With all of the Chrismas chaos, my blog updates have gone temporarily to the wayside. I recently took a course on how to organize your life so that you can fit everything in and achieve balance and serenity. Aside from staying on top of my daily work tasks, I'm not sure if I'm following my life schedule as closely as I had intended.
At the end of November, I was able to escape my day-job desk and immerse myself in poetry. For the past six years, I have attended an annual 4-day retreat at a place called Glenairely (Centre for Earth and Peace) in East Sooke, BC. Our fearless instructor for these retreats is Patrick Lane, who with tongue-in-cheek usually kicks off the retreat with a confessesion of his own mixed feelings and dread about setting us all up for failure in the assignments he's prepared for us. At the end of the retreat, he always comes back to this point and tips his hat to us for astonishing him with our work. His main mantra is that a writing block is simply fear - we all have something to say. During these four days, each of us is challenged to say it, and say it in the best possible way through our poetry. This year, we accommodated 17 poets (in the past, our limit was 12) and yet we still managed to cram ourselves around the kitchen table. We pay a reasonable amount for beds, meals and a quiet space to write. Our meals are prepared by our maestro chef, Wendy Morton. We spend our days sharing our poems in a circle, then breaking to work on our own writing, and being called for meals by a clanking bell on the porch (makes one feel as though they are on a homestead).
In this place, we each strive to stretch our own personal boundaries and comfort zones, as well as lose ourselves in the words and lives created by our fellow poets. Often, for me, a theme will arise in my writing. On this retreat, I began to explore the lives of my grandparents. For the first time, I wrote a poem for my father's father who passed away when I was 14. I didn't have a strong connection with him, and sometimes I grieve it, not really understanding who he was and what he wanted in his life. Therefore, I wrote a brief poem about his coming to Canada from Scotland in mid-life, and having so much uprooted. So much left behind.
These retreats are soul-feeding and sacred, and every year (usually the following Autumn) we publish a beautiful chapbook through Leafpress (leafpress.ca) from one of our poetry assignments. These books are memories, rewards and gifts.
After the retreat, a few of us were fortunate to read poems at the Mole Restaurant in downtown Victoria as part of a Chocolate and Poetry evening. The restaurant revised their dessert menu to include raw chocolate, and there was a good-sized, yet intimate audience to indulge in both features. It is always helpful to discover a new venue that is willing and enthusiastic to lend a space for our poems. A sweet success, to be sure!
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Morning Couplets
He returns with tea and grapefruit, six slices, a slight rendition of Cohen.
I am a bare-breasted Cleopatra, a romanticized bargain-bin Suzanne.
As a chemist, I mix lemon and milk without curdling;
as a writer, I sleep late, blend outside radio words with dreams.
A deep blue sky clear of stars and planets, and I am awake
with the teachers and garbage collectors; stealing a piece of the day for myself.
The parked cars, treetops and buildings are silhouetted
against almost day; a simple contrast I try to resolve.
My couch, a garden of detached flowers and leaves,
this depiction of fall, while I write in late morning.
Two small, furry bodies wait through the night,
to bound into morning and explore the wilderness of the living room.
Our third day half gone, and still nothing is lost;
we exist in our own hours, determine the sunset.
I drag you from sentence to sentence, and we spend days
driving through my paragraphs and looking for full colons: trying to
complete my list – you know you are the commas I rest upon.
Like a squirrel, I munch on almonds, as my mind climbs trees
and stores away friends and stories for the winter months.
There are too many words in this room, not enough seconds
in a minute, in an hour, in a day to absorb this lucid work.
I am a bare-breasted Cleopatra, a romanticized bargain-bin Suzanne.
As a chemist, I mix lemon and milk without curdling;
as a writer, I sleep late, blend outside radio words with dreams.
A deep blue sky clear of stars and planets, and I am awake
with the teachers and garbage collectors; stealing a piece of the day for myself.
The parked cars, treetops and buildings are silhouetted
against almost day; a simple contrast I try to resolve.
