Now that we got our own forum 
How about listing some of your favorite BC poets and writers. I really enjoy stephen buckleys poetry. Who else can make such good poetry out of clam chowder
Clam Chowder Love Slave
The phone rings
as I’m vortexed in lethargy
wondering
how to spend a lazy summer evening.
She says,
“Are the pots all clean?
I’m coming over.
We’re going to cook.”
“Cook what?”
“You’ll see.”
I wash the pots.
All of them.
The sun is 30 degrees up in the western sky.
She shows up,
pounding once,
her whole body,
back first,
onto my door.
I let her in.
Her Granville Island Market bags
overflow her arms.
She sighs
and grits her teeth
and squeezes out,
“Bags—now.
White wine—now.”
I comply.
Apparently tonight
I’m her clam chowder love slave.
Who am I to argue.
The sun dives
[at sun speed]
towards the western horizon clouds.
The clams have the rich vibrancy
of self-sacrificing living mollusks
waiting for the perfect opportunity
to give themselves
for us tonight.
I’m to rinse these lovely clams.
Not TOO much though.
A certain amount of sand is to be expected
—and welcomed!
She says,
“Think of From Here to Eternity.”
Okay. I do.
Really, I do.
The sun eases into the western horizon clouds.
The baby nugget potatoes
AREN’T to be peeled.
Just washed.
With my hands, no brush.
“Cut them into quarters,
and take off your sandals,” she says.
She’s lounging on the bed
with her feet up
on the floor pillows
that rest on the foot of the bed.
I didn’t have time
to put it up
into the couch.
She rests her chilled glass
against her neck
between sips.
Her sandals
are long gone.
Her toenails are mauve.
God help me.
The sun is gone
as a pink wash
meanders
around the western horizon.
“Fry the bacon
over one-third heat,”
she mumbles
with her eyes closed.
Her white light cotton zippered sweater vest
is gone
leaving just her [mainly] burgundy paisley silk camisole.
It isn’t the sometime leaning forward
to check on my progress.
It’s the leaning back.
The arching of the back,
combined with
arms stretch
or coy gravity plummet
of the right strap
off her shoulder.
Midnight blue
creeps up from the east horizon.
“No shirts allowed, bud,
for the mixing phase.
That’s the law.”
“Yes, constable.”
She rises,
approaches,
dips her finger
into the remaining wine
and flicks it in my face.
“More wine,”
she growls.
I pour.
Actual stars
appear out the window,
despite the city’s light pollution.
“Shorts off
for the simmering,”
she states,
merely matter-of-factly,
as if she’d said,
“You’re almost out of eggs,” or,
“I forgot my hat at home.”
When I turn,
her tennis skirt
has vanished
to reveal
my missing Daffy Duck silk boxers.
I was going to wear them tonight,
until I discovered their absence,
so faded cotton boxers beckoned me.
I’m to stir
the complicated chowder
after she explained to me,
in intricate detail,
the precise spices and fine ingredients
—from memory!
My ire rises in jealousy
of the last one [ones?]
to make her chowder.
Just breathe and stir.
Breathe and stir.
Days go by as I stir
and she returns to lie down,
eyes closed,
both hands resting
the base of her wine glass
on her belly.
Thunderclouds appear
out of nowhere.
Months have passed.
Her wine’s done and refilled.
She’s setting out
candles and cutlery
on the coffee table.
And wow! a glass of wine
for ME.
She’s down to monosyllabic utterances now:
“Scoop.
Bring.
Feed.”
I scoop,
transport the bowls over,
sit,
spoon the rich soup
into her mouth
as she sits cross-legged,
wiggling her mauve toes,
eyes closed,
sometimes holding onto the spoon
with her teeth
a little too long.
But then,
how long is the RIGHT length to hold?
Extricating the clams
from the brothy shells
takes some time,
but she shows patience.
Whenever I try
to have a spoonful myself,
she opens her eyes
and stares daggers
at the moving spoon.
When I return to priorities,
her eyes close again.
I take to overloading the spoon,
sipping the excess
and giving her the rest.
If she knows,
she doesn’t let on.
I guess
this is within the bounds
of the permissible.
The lightning
grows closer,
gets brighter,
and we start hearing thunder
as hints and murmurs.
Her bowl’s done.
“More,”
she whispers.
My bowl
begins to empty next.
I’m hungrier,
so as I steal
from her spoon
a little more each time,
she gets less,
but no eyes open,
no complaints register.
Her toes drift now
in an ebbing and flowing manner.
The thunder rumbles
the windows now
as lightning silhouettes the buildings
across the way.
The CD,
which I never noticed even being on,
stops abruptly.
I don’t even remember
what was playing.
Candlelight only
glows in apartment living rooms
and bedrooms
across the way.
As the clouds pass over my block,
the lightning daylights the room
and rattles the candleholders.
One scoop left.
I’m dead now.
I give her the whole thing,
almost apologetically,
then I wait.
Is she a preying mantis?
Must I run for cover?
Just go do the dishes
to avoid her wrath?
Take out the garbage?
Clean out the crispers
in the bottom of the fridge?
She opens her eyes
and says merely,
“Here.”
She lies back,
grabbing my hand,
pulling me to lie on my side
next to her.
She slides my right hand
under her camisole,
resting it over her navel
[studless tonight]
with her hand
over mine,
sliding my hand
in slow tight circles
as her breath
rises and falls,
ebbs and flows.
She turns her head,
places her nose aside mine
and whispers,
“Rest”
as the thunder rolls north
and the remnants
of the lightning air
stay inside the window,
and mix with the salt chowder scent
in a warm front
above the bed.
