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On Saturday, June 30, 2018, 1:27 AM, Finn Harvor <email@example.com> wrote:
On Saturday, June 30, 2018, 1:27 AM, Finn Harvor <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
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On Tuesday, August 29, 2017, 7:13 AM, Finn Harvor <email@example.com> wrote:Below and attached is my submission. Included is the text of the poem.Regards,Finn HarvorName and duration of Film: Snow in the Temple of Memory and Hope, duration: 9 min 41 secondsName of director: Finn HarvorCountry of origin: South KoreaContact details: fharvor @ yahoo.com/ fharvor @ gmail.com. Ph: 82-10-5696-5812.Name of Poet: Finn HarvorName of Poem: Snow in the Temple of Memory and Hope,*Synopsis: Attached is "Snow in the Temple of Memory and Hope,” a poetic treatment of the life and death of my brother, who was also a poet.This is a mood piece about an encounter between two addicts: one an alcoholic living on the residue of a divorce settlement, the other a homeless person. The first is aware of the plight of the homeless but, in his guts, too afraid of being ripped off to do much for them; like all addicts, he has a morbid fear of losing his share of what it is that he is dependent on (booze). But he is also painfully lonely. This loneliness manifests itself in terms of a desire for friendship (which is not fated to be), and a deep sense of the past.This particular work is from a book-length project entitled “Family Maps”, which in turn is part of a much larger text-image-and-music project entitled PLASTIC MILLENNIUM.*Filmmaker biography: I’m an artist, writer, filmmaker, and musician who lives in South Korea. I have published poetry and prose in a wide variety of literary journals, and my visual work (both drawings and videos) has been shown in Canada, the US, Greece, Korea, and Cuba.For more detailed CV, see also:*Link: https://vimeo.com/169778847pw: baramoneText:Snow in the Temple of Memory and HopeOrWinter’s PeopleVimeo link: https://vimeo.com/169778847pw: baramoneFade in.It’s a cold day’s endIn downtown Montreal.The sidewalks areCrowded with office workersAnd students –The employed andthe employment-wishing –.There are others, too, on the streets;They linger more than walk,And so, logically, should be extra-visible.Yet, in the eyes of the stressed-out,Society’s bustling winners,This last group –Impoverished, and too degraded to wish a salary –Discarded and loosened,And loose-change desiring –.Does not exist at all.All these street people are, in the eyes of the healthy,The ranked successful,Existentially gone,Existentially vacuumed.But my brother sees them.He sees themWith pityAnd multi-tiered fear.He, with his bad skin, bulging belly, dirty coat,Smelly hat,Is, in fact,Close to being one of them;He wants what they’re often pan-handling for --.
he’s carrying it, glass heavy,In his hand.But even though his attentionIs focused on them(the normal people disgust him),When he sees their wrecked faces –Francophone pale,Inuit tan,WASP red –His heart goes out to them.But despite this unfaked, comradely empathy,His anxious desire for distance is primal,Instinctive.His food supply(Correction: liquid bread)Shall not be shared,Shall not be depleted,And so he carries theWeight plastic bag,Filled with bang-clinkingFull liters of Colt .45(And for, good measure,one bottle of Blue),And proceeds down Parc Avenue,As determined to ignore the street peopleAs the office typesAnd pain-virginal McGillers.*The sidewalk is so frozenIts slushy, then freeze-dried curlicues of kick-coloured iceAre striatedInto clumsiness-causing shapes.It’s hard for pedestriansTo keep their footing.“Got any change?” a man’s voice says.My brother turns to it.He thinks: a native guy –Indian or Inuit,He can’t figure out which.He likes the man’s voice.(In reality, the man is neither:He's a Chilean who was a refugeeThen a regular guy with a regular jobAnd a marrow-painful past:It allCrashed –There's only so muchOne bodysoulCan take.)“Got some extra change? I need some food.”My brother looks at the homeless guy;His face is oval,His skin is pocked –Handsome and haggard at the same time.He has good features that’ve beenKicked around.The homeless guy looks at my brother –He has pales skin with cheeks both white with too much insideAnd rawly reddenedBy the cold.But the reddening continues;It climbs up the bridge of his noseLike an ant up a tree,And is on either nostrilLike red lights on a toy car.And he has a big, bushy beard –A beard so thick that itLooks animal:Rough and wildAnd flecked with odd substances.My brother looks at the homeless guyAnd knows he’s a drunk.Inside his mind-guts: shameThat the homeless guy – whose eyes seem fixedOn the plastic bag in my brother’s hand,With its four-bottle content,Knows him, too – sees through his privilege and his apartment and hisSpoiled doom.Sees him as a drunkWithout even the courageTo plummet.A moment of humiliationSuddenly bursts.“Sorry,” my brother mutters.He walks on.*The earth,Which has been continuing its spinHas moved Montreal fartherFrom sunlight,And now the cloudy winter skyIs at its deepest evening blueAnd grey.The temperature drops another degree.The ice on the sidewalkHardens its unevenness,And cold waterBegins to fall.*My brother hears a plaintively vulnerable cry –The shrunk meowing of an animal baby,And spots a little cat.It’s a tiny creatureMaybe an adult whose sizeHas been limitedBy limited food.The cat’s face – direct, humourless,Ignorant of charm –Looks right back at my brother,Its mouth opening (teeth looking like model dinosaur fangs).It meows again –Meows rights into my brother’s heart.My brother stoops to pet it,The dear creature;Stoops with his blurry, badly coordinated balance --.Clunk-heavy clink --.The cat flees, and my brother, straightening,Harrumphing at this feline snub,Doesn’t notice that his grip has weakened.Kee-RASSSHHHH!!The bag of heavy bottles is snatched by the earth’s gravityAnd breaks cleanly and multiplyOn the hard street.“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Godammit! Shit! FUUUUUCKKKKK!!!!!”Passersby glance at my yelling bro,And close their nostrilsAgainst the broken smellOf spilled beer.‘FUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!!” My brother’s rage is boundless –And useless.Cold, cold, cold.He staggers another blockAnd turns his headTo the omniscient sky.It, too, has its way of blinking.Flakes of snow,First tiny with cold tentativeness,Are falling from the sky,Then bigger.These flakes,Like spittle,Fall on my brother’s faceAnd the memory of childhoodFills him with such absolutenessIt is like –*Recalled: Ottawa, 1969 –Walking with Mom, Dad and meTo a neighbourhood rink.
outside sensations:The feeling in old, gone memoryOf living on a quieter, nobler planet --.The feeling of great, pervasive quiet.The feeling, too, that the past equals the present,And has the power to enter it.Inside sensations: our rickety home,Our bright kitchen.Skating for hours outside,Returning to heat.*My brother suddenly remembers the homeless guyAnd feels a big regret.He feels like he just let down a friend.He backtracks,His movements a little more agileThan they’ve been recently;Like any addict, being denied his addictionCheers him up.But the homeless guy’s spot is empty, nowThe past is shoveled aside by the present.Friendship-potential is – these are the odds – usually bombed into oblivionBy reality.My brother keeps walking,His face and handsTurning more and more raw,And he leaves the presentOnce again,And he walks down side-streets that areConcrete portals,Simple temple doors,To childhoodAnd past.Finn Harvor