Category Archives: Poems and Prose Poems

Nails in the Tree: A Reflection on Trauma

Sylvan Park, Scarborough

I want to heal from the damage caused by two nails that have pierced me. Over the years, they have twisted themselves into cracked pockets of partial burial, digging in, holding fast to their reluctant host.

“Brace yourself,” well-wishers advise. “Just rip out those rusty old bastards and you’ll be free.” It is easy for my friends to say this, for they perceive the nails as separate and distinct from my flesh. They judge me for cleaving to familiar cruelties, the very devices that undermine my stability.

I miss the clarity of rage that met the shock of the first hammer blow and the next and the next. But I was young and did not understand how quickly righteous anger cools to self-doubt. Matching pain to resigned silence is a mistake that re-makes itself.

The man who held the hammer is long dead, but the nails he selected still insinuate with aches. The memories sink more and more severely into my limbs each season, and their sharp points have become as familiar as shame. Although he never explained why he chose me to be punished, he was careful to convince me I deserved it. That way, I could continue to self-crucify as he intended, a sadistic immortality.

The two nails drive his name deeper with every splash of rain on metal, every ice-storm that conducts more cold into my veins. Yet without this Frankenstein map of ancient injuries, who am I? If I am not splintered, how can I seize the audacity to be whole?

Milk Door, a Photo-poem by Catherine

When soldiers returned to father the Boomers,
this house had a miniature door
for bottles to enter full and leave empty,
waiting to turn milk-opaque again.

After the rise of supermarkets, the portal changed to a window,
six milky panes slap-spackled in the brick,
intimate economies traded
for plastic jugs, sloshing bags, and Snippits.

Today, morning rays tremble where hinges once swung,
and light is the currency of nourishment.
Absence has punched through the wall,
dispensing with chiseled finesse.
But thanks to the glass, tactless bricks
do not efface the door’s memory.

Instead, as stained-glass surrenders to water,
transparency releases pools of color,
visual sighs for the lost,
and prayers for anguished strength
to carry memories of the dead.

Six thick panes for discarded cradles,
rusty skate keys, and faded bowling prizes.
One shelf for the clink of empties, echoes of booming demands to grow up strong.

Milk door to window,
necessary to obsolete.
What shines can seed the deepest soil.
And what empties to nothing
holds rivers of radiant ghosts
that shimmer, swirl, and eddy in aching gold.

The Tapir’s Night Journey Downstream (Collage and Poem)


Response to the Tapir’s Night Journey Downstream

Transitions define my body.

Look how the current splashes my legs turquoise,

the moon silks my chest,

and wild solitude cools my nimbus to blue, white, and lavender.

Behold the purple eye that guides my canoe down the Amazon,

riding the night rapids in a dream of passages, openings, and


And see how curving shapes in the dark transport me to waterways

that empty into wider and wider rivers

until the open Atlantic receives my vessel at journey’s end.

Ice Peace: Prose Poem in Praise of Niagara Falls in Winter

Niagara Falls, you deliver glory and awe this winter! Heaped with white, long cracks scar your river-ice, a survivor of mythic battles: water versus freezing air, movement versus paralysis, and the struggle to break free, break through, break open.

I love the edges of your ice banks, the borders of upheaval against which green swirling cauldrons steam, pool, and hiss. I love the seams of blue ice and the irregular holes in the ice-lid, especially the one beside the north bank and the other in the center of the river.

Niagara Falls, I love your giant ice sculptures, their humps, swoops and Matisse shapes. These small glaciers settle me into the soul of winter, birth echoes of the Great Lakes, great pools of ancient melted ice cupped by basins. This water, this ice so old and yet so fresh, sluices clean through me and gives me peace, ice peace.

Barn Memory, Prose-Poem by Catherine Raine (2007)

I am a ruined barn, empty but smelling of ancient hay. I sit in a lost valley, no longer a shelter nor part of a living farm. I used to be warmer, to glow orange from lanterns on February mornings, to retain animal heat. Now my shadows fill in their outlines, brief flashes from the highway my only relief.

