Poetry Night: When there are no words

With thanks to the organizers of Banff’s recent Pints and Poetry night, hosted by Heather-Jean Jordan, Banff’s current Poet Laureate.

Heather-Jean is a multi-talented musician, singer, song-writer, poet, educator, mentor, bell-ringer and public personality who supported this fun evening with great flair and positivity.

I was honoured to be invited by Heather-Jean to read a poem, which immediately lead to the question: What poem? Taking the word “poem” lightly and having been inspired by my recent Writing as Craft Workshop participants, I took myself by the pen and went for a poetic meander down my personal Memory Lane.

May 22, 2026 Poetry and Pints reading at The Banff Legion.

No words — a poem

Dedicated, with gratitude, to all of the people who are encouraging me to keep poking and prodding, looking for interesting entry points into the world of words as thoughts rise, recede, arrive, shape-shift, morph and depart into the silence. It’s a writer’s world.

There may be no words because I have no experience on the topic

There may be no words because our wordsmiths and forefathers were not mothers

There may be no words because you and I have never had this conversation

There may be no words because we don’t know how or what to think

And still I yearn to find the words, pining for ways to

Shine a light into the dark corners of my memory

Searching for thoughts and memories that bring clarity

Words to replace the “je ne sais quois” feelings that give meaning and purpose and direction to life

There may be no words, and I wonder why?

Why is it so difficult to challenge the clichés and memory of a past, once upon a time…

I grew up in a village. Mount Pleasant. Such a lovely sounding place.

It was tobacco-growing, tomato-growing, gladioli-growing in mixed gardens of seasonal delights, oaks and maples and hickory nut trees

We weren’t all born into that place at one moment in time

We didn’t fit comfortably into each other’s pockets

We didn’t all have the same mother tongue or world view, but we were happy to chat and hold friendly conversations

Small talk they called it.

Like the window-side conversation with Windy, the man who pumped gas at the corner, arm resting on the car, leaning his head into the window, cigarettes sold from the clutter of a greasy counter, blackened hands, working, barely scraping by

“Windy” because he likes to talk, my Dad said. It wasn’t his real name.

Sometimes it was Windy’s daughter Geraldine who limped out of the house to pump gas. Not a pretty girl.

Not always friendly. Not generous like Windy who reached into the back seat, passing penny candies from his blackened and oily fist. Polio was the murmured memory word when Geraldine appeared.

Then there was John who lived up the road and around the corner with his wife Yolanda and three kids who lived beyond the margins. Of school. Of the village. Of my circle of concern. Most of the time.

He had fled Hungary at the time of the revolution. 1956. We knew that John suffered fits of rage and depression. I’m not sure – but it might be the first time I heard the term “suicidal”. It was a word whispered in hushed notes, solemn nods, barely audible.

Crazy was the word we kids shouted, hiding as he drove by.

Then there was Fred, in the big house across the street with his wife Fran and their four kids. Some, maybe all were adopted. We thought they were well off and thriving because he owned a men’s wear store in the city. Until the day the news that the store windows were covered with brown  paper and the store was dark because the hydro was cut off.

Bankrupt was a new word. Maybe too much drink. Fred and the other new words Midnight Move.

Cheryl was friend in Grade 8. Her mother died young. Cancer, I think, altho’ we didn’t often hear that word.

Cheryl stayed on in the house in the village, but I lost track of her. Her father took in a border to help care for things. They combined their earnings as mechanics, fixing cars in the garage on the property.

Frenchie they said. His real name was Giles. Then came the news that Cheryl was expecting a baby and the listing of words on the street became: Unwed. Unfortunate. Untimely. Unwanted. Undone. Gone.

I remember Mildred, the Sunday School teacher who delivered eggs on Friday night, rushing up the steps to the back door of our house. Breathless. Four foot nothing in both directions. Her husband Frank drove her, stayed in the car smoking while Mildred patiently impatient waited for my mom to find a couple of $2 bills. Her son was Brian, seldom left the house and we wondered why he didn’t help with her egg deliveries. Special we said. Woman’s work we figured. Her pin money, Mom said. Whatever that meant.

Irene was always early to church. Sat in the same pew each Sunday. Dressed all in black. Hair greasy, smeared flat to her skull, blunt cut, a bobby pin on one side. Not like us. We always had a shower on Saturday night, washing our hair to get ready for Sunday.

Irene’s face was pasty, like bread dough, and her tongue roamed around, licking the corners of her mouth, looking for moisture. Her hands were worn and rough and strong. During the passing of the peace, her handshake was more like a clutch. Like she was starved for warmth and feeling desperate. She always left right after the service, shaking the Minister’s hand and hurriedly getting into the boat of a car driven by her husband. Engine running. Big black fins. Like the Batmobile of the ’60’s.

Shut-in they called her. Simple some said. Well meaning but troubled, people assumed.

We didn’t know each other well, but we knew enough to keep our distance, stay away until the news of a funeral, wedding, or baptism. Then  it was time for cookies, flowers, pies, volunteer teas serving baked squares.

Then words of comfort, condolences and were whispered in the quiet.

“Such a shame.

“It’s a blessing really.

“I just can’t believe it.

“Really?” they asked. Heads lowered and adding, “simply no words.”

Each of us thinking, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

It’s how the village worked.  Whispers. Small shuddering words of judgement and simplicity. Not meant to be harsh. Just the way it was.

We used clichés, community labels and short cuts.

Judgements that cut to the chase.

Bottom lines that could cut  to the marrow of a heart and soul of intentions and understanding.

12 years old. Innocent. Limited vocabulary. Immature. Sheltered.

Impressionable. Naïve. Uninformed. Unaware. Misunderstanding. Misunderstood.

Has it happened to you? “There are no words”. Why might that be so?

Sometimes memories are still finding their way and being processed. Sometimes the memory is emotionally charged and the heat is too hot. Sometimes, you may have been distracted, looking left when the real action was taking place on the right hand corner of the story.

GRATIS! A Writing Prompt and the grid we use in Writing as Craft series — in case you want to go on your own sentimental journey and a little Memory-Lane-ing:

Thanks for reading! If you are curious about working with me, please do get in touch. 

#gratitude