Self-Portrait Without a Bicycle

by Jessica Hiemstra

Painters use the term “fugitive pigments” to describe those colours most prone to fading after a brief exposure to light. In Self-Portrait Without a Bicycle, poet and visual artist Jessica Hiemstra uses the idea of fugitive colour to explore the grieving process; whether her subject is a lost grandparent, language, child, painting or cat, Hiemstra renders the fleetingness of life with fine, delicate strokes.

“The poet listens, tastes and remembers, senses afloat, dipping into the past and then surfacing again, drawn by a perfect but fleeting moment.” — Descant

Genres: Poetry

80 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2012

Reviews

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

When I was twelve Dad put a gun in my hands.
It wasn't the first time I'd held a weapon. We made
bows and arrows from saplings. But this time
it had heft because I knew what it was for.
I went inside and opened Colville, the book
with the binocular picture, the woman
who looked past me each time I went inside
for juice. Now I know what I was looking for -
Pacific, ironed pants, the weapon. Alex

has been accused of emotional sterility
but a woman with a revolver looking
for a midnight snack, anyone who tried to paint
the arc of wings, a hunting dog, has heart. Alex
left a message for me in Prince Edward Island, Infantry
Near Nijmegen. Guns
always say something.

- I learned about guns from Alex Colville, pg. 22

* * *

I was painting a door
when my sweetheart's drained face

phone in hand like a limp mouse, said
call you sister, the baby - and then -
is dead. The universe hit the door and
vanished. I found a bag, wrapped my paintbrush
and set it on the floor. And then I called
through cable acrossdormant Saskatchewan,
graffiti on the granite shield. I love you, I said

and tried not to weep. And then details:

I baked cookies Friday, she stopped moving,
her name is Keira Jo. For the last several months
I'd probed for the secret name of the girl
but now the name premature, and the little ones
late. Yesterday, Rachel said, she was fine.
She was spinning in infinity, pressing
her soles against my sister who wonders
if she was trying to kick her way out, if she
was looking for the door with her heels,
if she could have done anything.

- pg. 49

* * *

I wrote about fading Mondrians
(and it was after that)

I wonder if it's my fault. I left my bike outside
all winter without riding it. Come spring
I didn't fix it. I should have asked for help
but not knowing how I hauled it to the curb
for someone to steal, make it work, take hope
in the broken thing -

a seat-less bicycle leaning against Dad's hayloft,
too small to ride though I'm grinding gears
to make it fly.

- pg. 73

[Debra Albonaimi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Again I had the pleasure of meeting Jessica and listening to her recite her work. Listening to her read aloud was nothing short of delightful!
Her poetry is personable and storylike! I will watch for other publications and reading from her works.