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CANADADA: TAKE TWO

by M.L.Holton - Canadian Poet

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  • Streaming + Download

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    Spoken Word & Garageband Antics by M.L.Holton
    A 35 Sound Track Sound Celebration for Canada's 150th!
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      $20 CAD  or more

     

  • Collector's Edition CD: 35 Spoken Word & Musical Tracks by Canadian Artist, M.L.Holton.
    Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    Spoken words of potent poetry by Canadian artist, M.L.Holton, parallels the narrative nuances of her personalized music.
    A unique SOUND CELEBRATION of Canadiana.
    Slimcase CD with 4 colour panel insert.

    Includes unlimited streaming of CANADADA: TAKE TWO via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

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hello ...
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Well here we are. Canada's 150th year, since confederation. I was born in 1955, over 60 years ago, just over one-third of the time that this young nation-state carved out its place on this amazing planet. It's impossible to imagine where Canada, as a nation, as an IDEA, will be in another 150 years. Will we all become totally American-ized? Or China-fied? Or Russian-dummed? Or integrated into some kind of global Gaia? Impossible to know, harder still to imagine what the overall state of the world will be - altogether - by then. In the meantime, it is my desire during this 150th celebration to offer - to those of you in the present - and to those of you in the future - a little 'here & now' time capsule. As a bit of background, you might be interested to know that I have been an active wide-ranging visual artist for most of my 60 odd years: painting, photographing, furniture-making, filming, etc. Beneath it all has been the flow of sound. First, of WORDS - those odd man-made nuggets of structured noise that carry meaning. And, second, MUSIC, that glorious finite spectrum of high-low tones that tickle our ears through a multitude of instruments - traditional, modern, synthezied and 'found'. I've been messing around with both, ever since I can remember. Today, on this album, I am sharing a selection of my older poetry with my more recent music. It is my hope that my spoken word will appeal to the left and right spheres of your brain, and that my music will envelop - and delight - you. Both are delivered with love - and, at times, a touch of humor ... Enjoy ... CANADADA: TAKE TWO..
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Barn Dance the night is still young in this ancient oak hall as children and shaggy dogs scamper from bale to bale a tiny light shines above in the hallowed hay loft a small jack o’ lantern ricochets off broad beams and barn board in this cavernous old place so magical and mysterious soon manly young men practice their quickening steps humming happily on once hip-hidden harmonicas while their soon-to-be honeys press and preen their skirts, their hair and awkward middle-aged marrieds clumsily moon about like slow courting snails: the dance begins soon when the old fiddler finally plucks his first frisky note the eldest pair stand and slow begin a fine waltzing float children (and dogs) gaze on with wide-eyed delight as the fiddler’s fingers slow gain faster in flight soon all is raw, ruddy and radiant with reels, country gals and coarse gents high step and high stomp to honey sweet spiels quadrilles and crescents, low whoops and high hollers familiar faces flash meet, and young couples, hands clasped dart swift out of doors past grand-dads who doze, until the fiddler loud roars - ‘Last Call! Only One More!’ hollering hoarse he demands cold dripping ales while happy tired children turn a soft moonlight pale quietly they climb to the loft up above, curling up dreaming as their married elders labour love, below waltzing royal a renewed welcome reward for their long daily toil the barn beams sturdy protect all within so that when that tin roof clatters from another passing rain that old fiddler cheerfully begins, yes, yet again his last, yes, his last, roof raising refrain
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Old Campfire News high above the roaring flames was once an ancient sacrificial altar where innocent children were duly slaughtered in the name of Peace sometimes it worked, this artful ruse senseless warring ceased here and now, we gaze into these flames of old and wonder about those secret stories never told delicate children - merry, tender and o’ so bright never dreamed or schemed as well they may have might for Brutal Men and Fickle Women hugged imagined gods and slaughtered children ‘Times have changed’ we cheerfully say as we gaze off into those stardust spirals of the Milky Way - (but, isn’t the ‘slaughter of innocents’ still the Rule of the Day? Rwanda, Botswana, the Congo, and Iraq. Peace is not The End. No. ‘Black Oil! Yellow Gold! Defend! Attack, Attack, Attack!’) here and now, we gaze into these flames of old and add another lumpy log onto that fiery furnace bold our children, tiny tots and tender, with marshmallow twigs sing ‘Kumbaya’ while we remember
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Trading Post long knives short sighs hours spent and money lent trade for skins and trade for tin dirty hands begin again push and pull for all your worth long before you touch the earth children cry for grain to eat mothers lie to rest their feet when spring brings on the thaw off again to cut the paw rabbits, rodents, bear and elk muskrat, moose and beaver pelt slaughtered now beyond our need slaughtered now in name of greed ‘til the trading post stands no more ‘til all that’s left is Nature’s floor
