Sunday (At Last)

18 artists and poets reflect on their ideal Sunday for the latest print issue of Cannopy

What does your ideal Sunday look like? That’s the question we posed to 18 of the artists and poets we welcomed for Issue 16: Sunday. Their answers — in poems, prose, and passing reflections — formed a collective portrait for the Arts & Letters section of our magazine.

Two final glimpses of this collection include an excerpt from a prose poem by the Illinois-based poet Tim Bruner, and the Ukrainian-Canadian pianist Anastasia Rizikov writing in from Paris.

---

"Sunday Evening at the Restaurant" ─  TIM BRUNER
 
...look around, here and there throughout the store sit late evening loners, couples, old men and women nursing their sodas, their meals finished long ago, now just sitting around, talking, killing time, not wanting to get up and go home just yet...outside the window the now-pitch-blackness is pierced occasionally by lighted neon signs of other establishments serving late-night stragglers, some of the places, actually, probably even closed by now, they 

leave their lights on all night, don’t they?...don’t know why...gives the illusion of busy-ness, I guess, makes it appear to night owls out driving around that they’re ready to open up again, right now, at any minute, maybe they’re in there already, in the back, prepping for the early-morning breakfast crowd, who’ll be coming in in a little while, or maybe just going through the drive-thru to grab a biscuit or a cup of coffee on their way to work, the beginning of the week, already -- can you believe it? -- God, the weeks just fly by, anymore, don’t they?... well, don’t worry about it, just get up, and go to work, another Monday morning, another day at the races, nothing you can do about it, just gotta do it, just gotta go -- just got to get up and go –

---

Discover the “Sunday.” collection in Issue 16

---

Anastasia Rizikov — Paris

My ideal Sunday would be somewhere far from Paris — a quiet house with a grand piano, sunlight spilling across the keys, and nothing but time. No screens, no calls, no noise. Just space to think, breathe, and play. People assume musicians live at their instruments, but I haven’t practised properly in months. My life has been full of visuals, content, meetings — all the things that orbit music but aren’t music itself. And it’s strange how easily that happens, how the thing you love most can slip behind the noise of what’s required to sustain it. 

When I finally sit down to play, even for a few hours, it feels like remembering a language I once spoke fluently. Everything in me recalibrates — my breath, my focus, my sense of time. It’s not about practising for perfection; it’s about feeling whole again. Those rare afternoons when I can touch real keys, hear real sound, and be alone with the music — that’s when I remember who I am, before all the other parts of being an artist took over.

---

For a limited time, when you purchase Issue 16 Cannopy Magazine, you’ll receive Issue 15 at half price — a pairing of stories and voices that travel across continents and creative disciplines.

---