Hockey poem week - the recap Posted by João on 6:44 pm

Hockey's place in Canadian culture is closer to religion than a simple sporting pastime; a unifying force in a country of 33 million people that, let the truth be told, is often split by politics and language. There is little arguing that the game is part of the national identity, a rite of passage between fathers and sons and, in the present day and age, between mothers and daughters as well. We all know that generations of Canadians grew up listening to Hockey Night In Canada on the radio, for example, and decades later the Saturday night tradition continues intact on high-definition television.

Surely the NHL is the sporting league that must be followed and every town has it's junior hockey team that is often the pride of the community as well. Still, the game goes beyond fandom and community pride. Tell me if this doesn't sound familiar: 'We had a hockey rink in the park. Every afternoon after school, my friends and I would head there and play until the sun went down'; or maybe this: 'The kids who lived on my street, we'd play street hockey almost everyday after school through winter'. Hockey games at the local rink or on the street brought kids from all ages together to partake in “pure happiness”. I do, however, question if this can be said in relation to today's generation, or if technology is robbing todays youth of this sort of comradery. As the popular saying goes: 'Street hockey is great for kids. It's energetic, competitive and skilful, and the best of all, it keeps them off the street'.

Generally speaking, however, Canada's love for hockey is hard to put into words non-Canadians can relate to, and the fanaticism may be hard for people outside of Canada to understand. I guess it might be similar to the way Brazilians feel about soccer but with one exception - the fact that the passion felt towards hockey in Canada brings with it a bit of lunacy. I'd like to see Brazilians go out for a game of road soccer when it's -20ºC.

And thus it is here where the uniqueness of the game lies as far as connecting to a people and a country is concerned. Hockey is not so much the image of Canada as it is the image of Canadians - hard, touch, sentimental, fun and, of course, uniting; and everyone, from coast to coast to coast, idenitifies with that. So that said, I will finish this so-called 'hockey poem week' with a quote by the Canadian author and humorist Stephen Leacock that goes like this:

"Hockey captures the essence of the Canadian experience in the New World. In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of a life, and an affirmation that dispite the deathly chill of winter we are alive".

... just as hockey is alive in us wherever we end up going.

Hockey poem week - Poem 6 Posted by João on 3:40 pm

Truly as it always was, your neighbour was your goalie or our goal scorer, but nobody was ever a defensemen. No glamour in defending. It was always about scoring picturesque goals and making game-winning saves. It was about making memories and in some cases, re-enacting them.

The Goalie Who Lives Across the Street - Gordon Downie

Jean Beliveau's welcome any time
at the outdoor rink
in the park
just across from my house
for morning hockey under blue skies
this winter.
Birds wheeling overhead
Russian temperatures
lousy to no gear.
I'm the Goalie Who Lives Across the Street.

Kids play with smokes hanging out
of their mouths;
beautiful puck hogs
with incredible tricks.
They are so easily fatigued,
they take a break after every rush.
Old-timers heckle:
"Hey, Jim Carroll. Pass the puck."
They don't get it.

No literary pretensions allowed.
Two minutes for
"I saw his blood,
a billowing crimson cloud
against the milk white ice."
That's an infraction here.

When the predatory follow the puck
down to the other end
my net swarms like the Great Barrier Reef
with the smaller fish.
My crease fills with good questions
and wobbly wrist shots
(there are no bad questions, only bad wrist shots).

And then there are
the parents
always yelling
always telling them
where to aim.

At the rink across the street
Gerry Cheevers is welcome any time.

Hockey poem week - poem 5 Posted by João on 12:59 am

There are those who play and there are those who just like to watch. Here in Portugal we are limited to watching and even that's recent ... but thank goodness for it. Playing not so much but it would be good to change that so we too could get ourselves ...

In Shape - Stephen Scriver

just to move, man
feel those muscles stir again
long summer of beer and sun

just to move
hear the old heart pounding
full of one more season

feel the body burst again
charged with easy sweat

two weeks of up, down
up, down
backwards, forwards

blows that whistle, man
sounds like music now it's easy

... move, man
only six strides down now
blue/white/red/white/blue/white
around the net
leg over leg
and blue/white/red ...

lungs smooth with swelling breath
legs pump push that ice again

ah, but just to move

Hockey poem week - poem 4 Posted by João on 7:15 pm

Who among us growing up in Canada didn't grow up on road hockey? Who among us didn't pretend we were 'Rocket' Richard, Guy LaFleur, Wendel Clark or Wayne Gretzky? Every generation had its hockey idols and today's still do. No matter how cold outside, a round up of friends for a game of road hockey kept us warm.