My couch, a garden of detached flowers and leaves,
this depiction of fall, while I write in late morning.
Two small, furry bodies wait through the night,
to bound into morning and explore the wilderness of the living room.
Our third day half gone, and still nothing is lost;
we exist in our own hours, determine the sunset.
I drag you from sentence to sentence, and we spend days
driving through my paragraphs and looking for full colons: trying to
complete my list – you know you are the commas I rest upon.
Like a squirrel, I munch on almonds, as my mind climbs trees
and stores away friends and stories for the winter months.
There are too many words in this room, not enough seconds
in a minute, in an hour, in a day to absorb this lucid work.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Announcements
Karen Chester (grand prize winner) and meLast month I entered a poetry contest through Cafe Fairfield, and this past week I received a book prize as a runner-up. There were three of us - a grand prize winner ($50 and a book) and two runners-up. Okay, it wasn't a first prize of $1,000, but I don't really care. This was my first prize for writing poetry.
My significant other continues to remind me that I was a short-listed participant in the CBC Radio poetry slam in March 2006. I was paid for my efforts (handsomely, I might add). So, perhaps I do exaggerate when I say this is my first prize or acknowledgement. To put it into better perspective, it is the first time I entered a contest, received a phonecall, showed up, shook someone's hand and received a prize (in this case, I won a book), and then was able to showcase my poem. It was a sign of encouragement to keep going, and that there will be more opportunities to earn prizes in the future.
Thank you Cafe Fairfield!
Writing on Week Twenty-One
The established laws of form poetry, and the dead white male poet. How do we break away from it? The answer: with time and historical changes. It is no different than learning from the masters, and then trying to either mimic or challenge what they did, taking a form and making it your own. I met a new poet friend for lunch this week, who showed me a new form he is playing with (although I don't think anyone can possibly write the same poem or truly steal poetry, I will only reveal that his poetic form strives to reflect the structure of music in a unique, concrete way). We entered a discussion on whether a new form or idea of poetry would be accepted, since it doesn't necessarily follow the time-tested rules of poetry. Are there rules? Yes, there is definitely a craft and a science to poetry, but there is also room for new expression.
I likened his frontiering endeavour to Bissett. In Bissett's poetry, there is a structure, but the entire infrastructure of language is challenged within that structure. How else did poetry evolve from the iambic pentameter of the Chaucerian age, to the Sonnets of Shakespeare, to the 'no holds barred' cavaliers, to the sentimental romantics, to the prim fundamentalists, to the naturalists, to the modern beatniks and post-modern, free-flowing, stream-of-consciousness poetry, and then reverting back to form and trying something new from the beginning. Always, as poets, we are questioning language -- how we can reign it in, twist it around, make it fit, and finally let it go and transform into what it will. We can hold in the lines, but not always the content that flies off the page. Sometimes, the poem begs to be something else, and if you don't let it - it will find a way anyhow, at times something completely unexpected. Or else it will play dead and not do anything you ask.
We also discussed the notion of the dead, white, male poet - and how His poetry was revered for centuries. Women poets were forced to not reveal their gender when submitting their poetry, and very few or none were brought into the classrooms of the last generations for study. Even fairly recently, students of the 60's were busy re-discovering poets such as Keats and Blake. These poets have their genius and their place, but we are now enjoying an age where a range of female poets are bursting onto the scene.
My friend was acknowledging to me how, by reading my work and the work of other women poets half his age, his perspective is refreshed. He admitted that he never would have been inclined to explore the poetry of female voices when he was younger. As a young man, perhaps he felt a young woman's perspective of the world would clash with his own ideals, or simply not have anything of substance to offer him. How far from the truth. We are not classes of race or gender - we are human beings (I believe I've stressed this point before). As human beings, we are all going to view the world and interact with it differently, given our own personal environments and history that shapes our path and existence; how we perceive everything. At a later stage, my friend was able to look at this writing of a wholly different perspective than his own, and appreciate the fresh view. As well, to his astonishment, many of the themes and ideas and perceptions meshed with his own. He wrote a poem, which he shared with me, about his coming to the words of women poets who were not born when he was first navigating his way through poetry, and the gifts they bring him.