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Susanna Moody at Rest sitting beside this burning brick fire I try to remember my long long day and all I can remember are those noxious cars on that infernal highway and that long messy smudge line of smog I listen to Sibelius to regain Health & Balance soon that musical genius of hot and cold love whips up white caps of excitement that slap me - wide awake my, that man can ride those wild colts of emotion like a rampaging red-blooded Roman or a prancing patrician Olympian (Did I suggest greco-roman? how politically outdated of me … ) I mean, of course, my old fire friend, he rides those full bodied notes like a long-limbed prairie cowboy free, fearless and far-ranging … (But, to be sure, he ain’t no hacky lacky, no, not this controlling Master with a firm four-in-hand … galloping … ) Revived, I wonder, Is Meritocracy just Imperial Democracy? I see history in these burning flames sitting by this hot brick hearth O’Canada, my old home and crumbling native land where potent pines and aging oaks once graced this fine fair place when meadow music-making was once as natural as breathing when perfect split rail fences and symmetrical log cabins were once born from our graceful hard-working slow body rhythms What will become of thee? I wonder
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Canadada finger tip to finger tip time tick eclipse
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Igloo aya ya burble burble spit the image I have of you chewing, quietly squatting I cannot touch the Silence you contain You have so much more than Wisdom you sit quietly your almond eyes dreaming I shiver in the cold and wonder why you and your people never came South maybe it is the Light maybe it is the Space maybe it is this Silence You turn to me and smile into my hunger you do not talk into my language you just chew and slowly, slowly, I begin to See the great, great Gift that you are giving me
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The Inuit in me Speaks to the White Why do you always insist that I become like you? I’m not interested. You lie, you cheat, you deceive yourself, you poison yourself, you don’t know how to live - or love your neighbour. You tell me you will teach me to read and write – Why do I need these things? I know how to talk, I know how to be still. You tell me you know this God, this spirit who watches over all and calls us brothers – What are you driving at? Why do you think I should suspend my natural suspicion of you just because you carry written words of this god’s Great Love? What is wrong with your love? I am kind, I am generous, I also listen to you. Because I do, you think I am stupid. I am not. You are. You think you can destroy me as you force-feed me your words. I know I am a prisoner of your curiosity. You try your tricks on me, I am an experiment to you. You use me, beat me with the strange rhythm of your tongues. You think I will sing your songs one day. I will not. I dream with my own people.I drum with my own people. I cannot command you to go away, it is not our way. I know you will leave soon enough - It is you who are the homeless.
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Terra Filma In his twenties, he wrote a screenplay about war. And the passions of men. In her twenties, she wrote a screenplay about love. And the passions of women. He read hers. She read his. She considered him dangerous and cynical. He considered her naïve and romantic. Innocent. They watched each other carefully. Under the Rules of War, he considered her an easy conquest. He felt he could easily deceive her with the sweet talk of love. She considered him a predictable fool. She knew she could easily deceive him with the sweet talk of love. Under the Rules of Love, he considered he could protect her, possibly own her, anyway, she would produce his children. But, he knew, she would need the tough talk of men. She considered he might be a useful ally, possibly a good investment, and he would be more or less fiscally responsible for she and the children. But, she knew, he would need the tough talk of women. They both thought it over for a decade. Then, each to themselves, they thought – ‘There’s got to be more to it than this.’ She started to read a biography of Nelson Mandela – He turned on the T.V. and watched Oprah. They both picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone for a very long time.
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Name Calling You call me woman ‘O man, that’s such an old argument’ You call me mother ‘Jesus pops, you know I ain’t the tops’ You call me your darling ‘Hot damn, no ain’t that somethin’ You call me wench ‘Listen I was milkin’ cows before youse was born’ You call me a symbol of your desire and longing ‘Hey babe, will you take out that little ol’ bag of rotten stuff?’ You call me all powerful ‘Darn tootin’, sharp shootin’ You wrestle with me in the hollow of your mind You pin me down, you help me up, you kick, you bite You use your force against me, your weight, your mind – And you push me so far into my Self that in order to breathe In order to save me, I must push back and roar. Only then will you leave me alone. For a time. Like a chair. Or a tree. Alone. I like space too you know. We should train the brain to fly ‘Cuz I always seem to get grounded again in this earth of mud goodness. Maybe this is the way it is meant to be You here inside of me.
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I care for you caribou Northern lights zig-zag like a zillion zinking bells Festive fire flies Feisty fairies – all Shatter my peaceful lunar harmony from a mystical blue green to a raw orange umber Touching warm mud grass with my mush nose I lift my head, arch my neck and listen for you I nest in the North I face the South My left eye on the dawn My right on the dusk I blink sometimes. Not often Just to keep off those damn flies Blinking now – I wait for you caribou