I am tired of being a relic, a rural ghost that attracts photographers from the city. Their insulting attention reminds me that I am just a skeleton of economies past, a symbol of romantic decay.

All my sounds are whispers and echoes now, where once I heard grunts, shouts, whinnies, cries of pain and hunger. It’s so quiet now. Ruin is quiet. My unsteady walls feel dry, brittle, so straw-like that one warm hand on my door would set me ablaze. I welcome this fire, this sweet extinction into ashes.

When it rains, I feel the blessed water soaking my beams, splashing through broken panes, swelling the hayloft floor so that I forget my ladder is broken and my stalls now shells that once held a family’s wealth and sustenance. I miss being whole. I miss being real. I miss the animals I used to protect.

(The audio recording below is from my reading of the poem at The Urban Gallery on Saturday October 25th, 2014)



Laundry Meditation

IMG_8548On a washing day, I place the white basket on the patio table, move the line into position, and grab some single socks. As I administer the stability of clothespins, I relish the sun on my face and the breeze that moves the tall thistles and Queen Anne’s lace.

My hands attach the socks, shirts, towels, and pajama bottoms to the line, connecting me to a pre-electric time when the power of the sun was not considered an eccentric alternative to the dryer.

IMG_8549Full of solar gratitude, the pulley and I send the clothing further down the line, deeper into the garden, unfurling my sails for the wind to catch them. I scootch the entire set of washing as far as I can, until the first sock is almost touching the top of the plants. Each time a new garment is pinned, it makes a great sideways launch into the unknown, pennants of the sky meeting green messengers of the earth.

IMG_8561Task finished, I stand on the deck to admire the animated line, smiling at the dance of billowing cloth that the wind creates as it plays with pant legs and flowing hems. As I observe the moving shadows cast on the grass below, I breathe the scent of summer warmth that the laundry will later hold in memory, releasing sunshine on thankful skin.

Think About the Pink Sink

A pink sink appeared on a neighbour’s lawn two weeks ago, and I took a picture of it.

IMG_5279The rejected basin was still there yesterday, but some changes in its appearance had occurred.

IMG_5880Pink Sink Reflection

The weight of the pink sink basin is no match for the power of grass. It only takes two weeks for hundreds of green blades to hoist their pastel burden and tilt it to one side. Even the dandelions triumph over the sink and find outlets through the three holes, the ghosts of faucets past.

IMG_5733 IMG_5725 IMG_5717Where hot and cold water once rushed through pipes, new stems flourish wild, breathing spring into the openings that people once controlled. Fluffy weed seeds unfurl with defiance, flaunting the natural disobedience of plant life. It seizes every opportunity to grow, not caring if it’s welcome.

IMG_5734What humans see as trash and ruin, the dandelions respond to with grace and grit. They teach us what really matters: survival, finding a purchase, and overcoming obstacles. They create ingenious beauty in the unlikeliest of places.


Catherine’s “Life at the Roots” Poetry Reading (May 31st, 2014)

This poem enjoyed an open mic outing (my first) yesterday afternoon at the Urban Gallery. I am grateful to Brenda Clews for organizing the event and to Stewart Russell for making the recording!

Life at the Roots

By Catherine Raine (2013)

 One fall day,

I walk the ribbed bedrock of a dry creek.

Between old dreaming stream and Flack Lake,

a carpet of fresh moss and brown duff.

My steps disturb a creature

who runs away under the cover of leaves,

pushing up against its shelter as it flees.

The unknown animal

creates a living ribbon of movement,

drawing a flight path with its body.

The tree litter shifts and rustles in its fast wake,

evidence of life unseen but more real than this poem,

fusing threads of instinct without pause.

One summer day,

I bike home from work,

thoughts distracted from the simple path

that curves by the banks of Taylor Massey Creek.

I pass a tall gathering of yellow grasses

that erupts with startled birds.

They fly straight up from the reeds,

rising all at once in a mass of flapping.

Birds of hidden presence,

you are birds of poetry and vision.