Stephen Buckley
How about listing some of your favorite BC poets and writers. I really enjoy stephen buckleys poetry. Who else can make such good poetry out of clam chowder Clam Chowder Love Slave
The phone rings
as I’m vortexed in lethargy
wondering
how to spend a lazy summer evening.
She says,
“Are the pots all clean?
I’m coming over.
We’re going to cook.”
“Cook what?”
“You’ll see.”
I wash the pots.
All of them.
The sun is 30 degrees up in the western sky.
She shows up,
pounding once,
her whole body,
back first,
onto my door.
I let her in.
Her Granville Island Market bags
overflow her arms.
She sighs
and grits her teeth
and squeezes out,
“Bags—now.
White wine—now.”
I comply.
Apparently tonight
I’m her clam chowder love slave.
Who am I to argue.
The sun dives
[at sun speed]
towards the western horizon clouds.
The clams have the rich vibrancy
of self-sacrificing living mollusks
waiting for the perfect opportunity
to give themselves
for us tonight.
I’m to rinse these lovely clams.
Not TOO much though.
A certain amount of sand is to be expected
—and welcomed!
She says,
“Think of From Here to Eternity.”
Okay. I do.
Really, I do.
The sun eases into the western horizon clouds.
The baby nugget potatoes
AREN’T to be peeled.
Just washed.
With my hands, no brush.
“Cut them into quarters,
and take off your sandals,” she says.
She’s lounging on the bed
with her feet up
on the floor pillows
that rest on the foot of the bed.
I didn’t have time
to put it up
into the couch.
She rests her chilled glass
against her neck
between sips.
Her sandals
are long gone.
Her toenails are mauve.
God help me.
The sun is gone
as a pink wash
meanders
around the western horizon.
“Fry the bacon
over one-third heat,”
she mumbles
with her eyes closed.
Her white light cotton zippered sweater vest
is gone
leaving just her [mainly] burgundy paisley silk camisole.
It isn’t the sometime leaning forward
to check on my progress.
It’s the leaning back.
The arching of the back,
combined with
arms stretch
or coy gravity plummet
of the right strap
off her shoulder.
Midnight blue
creeps up from the east horizon.
“No shirts allowed, bud,
for the mixing phase.
That’s the law.”
“Yes, constable.”
She rises,
approaches,
dips her finger
into the remaining wine
and flicks it in my face.
“More wine,”
she growls.
I pour.
Actual stars
appear out the window,
despite the city’s light pollution.
“Shorts off
for the simmering,”
she states,
merely matter-of-factly,
as if she’d said,
“You’re almost out of eggs,” or,
“I forgot my hat at home.”
When I turn,
her tennis skirt
has vanished
to reveal
my missing Daffy Duck silk boxers.
I was going to wear them tonight,
until I discovered their absence,
so faded cotton boxers beckoned me.
I’m to stir
the complicated chowder
after she explained to me,
in intricate detail,
the precise spices and fine ingredients
—from memory!
My ire rises in jealousy
of the last one [ones?]
to make her chowder.
Just breathe and stir.
Breathe and stir.
Days go by as I stir
and she returns to lie down,
eyes closed,
both hands resting
the base of her wine glass
on her belly.
Thunderclouds appear
out of nowhere.
Months have passed.
Her wine’s done and refilled.
She’s setting out
candles and cutlery
on the coffee table.
And wow! a glass of wine
for ME.
She’s down to monosyllabic utterances now:
“Scoop.
Bring.
Feed.”
I scoop,
transport the bowls over,
sit,
spoon the rich soup
into her mouth
as she sits cross-legged,
wiggling her mauve toes,
eyes closed,
sometimes holding onto the spoon
with her teeth
a little too long.
But then,
how long is the RIGHT length to hold?
Extricating the clams
from the brothy shells
takes some time,
but she shows patience.
Whenever I try
to have a spoonful myself,
she opens her eyes
and stares daggers
at the moving spoon.
When I return to priorities,
her eyes close again.
I take to overloading the spoon,
sipping the excess
and giving her the rest.
If she knows,
she doesn’t let on.
I guess
this is within the bounds
of the permissible.
The lightning
grows closer,
gets brighter,
and we start hearing thunder
as hints and murmurs.
Her bowl’s done.
“More,”
she whispers.
My bowl
begins to empty next.
I’m hungrier,
so as I steal
from her spoon
a little more each time,
she gets less,
but no eyes open,
no complaints register.
Her toes drift now
in an ebbing and flowing manner.
The thunder rumbles
the windows now
as lightning silhouettes the buildings
across the way.
The CD,
which I never noticed even being on,
stops abruptly.
I don’t even remember
what was playing.
Candlelight only
glows in apartment living rooms
and bedrooms
across the way.
As the clouds pass over my block,
the lightning daylights the room
and rattles the candleholders.
One scoop left.
I’m dead now.
I give her the whole thing,
almost apologetically,
then I wait.
Is she a preying mantis?
Must I run for cover?
Just go do the dishes
to avoid her wrath?
Take out the garbage?
Clean out the crispers
in the bottom of the fridge?
She opens her eyes
and says merely,
“Here.”
She lies back,
grabbing my hand,
pulling me to lie on my side
next to her.
She slides my right hand
under her camisole,
resting it over her navel
[studless tonight]
with her hand
over mine,
sliding my hand
in slow tight circles
as her breath
rises and falls,
ebbs and flows.
She turns her head,
places her nose aside mine
and whispers,
“Rest”
as the thunder rolls north
and the remnants
of the lightning air
stay inside the window,
and mix with the salt chowder scent
in a warm front
above the bed.
Stephen Buckley