I likened his frontiering endeavour to Bissett. In Bissett's poetry, there is a structure, but the entire infrastructure of language is challenged within that structure. How else did poetry evolve from the iambic pentameter of the Chaucerian age, to the Sonnets of Shakespeare, to the 'no holds barred' cavaliers, to the sentimental romantics, to the prim fundamentalists, to the naturalists, to the modern beatniks and post-modern, free-flowing, stream-of-consciousness poetry, and then reverting back to form and trying something new from the beginning. Always, as poets, we are questioning language -- how we can reign it in, twist it around, make it fit, and finally let it go and transform into what it will. We can hold in the lines, but not always the content that flies off the page. Sometimes, the poem begs to be something else, and if you don't let it - it will find a way anyhow, at times something completely unexpected. Or else it will play dead and not do anything you ask.
We also discussed the notion of the dead, white, male poet - and how His poetry was revered for centuries. Women poets were forced to not reveal their gender when submitting their poetry, and very few or none were brought into the classrooms of the last generations for study. Even fairly recently, students of the 60's were busy re-discovering poets such as Keats and Blake. These poets have their genius and their place, but we are now enjoying an age where a range of female poets are bursting onto the scene.
My friend was acknowledging to me how, by reading my work and the work of other women poets half his age, his perspective is refreshed. He admitted that he never would have been inclined to explore the poetry of female voices when he was younger. As a young man, perhaps he felt a young woman's perspective of the world would clash with his own ideals, or simply not have anything of substance to offer him. How far from the truth. We are not classes of race or gender - we are human beings (I believe I've stressed this point before). As human beings, we are all going to view the world and interact with it differently, given our own personal environments and history that shapes our path and existence; how we perceive everything. At a later stage, my friend was able to look at this writing of a wholly different perspective than his own, and appreciate the fresh view. As well, to his astonishment, many of the themes and ideas and perceptions meshed with his own. He wrote a poem, which he shared with me, about his coming to the words of women poets who were not born when he was first navigating his way through poetry, and the gifts they bring him.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Morning Couplets
My pulse is strong in morning meditations, a neglected rhythm;
find a blank page, a reliable pen, put ink on paper, repeat.
Nothing is truer than a rush of words, moments when – on your hands,
skin, any makeshift slate or canvas, another’s arm or forehead – you simply must!
The day is locked in my glass table top, I only need look down
to see blue skies reflective, to predict a change in the wind.
He plays Sudoku, wrestles with numbers; I read the newspaper –
wrestle with untimely deaths in another landscape.
No machine gun-fire in these clouds, only brown-tinged leaves,
flowers to deadhead and the passing season to mourn.
A brown bird visits, knocks on the neighbouring window
like an expectant guest, and his crew awaits for stirring of other life.
There is a kind of bustle in days with no page breaks, a constancy
to fill in these short chapters with some sensible prose, to maintain order.
Today is a white page, like any day, but blinding
like a blizzard it tosses me to the furthest corner; a rolled ball.
We start in mid-elipses... after an evening of wine and dance, still floating
on white-dressed sentiments and exchanging our own silent vows on ivory pillows.
He stumbles out of our sheets with a scratchy throat,
his eyes not yet in, and a coating of dreams too short.
find a blank page, a reliable pen, put ink on paper, repeat.
Nothing is truer than a rush of words, moments when – on your hands,
skin, any makeshift slate or canvas, another’s arm or forehead – you simply must!
The day is locked in my glass table top, I only need look down
to see blue skies reflective, to predict a change in the wind.
He plays Sudoku, wrestles with numbers; I read the newspaper –
wrestle with untimely deaths in another landscape.
No machine gun-fire in these clouds, only brown-tinged leaves,
flowers to deadhead and the passing season to mourn.
A brown bird visits, knocks on the neighbouring window
like an expectant guest, and his crew awaits for stirring of other life.