All the beauty that lies unknown within us,

waiting for a sudden movement,

a whoosh of wheels and wings

to reveal life at the roots,

a wild frightening freshness that we cage with lies.

One spring morning,

Dark green shoots

grow from my breasts, pushing up, pushing out.

I tug a shoot from my left aureole

and a large curly leaf comes out.

I tug more shoots and yet more shoots,

shocked by the secret depth of my roots.

My right breast overspills with greenery, too.

Dirt mixes with the leaves,

and one last tug

makes an onion pop out and roll on the grass.

Onion, I know you.

You promise food, the push of streams,

breath of reeds, and the soft spring of moss.

I believe in your hidden roots.

Underground, you listen to famished souls

who trace desire lines on the waiting earth.

Several years later, I entered the poem in a contest and it was selected as one of four winners:!-Part-One-Scarborough

The Name in the River: Photo-poem by Catherine

Window Art by Natu Patel, Humberwood Library
Window Art by Natu Patel, Humberwood Library

She kneels before the river,

the ankles of her snow boots resting on the bench-edge.

Beside her, The Lightning Thief, three mysteries, Brave,

and a packet of cheese crackers make a small tower.

Window Art by Natu Patel, Humberwood Library
Window Art by Natu Patel, Humberwood Library

Ignoring the crackers,

she watches the deer who sniffs the air for danger

before dipping its head in the river.

She wants to swim downstream in grey and blue

where the water’s wild direction drops from sight.

Window Art by Natu Patel, Humberwood Library

She turns to watch the librarian busy with the Holds cart

and then etches the name Alia into the river with her fingernail.

Alia knows it is not allowed,

but she obeys an inner devotion

to a moving sanctuary, an altar of water.

Alia writes her name in the river

because it calls her daughter.

Alia dives into her river,

ancient gills awakening to underwater life.

The river’s name is Alia

and it carries the kneeling girl home.


Trash Bunny’s Worst Christmas (Photos and Poem by Catherine Raine)


Lost animal of Christmas past,

floppy ears cover eyes

too ashamed to accept,

how low she’s fallen,

 faded felt belly

frozen in grief to the sidewalk.


Without even a plastic bag

to disguise rejection,

she lies exposed, less than garbage.

Discarded cords, old homework,

and a Disney Store bag from 2007

press against the slack form on three sides.

Her tired pelt casts shadows on jigsaw mats

that are not useful, not even fun.


 Who used to love you?

Who threw you away?

Who remembers the morning

you got yanked from a red box

and hugged with aggressive joy?

Where is your former seat

on a bunk bed or cedar chest?

You never chose this street, this corner, this end.

Nobody asked if you were done with love.


When I see the patchwork bow on your neck,

my ribs tighten in pain.

The bow’s faded hearts, flowers, and stripes

in green, blue, yellow, and a hint of purple

cannot lift this heap of despair,

but the colors found me, your witness, your friend.

Let’s sit together until the truck comes.


Nijinsky Ballet Haunts Viewer

Even though it has been a century since Vaslav Nijinsky (1890-1950) danced in his prime, his artistic energy continues to flow forward in time, crashing on the Four Season Centre’s stage in a wild wave of visionary brilliance. The stage held but could not fully contain John Neumeier’s ballet, Nijinksy. Two days after I saw the performance, I still carry it with me.

When I think about the ballet, I am most haunted by a performance set in a Swiss hotel’s ballroom in 1919. There, the title character improvised a solo that turned out to be his final public appearance before schizophrenia made it impossible for him to work (“John Neumeier’s Nijinsky,” by Michael Crabb, Performance Program, page 8).

In the hotel scene, Nijinsky stands holding one hand outstretched overhead, fingers spread wide, his body tense. Slowly, the hand turns into a fist. He drives the fist into his mouth, and as his arm continues to push down, the force of this movement pushes him all the way to the floor. He lies there with his fist still in his mouth, stunned by this primal act of self-inflicted violence.