Road Hockey – Bruce Meyer

The middle of my journey,
as the train shakes,
I wake from a dream
about my childhood
where I saw the boys
I played hockey with
on the frozen streets
beneath purple dusks.
Snow had settled
on the brown furrows
of the fall ploughings
the way a dusting of ice
clung to our corduroys
as we shouted and raved
in a dead-end street,
pushing and hacking
each other’s spindly legs
until the night descended
blackening the game
and calling us home
to those tiny rooms
taped with clippings
of Howe and Hull
and silver grails.
I wanted to go back there,
wanted to dream again
of what I would become
but only become
the things I am
regardless of the dreams.
And as I woke just now,
at some point in a journey
I realized we’d all
become grown men,
and the waking, not the growing
left me angry. Snow whirls
by the coach car window,
still clings to the furrows
of pantlegs and fields
as the journeymen continue on
their battles of earthly overtime
and the sudden darkness

after.

Hockey poem week - poem 3 Posted by João on 1:03 pm

The term "pond hockey" is often used, especially in Canada, as a synonym to Shinny. It is meant to describe any form of disorganized ice hockey that is played outdoors, typically on a naturally frozen body of water. In fact, before hockey, there was shinny. Frozen lakes, frozen rivers, frozen ponds, frozen backyard rinks - all conducive to the game of hockey. The documentary film Pound Hockey is a must see for any enthusiast of Canada's game, and you can see it here free of charge: http://www.snagfilms.com/films/title/pond_hockey.

Shinny - Dale Jacobs

Days of shinny, we played pick up games for into the night
until our feet were numb, toes feeling like they would snap off,
fingers rubbing through socks soaked with sweat, kneading
the feeling back, ready for another period in the never ending
game past the moment's break.

Spring when the ice got slushy, bumps grew along the boards
where water dripped from the metal roof, deep winter when ice
was burned to a ghostly white, hard, unforgiving, knees elbow
bruides to a fine black, shaving rising from stopping skates,
a delicious arc of ephemera.

Half-cylinder of corrugated steel, oversize machine shop becomes
a rink, men of the town coming in from the field, tractors giving
way to hammers and saws and arc welders, coming together for
us, for skating, for games of hockey on cold Canadian winter
nights that seemed to last forever.

Sitting in this southern town, no nights cold enough to frost your
moustache, I wonder if anyone knows who built our rink or what it
meant, if anyone skates or plays hockey long into the night, giving
themselves over to the game, surrendering to air thick with cold,
breath suspended for just a moment.

Hockey poem week- poem 2 Posted by João on 11:54 pm

It’s one of those beautifully frigid winter nights that inspire poets. The skies are clear and the light from the moon illuminates the backyard. Fireplace smoke rises straight into the air and hangs motionless over the suburban outpost. The noise of metal on ice and the clacking of sticks rule here, in this time-honoured tradition.

Rink - Raymond A. Foss

After Minnesota’s lakes
in the winter of ’71,
it was no big deal
but for us it was
it was something we did together
dad, mom, and us some plastic, boards to frame the edge
and a thin film of ice added layer by layer, day by day
brittle pockets of air, deep solid parts and ragged places
where the lawn dipped, sloped draining the hose after each time,
so it wouldn’t fill setting lights to shine on our practice
under the stars and moon
using it after school too; but mostly at night,
watching mom figure skate and dad teaching us hockey
before the lure of skiing changed our winter sport.

Hockey poem week - poem 1 Posted by João on 7:13 pm

I recently came across a book called Going Top Shelf An Anthology of Canadian Hockey Poetry edited by Michael P. J Kennedy, a university professor who in 2001 put together a course on Canadian ice hockey literature at the University of Saskatchewan. Having been inspired by Kennedy's book, and given my own interest in Canadian culture; hockey and poetry has come to occupy my reading interest of late. That said, this week I'm going to be offering up a few poems, some of my favourites that I've come across on ice hockey in Canada. Here's the first:

Hockey - Jane Siberry

Winter time and the frozen river Sunday afternoon
they're playing hockey on the river
Rosie... he'll have that scar on his chin forever someday his girlfriend will say "hey, where...?"
he might look out the window... or not
you skate as fast as you can
'til you hit the snowbank (that's how you stop)
and you got your sweater from the catalogue
you use your rubber boots for goal posts
ah...walkin' home
don't let those Sunday afternoons
get away get away get away get away
break away break away...
this stick was signed by Jean Belliveau
so don't fucking tell me where to fucking go
...oh Sunday afternoon
someone's dog just took the puck
he's buried it it's in the snowbank ....your turn
they rioted in the streets of Montreal
when they benched Rocket Richard it's true
don't let those Sunday afternoons
get away get away get away get away
break away break away break away break away
the sun is fading on the frozen river
the wind is dying down
someone else just got called for dinner
Rosie!
hmm...Sunday afternoon.