There is a kind of bustle in days with no page breaks, a constancy
to fill in these short chapters with some sensible prose, to maintain order.
Today is a white page, like any day, but blinding
like a blizzard it tosses me to the furthest corner; a rolled ball.
We start in mid-elipses... after an evening of wine and dance, still floating
on white-dressed sentiments and exchanging our own silent vows on ivory pillows.
He stumbles out of our sheets with a scratchy throat,
his eyes not yet in, and a coating of dreams too short.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Writing on Week Twenty
During the weekend of October 19-21, 2007, I had the opportunity to participate in the Surrey International Writers' Conference. This was my first conference and, as I continuously heard throughout the weekend, I had chosen to attend the best writers' conference in North America. By the end of the weekend, although I had no previous scale of reference, I could understand why this was voiced so strongly. The conference boasted an attendance of 800+ writers this year, including many returning conference-goers. Participants came from all over - from the Maritimes, Florida, Texas, and Scotland, to name a few out-of-the-way locations. There were also a handful who were lucky enough to be local attendees, and lived in a few miles radius of the Sheraton Hotel, where the conference is annually held.
I was so impressed with the organization and caliber of the conference, not to mention the list of guest authors (Anne Perry, Diana Gabaldon, and Meg Tilly, to name a household few), agents and editors who were conveniently on hand to give feedback and insider tips to the writing world. For many of us, the weekend could mean having a gateway into the land of published authors. Still, in the same breath, we were told to write for the love of writing without the expectation of becoming full-time, self-supporting authors on the best-sellers list... but of course, you never know.
I came to the conference feeling energetic and hopeful, having prepared a portion of my first novel manuscript and a small bundle of business cards in case I should rub elbows with any up-and-coming or established authors or literary scouts.
In between attending the useful workshops - how to research, how to organize your life around writing, how to create dynamic characters, and so on - I booked time with a literary agent and an established author.
First, my meeting with the agent. Our meeting would be an interval of ten minutes. It felt like speed dating! I could not control my butterflies, as I power-walked through the hotel lobby to the meeting room with my manuscript pages tucked under my arm. I had vaguely rehearsed the points I wanted to touch on. I've been writing my book for nine years - why was I so nervous to talk about it? I knew these characters and what they wanted. I knew the setting and plot. I could rattle this off, no problem. Well, my voice certaintly did rattle - uncontrollably, I might add. At mid-point in my spiel, the agent stopped me to say, "you're doing great! There's no reason to be nervous." Tell that to my nerves.
In the end, after making a few helpful suggestions (one being that my word count was low, which I already knew and was able to speak to, as well, in a positive way), she asked me to send her the first five pages along with my book synopsis and literary bio. Great! Now I have ideas poring out of me to beef up my plot and add layers to my characters. I'm excited and overwhelmed, all at once, because I am hitting - no, facing - that high wall of research, and through it we go.
Second, feedback from an established author. I managed to meet with Diana Gabaldon, an admired author, and one whose series I am currently wading through (if you are familiar with her work, you will appreciate how prolific she is!). I tried to lose my star quality and suppressed the urge to tell her that I had named my kitten Sassenach after the nickname of one of her main characters.
Again, I went through the business of explaining the basis of my story and talked a little about the main and secondary characters and their motivations. Then Diana read the first eight pages of my novel (a very good sign, indeed), and made only a few stylistic changes to my prose. Otherwise, her comments were that she found the idea for my novel interesting and told me I had a nice flow to my writing style. She also asked me how my book ends - and on this point I was quite vague. Something to the effect that it all turns out hopeful.
This is all highly encouraging, as I am not being told to go back to square one, but instead being asked "what could happen here and here?"
So, now I am home and hanging onto the floating remnants of a high-energy conference. I am also gluing my seat in front of my computer and putting my endless jabber and ideas to the page, not to mention more meat on the story bones. My personal deadline... by next summer I hope to have my manuscript ready to send to the waiting agent. I'm sure she won't be sitting by her computer and wondering when my novel is going to arrive, but I will submit it with the same degree of hope and energy.
