isobelmtl

Writing under a Montreal sky

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about

Isobel Cunningham has published short fiction and poetry. Her book, Northern Compass is available on Amazon. She was born in Wales but Montreal is her adopted home. She speaks French, Modern Greek ( it’s a fun story) and a little Spanish…oh, English too, of course. She welcomes comments on her blog and looks forward to chatting with you over cyber-space.

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  • Rain boy

          The red-headed boy and his mother Run in the morning of rain Run as all red-headed boys before him Running in Ireland, Scotland, in Norway Running away from, running toward the steady cool rain. A thatch of thick straight red hair to run off the steady cool rain. The rain and the…

  • Borrowed plumage

        Today day the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts opens the Faberge Exhibit.  I will be guiding today and for the next two months.  I have already done the “walk through” that guides are permitted before the show officially opens.  It is really lovely and all my fears if how such tiny objects could…

  • Yoga

      Yoga is is not for wimps.  I have been congratulating myself on being comfortable in my Pilates class.  I go to a class in a nice yuppie neighbourhood.  Lots of young women, some of them dancers attend.  And I keep up. . . . mostly.  When I don’t I blame it on my artificial…

  • The feast of San Antonio

        Somehow how this reminds me of The Godfather.  Wasn’t there a parade like this at one point?  In my little neighbourhood there are several churches.  One huge monument has been turned into a theatre.  French Canadians no longer to church.  It seems a very odd idea that enormous churches like Our Lady of…

  • A snail

      It it had been a very long time since I had seen a snail in its shell slowly edging his ( her?) way along.  I remember seeing these guys when I was a child.  Odd that we tolerated snails and even admired their horns poking out of the shell, but poor slugs were despised…

  • Sunset over the shopping centre

      For poets sunsets are a tricky thing Like roses, kittens or a diamond ring. They’re a miracle that makes us gasp But we hold back for to say it is beyond the grasp of ordinary poets. “What a sight!”  “Oh, look how lovely!” Pink and gold, come sip your tea. You poet, you!  What…

  • In a City Lane

          Beauty is lurking in a city lane She hears the hum of traffic and the bird’s refrain. She springs up green and not to be denied Sheltered by the old elm she stands beside. Beauty is blooming here in shade and sun Scented and fragrant when the day is done. She hears…

  • Storm over the city

      The heat and heavy air blanket the whole city, drawing moisture from the great river and from the full young foliage that crowns the trees.  The weather-man says there is a storm warning but we are so blase after our terrible winter that we toss our heads and sneer a little.   The weather…

  • missed yesterday

    And that is OK.  I had a hard time entering the blog the day before.  It’s a bit frustrating to have an idea and to have to wrestle to get it out.  Studying today for a tour in Contemporary Art this afternoon at the Museum.  I am going to look at two works by Jim…

  • Come summer

        The lilacs of sweet fragrant glory are fading, are falling. and Spring that seduced us with its ancient glory is fading, is falling.   The lilacs, once glowing, once perfumed are fading, are falling. The pink and the purple, the blooms that are doomed are fading, are falling.   And apple, its pink-faced…