even know this world anymore
1. Magnets use nasty metals
from weird, temperamental
parts of the periodic table,
elusive rare-earth lanthanides
that challenge our future.
2. I visit Chopin’s heart in Warsaw,
while the rest of his body lies in Paris,
and wonder where the music comes from.
3. Sometimes people throw sea creatures
onto the ice during hockey games,
and once upon a time and place
someone might have handed you
a Cornflakes box full of handguns.
Sometimes people interpret favors
as interference, and a warning appears
in the newspaper “Jumble” game words:
“carry taboo unlike warmth”.
4. Some days I don’t know split beans
from coffee, subsist on memories,
try to sweep the edges of chaos
into some semblance of tidiness.
Water slips off the tip of my elbow
in the shower in a haphazard
way, but tears don’t drop
or fall down the drain.
5. My father falls
and falls, and falls again
until he is carried out, weak.
He wears the bashful grin
of a boy in a man’s body,
holds only a snatched
book of poems by Verlaine.
Typically, the odd couple meets up
at the cheese table. Tension and force
scatter boulders, hot diamond born
on glassy shores, where green ice
whispers around glaciers, clouds rest
on the leeward side of the mountains,
sweet adrenaline wears a shade of blue
that needs some UV to get excited.
In math, odd doesn’t mean strange,
real isn’t the opposite of fake,
crumpled balls of paper follow
laws when thrown across a room.
Does yours imply the existence of mine?
The smaller the lens, the sharper the view.
Sprinkle sand to reflect the light,
sculpt a passage from “for” to “you”.
The Lens Adjusted for Extraordinary
When stack ice breaks up and undisciplined winter finally gives way to spring,
When the rose windows and organ somehow survive the fire at Notre-Dame,
When the grocery store has tiny quail to balance out your Easter ham,
When the clerk thirty years your junior calls you “Miss”,
When a surprise of jazzy Christian pop music in Korean sails out of church windows,
When the sight of a man carrying a plunger and a pizza makes you smile,
When a one-hundred-year-old fruitcake is found in Antarctica still intact,
When a granitic knob in the limestone plain is the remains of an ancient mountain,
When your child loves to keep something small like a stone or a toy in his pocket all day,
When he says the opposite of roughhousing is “gentle tenting”,
When you learn Salvador Dali designed the Chupa Chups lollipop wrapper,
When you always choose James Taylor’s “deep greens and blues”,
You will be able to hear driftwood’s echo of the faraway,
You will breathe inspiration.