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Home we wander wily nily far and long we wander and yet we know not where we go we wander dawn to dusk tired and worn longing, hoping, wanting home
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Home - MUSIC 02:38
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The Decorative Peasant From my vantage boudoir point of West of Center - or Left of Center - or Right of Center – depending if you politically gaze on - or out - or in at I watch the continual movement surge ebb and flow of urban, suburban, rural humanity course along the young blood of this my Canadian civilization My own beating heart heaves harmoniously alternating panic with patience adjusting to nuances of mechanic and organic insurgence I peel a plumb purple grape plucked from the cluster bounty of my small garden and pop its full bodied ripeness into my mouth, then after crave that mysterious envelope of skin This shocking discovery of succulent voluptuousness disorients profoundly my hap-hazard analytical watchful Being - for a brief instant the Center shifts – as Lifeness ripples rapidly down to the scarlet tips of my budding toes I gaze outward again to regain my bearings and yes, all is as it was before (All was is as it is was before) I furtively pull out another grape from the clipped cluster and methodically peel back the hardened weather-exposed encasement of purple epidermis and once more pop that fleshy perfect orb inward to taste again that sweet n-wow-ness
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Hill behind the House There stands a hill behind the house On top of which there lives a mouse A fun-filled furry mouse is he With simple joys and full of glee I see him skip from time to time When on the hill I go to climb He sees me quick and smiles a song As he skips and skips along If I go along too slow He cracks a joke and acts the toad If I go along too fast He smirks and slithers through the grass If I climb too far to see He wags his ears atop a tree And if I stay away too long I hear him mourn from far beyond I must go back again you see My friend, the mouse, he misses me
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Pond Life while handsome bulrushes finally spear up as drooping willows listfully weep and a miniature tree frog chorus bellows at a throaty red-winged black bird swaying while big mud turtles freeze-frame as daring dragonflies whiz by and feverish minnows cheerfully charge at long-limbed water spiders skating while wood ducks snort green algae as black-eyed snakes weave wide ribbons and Queen Anne ruffles fine lace at a common thistle braying while merry buttercups pucker up as delicate bluebells dingle dangle and a great blue heron solemnly stares at a prickly porcupine playing while broad leaf burdock broods as Virginia creeper steals wild grapes and Canadian geese back paddle at a coyotes wet shadow fleeting while a young buck antlers tilt as several barn swallows swoop and mysterious brown bats dervish at mosquitoes buzzing flourish …this pond lives on It had it all As I recall.
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imagine if Imagine Gauguin, Klee, Rubens, Kandinsky Titian, Picasso, Kirchener, Van Dyke Rembrandt, Goya, Turner, Sargeant, Pollock El Greco, Miro, Constable, Hundertwasser and Arp: Imagine! What a room full! A real friggin’ mouth-full! Testosterone chunks of manly hormones Precisely pissed across taut virgin canvas Then think of Georgia, Emily, Frida, and Doris Does their squatting emit the same kind of chorus? Surely, if we paused for a sec we would see Their intimate moments quietly praise ‘All that SUPPORTS us’ Imagine how this world can or could be If men had wide wombs and women had wee willies: Would Picasso have been such a miserable prick Would Georgia have stayed so isolated in that vast desert oasis Would Pollock have drunkkkk ‘til he dropped stone-cold senseless Would Frida have settled for just surface appearances Would Rubens not have adored such voluptuous princesses? I ask only. The next time you plan to ‘maka some art’ Try to remember we are but playing a part Maybe minor, maybe major. Just think We are but ‘ardent engagers’. Adding to The oldest libidinal tongue of our species With fumbling fingers, mega-thumbs, boogey eyes And philosophical feces Is it ART? Who gives a fart? We’re still only ‘potty training’ To the Cosmic Creator
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Shareware a gentle gamelan orchestra of empty tin cans rattles down the dirt road while at the pond at the back new moon tree frogs bleat and bull frogs burp a rhyming boo-who pulsing chorus as sweet-water crickets lap dance on breeze rustled reeds mining heavenly harmonies they slither their zithers and play like micro fiddlers all care o’ lulling that vast musk of sky fires trail-blaze high on skipping hill tops beneath those Bedouin stars that promise pure perfection nearer, paper thin flutes flutter below longing lips raining rhythms that speed even the slowest of hearts memory and imagination fuse but it seems, these days these ancient-time future-promises now murmur mute trapped, as they are in billions of bloodless cold corpse computers & boxes velvet moon voices once hummed and moaned magic now sausage fat noon-day fingers fake and forge sunset horizons of begone becomings with the ‘click of a mouse’: ugh can you hear this whistling a ding sing song my sweetest sweet pea? because I will didgeridoo you didgeridoo you until you do do do
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about