When my eyes followed that cruel driving fist, I witnessed a moment of pain so raw and private that I felt I shouldn’t be watching it. The dancer’s anguish and despair felt real. The fist’s repression hinted at a buried scream it was desperate to silence. I saw how the character’s struggle within himself literally brought him low, a dancer known for his spellbinding leaps now slapping the floor with his hands.

The second scene that I cannot forget arrived in the second act. Asylum inmates in dove-gray ballet costumes raise up from among them a Broken Boy. While he stands on the shoulders of two male inmates, the group that encircles him raise one arm each straight up in the air, their palms the face of prayer.

When soldiers dressed in green jackets and underwear storm the asylum, the Broken Boy gets crushed as they stomp around him in unison, their aggressive dance not softened by the presence of a woman with long hair in a body stocking. The Broken Boy tries to run but gets stuck. He is bent over, a hand steadying him on the floor while the other flies up. His jacket flops over his head as his legs spin in useless circles, going nowhere.

Looming over the intense turmoil are two large illuminated circles that tilt oppressively. The choreography mirrors the circles in a pattern that Nijinsky follows as he twirls with his arms overhead in a perfect circle. At one point, a dancer circles the still figure of Nijinsky as if he is a Maypole. And during the Scheherezade dance, lines of dancers break off into circles like beads of earth magnets as Nijinsky swoops lyrically, his body and arms creating symmetrical half-circles of constant movement.

The heartbreaking beauty of Nijinsky communicated what human disconnection feels like (hands and arms that undulate in proximity but rarely touch) and the suffering of a person crashing on the rocks of isolation and pain. Nijinsky’s psychological struggle revealed itself in unforgettable images: the fist in the mouth, the Harlequin kicking the stage wall, the Golden Slave with his arms crossed overhead as if bound by a rope, the man in the straightjacket rolling across the floor, and the long lengths of red and black velvet that twine around Nijinsky’s limbs in the final scene.

As a grateful viewer of this powerful ballet, I’d like to thank John Neumeier and the National Ballet of Canada for expanding my understanding of Nijinsky and teaching me through dance what no psychology or history textbook could ever express.

Inner Map (Non-Political), Encaustic Painting by Catherine Raine, 2010
Inner Map (Non-Political), Encaustic Painting by Catherine Raine, 2010

Free Poetry Workshop Nourishes Creativity at Don Mills Library

I’m fresh home from an afternoon devoted to poetry! Facilitated by spoken word artist, Andrea Thompson, the workshop combined a writing exercise, performance, and discussion. Ms. Thompson had a warm, engaging presence that put me at ease, and I appreciated her genuine passion for poetry.

To give us the flavor of her work, Andrea performed three of her pieces, transforming our group of twelve into a fascinated audience. I especially loved the way she sang some of the words when she felt called to sing. She brought a melodic and dramatic quality to her poems that made a big impact on me.

After we introduced ourselves, Andrea invited us to write a four-line poem based on a simple exercise. Each line was to start with the line “I am from” and then fill in the lyrical blanks with the name of a food (line one), a family or cultural tradition (line two), a snapshot of a location (line three), and something about the climate (line four).

I enjoyed listening to the poems that my fellow participants created, and many of their words have stayed with me: sandalwood, honey, dinner at five a.m., stars, land of Buddha, sound of flowers, and the promised land. To our amazement, the writer of a beautiful poem about grief said, “This is the first poem I have ever written.”

When my turn came, I noticed some constriction in my breathing, but I was able to read the following lines to the group:

I am from pecan pie, treacle sweet, tasting of Midwestern corn syrup and warm Southern trees.

I am from total immersion baptism by the old pastor in his Brooks Brothers suit.

I am from Liberty, Missouri, the buckled up Bible belt, green and friendly, with undercurrents of despair.

I am from tornadoes, sirens that shoo us to the cellar, staring at the cold rust on the freezer.

I am from there.

Beauty Never Dies at the Desert Botanical Garden, Phoenix Arizona (Journal Entry for May 3, 2012)

As I write on a slightly rickety table beside the snack cart, I’m enjoying the shade and moving shadows of a tall tree. The same waving branches that are making patterns on these pages recently hosted a rock pigeon, but it has flown away.

