Joanna Gilman Hyde

"Good Morning, World!"

Month: January, 2022

Elizabeth Walden Hyde & Eliza Haeghaert Hyde

My Mother’s Life

on McNutt’s Island

my growing up summers

was a life of fantasy

with oil lamps and well pails

seafood from Shelburne Harbour.

Eye was My Mother’s right arm

living out Her play-house dream

marrying a man of Her approval

who fathered my daughter Eliza

the year My Mother died

of a malignant brain tumour

at age 59.

That fateful year of 1993

a fantasy developed in me

not of place but of man —

a little man Eye could never have —

and My Daughter was distanced.

Today She drives with Her Boyfriend

to Hinton Alberta

for a winter job of beetle probing

while Eye look at photographs

of My Mother’s Island Paradise

in preparation for the publication

of McNutt’s Island Journal

written by Elizabeth Walden Hyde

during Her 84/85 winter

out there


The Reincarnation of Sam

My dream last night

was of a large bird

with the ring-necked markings of Sam

an extravagant parrot

huge in colour

an armfull

as Eye tried to get Him

to perch on my left wrist

he landed on my head —

Eye wore Him like a hat

and asked My Mother

to take a picture

The Speck of Light

In the darkness of my room

Eye gleaned a speck of light

at the foot of my bed.

My Can Painting!

“M(eye) B-day Present

2 M(eye) S-E-L-F”

The speck grew as dawn came

into a constellation of three stars

and gradually revealed its configuration

of dripping paint

gleaming whiteness

and sparkling its flattened 7-up can

and shards of broken wine glass

given to me by a friend.

The Choice

This morning Eye presented My Self

with the choice of writing

at my little narrow writing desk

bought by Dr Blair over ten years ago

or, thanks to the weather,

out on my deck rail

in the sun

in my bathrobe

in the unseasonable breeze

with my copper kettle going

for whichever place:

to write that Eye have compartmentalized

my poetry journals, numbering 64

in chronological order

on a bottom oak shelf

in the former library

of Dr Blair

The choice Eye have made

is to write here, now

in my 65th journal

supported by the damp deck rail

and by the sounds of birds

and by the sight of the Atlantic ocean

which Eye call home