HCSHR 2:6: Muriel Ford: At Any Time

Muriel Ford, At Any Time. Ottawa: Éditions des petits nuages, 2015. ISBN: 978-1-926519-10-4. (6+) 78 pages.

My reading of At Any Time by Muriel Ford had to take place in the interstices — sometimes short, sometimes long — of caring for my mother at home, dying of her amputation from my father. The marvels of short forms of poetry are much appreciated in these circumstances, not only for their concision (you could read it off a nursing chart), but for speaking through the heart. At any time I can be called to the bedside, interrupting my reading; and I go with short, memorable lines like a latex glove for the mind:

family farm
tasseled corn crowds the edges
of its graves

Each of her subjects is visited lightly, then she moves on like a bird on the wing.

I did develop a softer spot for her because of context, and started to think of her as simply "Muriel." I loved her story of the flambé in the hotel, and felt deeply the waves from a winter of eating only cabbage. There’s zazen compassion and humour in this little book. It’s the humour of an older woman enjoying small details of colour and personality (“a much-pierced person/ offers me a seat”), wry observations of a dowager who allows herself small flings opening into a large heart. Her attention to wildlife — sea-wrack, spring peepers, starlings — has Canadian flavour. Not taking herself too seriously, the author experiments with form, as in a migration of geese (such an overdone topic!) that slips out of line in a redeeming way. Flight patterns of vultures, movements of Mergansers exceptionally evoked. Occasional riddle and response (riddle me acupuncture!), and haiga.

Visually unique, the haiga in muted colours justify the price of the book. They are Muriel’s own paintings. Naïve and effective. The painting is sometimes the physical setting for near synesthesia: dune grass with wind-blown laughter; a dog rising from a dream to howl like a wolf; the sound of a plane muted by a cloud (not painted, but nearly).

Names and passing comments on naming add dimension to this collection. It has depth of a language used every day but not taken for granted. Wielded with intention, it has power:

bullfrog soloists
keep me awake
until I name them

A reference to the Golden Mean (the associated haiku reading as well backward as forward), followed in the middle of the book with, “a small snail rides/ the curve of a leaf”, offers nice satisfaction. There’s risk in mentioning such a thing as the Golden Mean because then the reader looks for it. And if it’s there, hallelujah. It’s not everywhere in this book, and it’s not pitch-perfect either. There are a few copy faults easily forgiven, and lines like “snow-laden pines under the bird-feeder” can be passed over. On one page a small edit has been executed in pen by hand, a loving parting touch. Part of the allure of this book is looking for unique moments of a warm voice among the straw. They are to be found, and they are several, like “shining slug trails” among dark woods.

My mother calls. She could go at any time. This morning, taking old batteries from an old flashlight, I felt it. Thank you, Muriel, for your tender words: “surrounded by lavender/ I hum with the bees”.

Review by Sandra Stephenson