I’m taking a rest after almost two hours of desert trail-walking. Funny how the landscape didn’t really reach me at first, but before long I lost my heart to its wildflowers, lizards, hummingbirds, and flowering cathedral cacti.

As I made my way along the Desert Wildflower trail, the Desert Discovery Loop, and the Steele Herb Garden, fragments of lectures and conversations shimmered briefly, the fluttering of unseen wings in the leaves.

Tap Root.



Lizard!! Lizard!!

“Would you like a picture of this cactus for your power point presentation?” (Father to his young son)

In the Desert Garden, I saw a multitude of memorials on benches, chairs, fountains, trees, and walls. There were even memorial drinking fountains (a lovely idea). However, I was looking for a special one, a plaque in memory of a Toronto friend’s beloved parents. And when I finally found it, I felt connected to my friend’s family and their shared memories of the Garden. It didn’t seem to matter that I never met them. They had walked these paths before and enjoyed the beauty that I was seeing.

I studied the plaque for a long time, growing sad and thoughtful. But the more I reflected on the inevitability of loss, the more I felt strangely comforted at the thought of all the people who will visit this gorgeous sanctuary long after I have had my mortal turn. The Desert Garden is an embodiment of faith, for in this place, love, memories, and the creative earth continue to flower and flower, tapping deep roots of Beauty that do not die.

Shine Shine Shine! Grandmother Raine’s Gift

During my grandmother’s lifetime (1911-2008), she never owned a yoga mat or experienced a guided visualization led by a shaman at an Ontario spa. Nevertheless, Grandma was with me last May when the shaman asked me to close my eyes and descend deep into the earth, deep within deep, down to the cave of the grandmothers.

“Shine” Collage by Catherine Raine, 2012

Drawn by the firelight and the chance to see Grandma Raine again, I went into the cave. Grandma gave me a heavy object wrapped in a gray cloth. Resting inside the cloth was a stained glass ornament that used to hang from her apartment window. When it caught the bright Missouri sunlight, it released streams of green, lavender, red, and blue. I used to love looking at those ribbons of light, and when my niece Emma saw them as a baby, she loved them too.

I took the gift reverently and gave thanks for its rainbow message, the loving command to let myself shine. It called me to allow the light to both pass through me and beam from within me. It called from a cave as deep as the grandmothers’ mythical one, but just as real and powerful.

The gift was a verb. Shine. Be the stained glass. Transform clear light into personal pigment. Manifest the light into words, art, kindnesses, movement, and love. Don’t be opaque. Be clearly colorful, openly bright, unabashedly shiny, embody the light.

The gift and its invocation have come at the perfect time to help me fight the dark grief shadows that cover, shield, withdraw, and dim. Grandmother Raine’s present encourages me to flood my being with light, to surrender to radiance, to shine, shine, shine, and shine.

“Shine” Collage by Catherine Raine, 2012

“Invisible Twin” by Catherine Raine

After more than six years of service, I recently resigned from an organization which helps survivors of torture and war. It was a tough decision, and I’m going to miss my students a lot.

I’d like to re-dedicate the following poem to them. I wrote it in 2007, and it was published in the Winter 2009 edition of First Light.

Invisible Twin
(A Poem for CCVT Students )

Trauma lives in your skin

an invisible twin,

a script of scars that freeze

silent horror scenes on replay.

The demons that stalk you evade photographs

and only you can say where they keep the keys to your cell.

But an attentive friend can apprehend,

around the corners of conversations,

pale threads of the shroud that veils your suffering.

Your shadow reveals his choices

when you sit where you can check who enters the room,

when the words loss, lost, have lost

and death, dead, have died

pitch you into a private hell.

A tragedy we read in The Toronto Star

sets the ghosts to whispering “Remember, remember!”

what you want with all your strength to forget.

Quick to take offense,

your pain flashes out in bitter responses

that the sensible call extreme

but the sensitive know

arise from the depths of your rage

at the cruelty of dogmatists, thugs, criminals in uniform.