2017 is Canada's 150th Birthday since Confederation. Those who live within the boundaries of Canada call themselves Canadians. To be sure, it's a political thing, but it is also a myth-making, national-identity and personal-defining thing.

Long ago I disengaged myself from the mainstream political identity and started to explore a more accurate personal planet relationship to this land with its ancient rock and its young 'Canadian' history.

Privately, I renamed my country-of-origin (from coast to coast to coast to border) as 'CANADADA' with myself as the sole 'canajun' citizen. ... (It works for me.) This renewed sense of Self allows a genuine sense of belonging here, in this Time, in this Space. As a wide-eyed earthling, I enjoy a comfortable habitation within the fixed boundaries of this known breath-taking natural habitat.

Altogether, my new 'natural' identity, (grafted onto the swirling facts and fictions of old), allows tremendous freedom to create, explore & imagine what CAN be ... I really do love this country: this land, these calm freshwater lakes and those far-flung pounding seas. It gives everything for a good, decent and happy human Life.

For this particular project, I wanted to create a hybrid album that fused some of my older spoken words of poetry with my most recent musical explorations. With 35 tracks in all, I hope you will enjoy this unique sound celebration: CANADADA: TAKE TWO.

Please feel free to share with others, and thanks very much for listening. p.s. Interested in becoming an honorary 'canajun' of CANADADA too? - Consider a VIP membership (see tab at top). Your annual membership helps, a great deal, to produce new items for you. Thank you. - mlh

credits

released March 15, 2017

Spoken Word & Garageband Antics by Canadian poet, M.L.Holton
ISWC / SOCAN registration: A1831092
ISBN: 9780992127251
Cover & Site Artwork: M.L.Holton

For more thoughts about CANADADA, follow along
on TWITTER or INSTAGRAM - @canadada
Fan Page on Facebook - CANADADA: TAKE TWO

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MLHolton Ontario

Self-taught, award-winning, senior artist, author & filmmaker from the Golden Horseshoe Region of Southern Ontario, Canadada.... In sum, a devoted advocate of 'Serious Fun'.

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