Weird Stage – “Everyday Marvels” review

Weird Stage – Everyday Marvels review

As a part of Weird Canada’s “Weird Stage” launch, I wrote a piece about a marvelous love child of poetry, theater, and dance.


Weird Stage – My first theatre review

Weird Stage – My first theatre review

I have been working with Weird Canada for a few months – and they are the best! Amazing music reviews, meditations on emerging arts in Canada. Finally, I decided to contribute to that weird and lovely community by masterminding theatre/dance/other performance arts reviews. This is our first post and my first play review 🙂

Poem – A Nice Dream


I saw something similar to this picture in a dream the other night. Though uneventful, the dream felt hyper-realistic, violently vivid. I cannot shake the memory of this dream away.

I was looking ahead

I was waiting to see

An old city of brick.

Yet what I saw instead

Was an ocean of trees

Naked and dead and slick.

The city still stood there.

I could see it peek through

The tangle of branches.

I continued to stare

At the dried-up sinews,

As if caught in a trance.

The sound was piercing

Acutely through my ears.

The sound belonged to

A swarm of birds shrieking.

They echoed through the air.

Each note splitting in two.

Looking from a distance

This forest looked alive –

Unsettling movement

Of birds was persistent.

Buzzing like a beehive.

A breathing ornament.

I came a bit closer.

My curious nature

Was looking at details –

At birds,  a bit closer.

At once the whole picture

Darted into the air.

The birds started fleeing.

Their violent motion

Was forcing me down. I

clung to the ground, fearing,

Caught in the commotion,

Feeling the air brush by.

They were too close to me.

Their beaks could break apart

My flesh in an instant.

They were too close to me.

Suddenly they depart.

Far away and distant.

Now I’m looking ahead

I am waiting to see

An old city of brick.

Yet I still see instead

The same ocean of trees

Naked and dead and slick.

The city is standing.

Still unchanged, peeking through

The thick tangle of branches.

And now I start crawling

Through the dried-up sinews.

This story never changes.

Poem – Not used to this

I think that sometimes a person can feel strange about happiness:


Sees a bug and then two. 

And watches as they frolic.

This man is not used to

Not being melancholic. 


He steps on the dead leaves

And listens as they crumble.

He’s still in disbelief.

Perhaps now he should stumble.


And contemplating death

Is not as satisfying

As picturing that breast.

That sight is sanctifying!


He doesn’t want to aim

That cold gun straight to his head.

Has he become too tame?

Where’s the passion he once had?


Oh no, the passion’s there. 

But tragedy is not fun.

He inhales the damp air

And smiles at the autumn sun. 


He doesn’t feel anguish.

So what? Is it difficult

To finally flourish?

Look at the leaves made of gold…!


Damp and cool and alive

And his feet are somewhat chilly.

Why did his heroes strive

To abandon life so freely?


This man likes somebody

And that’s not such a big deal.

Now, drinking some coffee

Would have a greater appeal.