I wanted to work with poets, playwrights or short story writers during this residency but the timing proved to be challenging for both faculty and community members so I decided to reach out to my National community of arts based researchers with the following call.


Calling All Poets!!

I am currently in a two-week residency at Diane Conrad’s fabulous Arts-Based Research Studio and extending my performative exhibition called Anthropology of the Discard.

This week I want to work from spontaneous poetic writing in response to the contents of a bag.

I am inviting you to take a few moments to ponder the image of the bag that Diane Conrad made and to respond with a few poetic lines.

I will be honoured to work with this in my upcoming week of studio experimentations.

Just send it to rickettk@uregina.ca with subject line Calling All Poets!

I received the following poems


Response to Diane’s Bag


after he visited Scotland

a friend once told me

with a derisive swish

how the Scots use

Glenfiddich to brush

their teeth


he eventually left

his family for a woman

who liked to sanitize

and cuddle in a spoon

position like love

could be ridden


even if the riddle was

seen through dark glasses

sung with parched lips

secured in a seashell

stamped with caffeine

served with roses


Carl Leggo, Vancouver



The Last Drop

I savour the last drop of Glenfiddich
As it warms my tongue
And I think of you on the beach many years ago.

Those sunglasses I found on the street suited you
The shell buried in the sand
A riddle like a life once lived.

What remains of love?
Pouches of coffee
Scant belongings that disconnect.

Good to the last drop?

Marni Binder, Toronto


Love is a riddle

Whose answer lies buried

Deep beneath the sea

In a coral shell

On a ledge of

glimmering rock.

So why search for answers

Unless you can swim.


Corinne Jackson, Edmonton


Riddled Love


your love is a riddle

enchained by flowers

and cliché patterns

sanitized by my toothbrush

after just 3 shots of coffee


stamp my shell

break me

with the edges of a rose

so I can feel you

through these glasses

that won't let you in


Pauline Sameshima, Lakehead

Save It

The spirits that haunt me
are dressed for the beach:
sunglasses, lip balm, an obligatory
bottle for making a quick exit
through the nothingness.

What gives them the right
to answer my phone, cancel dinner
and swirl me off in the sun?
How do they know when
I’m finished the last page

of a romance novel, and need
a fork in my backside. Why
do they always leave me
buried in sand, and only this spoon
to dig my way out.

Sean Wiebe, Charlottetown

With roses;
hand sanitizer shell
brush the choices away.

Single malt
under white glasses.
we eat love,
with a spoon.

Geneviève Hélène Cloutier, Ottawa

hand sanitizer
given the news of the death of leonard cohen
the dying of hope democracy
replaced by a demigod of misplaced hands
forget your perfect offering
the bell is cracked
no liberty here
I wash and I wash and I wash my hands
Pontius Pilate knows no sin
greater than failure to
democracy crucified on a cross
of white white white white white white ignorance
a picket fence where a silhouette of a man-boy hangs
in the grey weight of dawn


Lynn Fels, Vancouver


The sun is bright

My thoughts are travelling beyond my sight

I can still feel the jetlag

And I can hear the sea through my bag

I could still taste the fresh meal

But it feels so unreal

My existence is all packed

But I am still ready for another act.


Natacha Roudeix, Vancouver



Some things travel better than others,

Some are consumed in the journey.

Some bear repeated consuming, companionable well-worn leaves.

Darkness and light will resist control in a

Shell game lapping, slapping and slipping to and from coasts.

No one really knows where you have been so,

"No matter where you go, there you are" as they say but,

Gertrude Stein tells us there is no There,

​All marks are temporary.

Some people travel better than others,

And some are consumed by the journey.​


Carolina Cambre

who needs a sanitized love -

one only with glasses on

a shell of fragments

in a time as this, we need

loves of life and world

that brush the soul

nourish the body

slice through the heart

warm the inside

a stamp of desire

in pockets of peace.


Celeste Snowber, Vancouver


Neat deliberate orderly


But is it 1967?

That's the riddle!


Valary Howard, Edmonton


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