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© 2011 Frances Boyle

Frances Boyle's fiction and poetry have appeared in journals including The Fiddlehead, Room (and its predecessor Room of One's Own), Arc, Contemporary Verse 2, ByWords, and Prairie Fire, and the anthologies In Fine Form, The Canadian Book of Form Poetry. And A Sea of Alone: Poems for Alfred Hitchcock. Most recently, her work has received prizes from Prairie Fire, CV2 and Arc, and been long-listed for The Best Canadian Poetry in English. Frances lives in Ottawa, and draws on her still-strong ties to Regina and Vancouver.

Artist: Jeneen Frei Njootli. Her website is She is a student at Emily Carr, soon to graduate, but the graffiti image is from when she was still in high school in Ottawa.

Moon made

(a glosa built on "Silverly" from Jelly Belly by Dennis Lee)

Looney, they might have said, or even lunatic
more likely simply moony, dreamily drifting
through days fingers trailing, touching door knockers
locker doors. Moon-pulled to the navy blue sky
tin punched, and that dime of a disk, shivery shape,
wafer pasted white to felt board sky, flat silver
shine or buttermilk yellow poured down,
bath wash light over hands, plink plink poised
for nonsense pouring moonshine. Mooncalf, follow
silvery silverly over the trees

a chink become gap become chasm, a falling into,
a lasooing the moon, plump sides pinched by coiled
rope loop; a howling, head-back baying
that rises from your toes, gives over to loving
the moon's lapping, how it splits into shine and shimmy,
wavelets of light on the surface, dip dip paddle
in the luminescence, cold moon weight on black
frozen grass, ice crystals furred with light.
Moon in mist and blazoned with freight, light-show
moon drifts by on a runaway breeze

calm matriarch crests from blue-black bruises
with grim gravity wakes the seas, fingers in their hair,
then rough pushes them away, impels their motion.
Stern not fickle, lovely mother with the grave smile,
sad forehead, breath of steady shine. What ache
in that shine? What weight in that brine,
that giving over, giving in? A brightness, white night
in snow, light curves and blue shadows, shapes
parade, stark or edge-blurred into crevasses
dozily dozily deep in your bed

moony, child-shaped hopes, a cradle, a thimble
a fingernail paring, waxily melting. Patch of sky, awake
face behind black tree branches. A silent nod
through the window. It's the break down lane, run
and mock, pour the moonshine, drink it down, shine
from inside, girl, climb into the tipped crescent getaway boat.
Winking face stares and stares as light washes you,
moonbeams wrinkle a surface of silk. Moonlight cleanses,
moonlight stains. It marks you moonmade
little girl. Dream with the moon in your head.

about us ::: guidelines ::: contact ::: order ::: chapbooks ::: Monday's Poem ::: Monday's Archive