Trauma haunts you but also gives courage a voice,

exhaling stories that pull you to the surface,

intact and shining with resilience.

Jenny’s Purple Meadow

During a memorial service for my childhood friend, Jenny Smith Carr (1969-2010), I gave a short eulogy with this meadow picture projected on a screen behind me. I found the Swiss meadow image in the Picture Collection of the Toronto Public Library, but there wasn’t any reference to the photographer who took this calendar photograph.

 Jenny’s Purple Meadow

A few months ago Jenny asked me if the news of her cancer diagnosis had made me think about my own mortality. I said, “Sure it does. You’re a part of me.” She’ll always be a part of me, a precious patch of Jenny-ness that inspires and sustains me.

When I visualize the color and texture of this Jenny-patch in my soul, I see a set of translucent paddles in primary colors. Jenny is the red paddle. I’m the blue paddle. And the purple place where we overlap is the part of Jenny I get to keep, a purple meadow of shared memories, experiences, values, and giggles. Jenny’s meadow is a clearing in my mind, a sunny expanse of wildflowers surrounded by an ancient forest.

My hope for all of us who were blessed to love our Jenny is to frequently visit our clearings, for they are sacred sites of Jenny’s spirit that death cannot destroy. This afternoon, I’m taking you with me to Jenny’s purple meadow, where stories flower beside a purple stream, among clumps of irises and daisies, and in the hollows of warm stones.

Take this wildflower over here. It’s a story set in the late nineteen seventies. Jenny and I are trick-or-treating along Mill Street in Liberty. As radical young questioners of gender roles, we have disguised ourselves as housewives. We have put pink curlers in our hair and wrapped ourselves in padded polyester bathrobes. Fuzzy slippers pull the satirical outfit together. At one fateful house on Mill Street, the woman who answers our knock is dressed exactly like us, down to the last curler. She gives us a few pieces of candy but no compliments on our cute costumes.

More Jenny memories come from Camp Oakledge in Warsaw, Missouri, where I was very lucky to spend two summers sharing a canvas tent on a wooden platform with Jenny and other fellow Girl Scouts. One afternoon, Jenny and I canoed about three miles across the Lake of the Ozarks to a hamburger shack perched on a dock. I still remember how good that burger tasted because we had powered ourselves across the waters, earning our lunch with our oars.

In February of 1982, Jenny and I attended a winter campout in Dearborn, Missouri. We shivered together in a tent that we had placed on the slope of a hill. When the leaders of the campout organized a midnight hike, Jenny opted to stay in the tent, but I went out. We walked to the edge of a clearing in the woods and drank in a breathtaking bowl-shaped meadow all blanketed with deep snow. The dark ring of trees circling all that open space was a visual prayer. When I think of Jenny, I remember this winter meadow. Like her, it is spiritually refreshing and elegant.

The intense starry sky of the night hike also reminds me of a more recent night. A couple of Thursdays ago, a group of Jenny’s close friends made a plan to look at the sky together at 10 pm (eastern time) and send out beams of love to our dying friend. Wind chimes, lightning, singing locusts, clear skies and cloudy ones greeted us from Arizona, Missouri, Ohio, Connecticut, and Ontario. I thought of how much I love Jenny and cried when I remembered her blog entry about the pain of the biopsy needles.

She’s beyond the needles now, beyond pain, beyond fear. She’s a gorgeous bird of paradise. She’s the drops of rain that bless us. And she’s in every compassionate thing we do. Her purple meadow is alive with sensitivity, laughter, and thousands of kind words. We protect it when we share stories of our beautiful Jenny.

Jenny’s Purple Iris, Catherine Raine 2010


hot cheez doodles

Not long ago I read a passage from a 1989 journal which covered the summer before I went to Durham, England for a year. I was working in a local potato chip factory, an experience which inspired the following poem dated August 11:

“You smell like a potato chip!”

O mecca — hot cheez doodles

I lay them in their bed

hot snacks

so beautiful–

your wastage fills the waste bins

and we trail them to the dump shrine

wayfaring proletariat that we are.

O potato

O alienation

what are we breeding

the machine and I?