Noise Intercepted Collaborators

Allie Quelch - Author liason by day, poet by night

aquelch

Vancouver, Canada

Why do I want to participate?

For an opportunity to find inspiration and to move as an individual within a wave of creation. To assist in the transformation of an idea from something singular into something infinite.

 

Posts:

mmmmmmmmmNoise Challenge #5: The Senses

And there it is again
the hum
it vibrates through the hull
and into my bones

I feel you shift your weight
back, and the wind falls
stronger on my face

it whistles past my ears
and I get chills past the back
of my neck

the hum fades
you shift forward again
the moment is gone

BackroadsNoise Challenge #3: The Empty

We can call these streets empty
only because they haven’t been filled yet

The trees root the ground with nervous fervour
and the birds sing “God Save Our Queen”

Water mains burble and power lines hum
these are the ghosts of things yet to come

RushNoise Challenge #2: The Little Things

in progress, working title

 

I don’t know why
there aren’t more
poems about highways
rushing like rivers

I wonder why I never wrote
about the time I stood
in the Capilano River and
looked up at the underbelly
of that highway bridge.
The sound of water
and the sound of cars
rushing
was indistinguishable

I wonder why I’ve never
written Citrus Bay and its sound
so quiet you can’t hear
anything but the highway,
unless that is the waves.
That’s the outskirts for you.

I wonder why I’ve never looked
long enough at the sheer cliff face
of the highway for a poem to form

Nestled in Nelson Canyon,
it stands panopic above the low road
the sound carries down
hill like water in the creeks,
and Eagle Harbour’s depression
echoes the rush.

I don’t know why
there aren’t more
poems about highways
rushing like rivers

Echoing Heartbeats Always Stop ShortNoise Challenge #1: The Pulse

This place fell in love
with a nomad
to a slow song

They danced on the docks
barefoot before the last
call for departure.

Then the song played on
all horns and rumbling drums

and this place pulses on
to the slow song beat
pumping people through its streets
sift searching for its nomad.

And it calls for its nomad
in each ferry horn blast.
It cries for its nomad
in the creaking of the ramps.

The nomad calls back,
cries back too.
The nomad’s heart
beats for this place

but the pulse gets lost in the trees
taken by the birds
carried off with the wind.