I was so impressed with the organization and caliber of the conference, not to mention the list of guest authors (Anne Perry, Diana Gabaldon, and Meg Tilly, to name a household few), agents and editors who were conveniently on hand to give feedback and insider tips to the writing world. For many of us, the weekend could mean having a gateway into the land of published authors. Still, in the same breath, we were told to write for the love of writing without the expectation of becoming full-time, self-supporting authors on the best-sellers list... but of course, you never know.
I came to the conference feeling energetic and hopeful, having prepared a portion of my first novel manuscript and a small bundle of business cards in case I should rub elbows with any up-and-coming or established authors or literary scouts.
In between attending the useful workshops - how to research, how to organize your life around writing, how to create dynamic characters, and so on - I booked time with a literary agent and an established author.
First, my meeting with the agent. Our meeting would be an interval of ten minutes. It felt like speed dating! I could not control my butterflies, as I power-walked through the hotel lobby to the meeting room with my manuscript pages tucked under my arm. I had vaguely rehearsed the points I wanted to touch on. I've been writing my book for nine years - why was I so nervous to talk about it? I knew these characters and what they wanted. I knew the setting and plot. I could rattle this off, no problem. Well, my voice certaintly did rattle - uncontrollably, I might add. At mid-point in my spiel, the agent stopped me to say, "you're doing great! There's no reason to be nervous." Tell that to my nerves.
In the end, after making a few helpful suggestions (one being that my word count was low, which I already knew and was able to speak to, as well, in a positive way), she asked me to send her the first five pages along with my book synopsis and literary bio. Great! Now I have ideas poring out of me to beef up my plot and add layers to my characters. I'm excited and overwhelmed, all at once, because I am hitting - no, facing - that high wall of research, and through it we go.
Second, feedback from an established author. I managed to meet with Diana Gabaldon, an admired author, and one whose series I am currently wading through (if you are familiar with her work, you will appreciate how prolific she is!). I tried to lose my star quality and suppressed the urge to tell her that I had named my kitten Sassenach after the nickname of one of her main characters.
Again, I went through the business of explaining the basis of my story and talked a little about the main and secondary characters and their motivations. Then Diana read the first eight pages of my novel (a very good sign, indeed), and made only a few stylistic changes to my prose. Otherwise, her comments were that she found the idea for my novel interesting and told me I had a nice flow to my writing style. She also asked me how my book ends - and on this point I was quite vague. Something to the effect that it all turns out hopeful.
This is all highly encouraging, as I am not being told to go back to square one, but instead being asked "what could happen here and here?"
So, now I am home and hanging onto the floating remnants of a high-energy conference. I am also gluing my seat in front of my computer and putting my endless jabber and ideas to the page, not to mention more meat on the story bones. My personal deadline... by next summer I hope to have my manuscript ready to send to the waiting agent. I'm sure she won't be sitting by her computer and wondering when my novel is going to arrive, but I will submit it with the same degree of hope and energy.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
The Last Day of Random Acts of Poetry
Before I started my Random Acts of Poetry, I will admit that I found the prospect of approaching strangers with my poems seemed a bit daunting. However, after committing my first Random Act of Poetry on a bus, I was given a very warm and encouraging reception. After that, it was no problem at all. I went forward, spending an entire day poeming passers-by and city workers in coffee shops, malls, street corners, grocery stores and book stores. I poemed 15 people on my first day, in the course of 6 hours (stopping for lunch, etc).I was also armed with a self-made T-Shirt, promoting Random Acts of Poetry, and two of my own couplets written on the back that read:
One poet thinking;
holding a universal thought.
Sharing poems, extending words to teach;
strangers, connecting, creating community.
holding a universal thought.
Sharing poems, extending words to teach;
strangers, connecting, creating community.
I also arranged to be on the local TV news, and scheduled for a reporter and cameraman to follow me around poeming people. They commented on how some people were adverse to my attempts at poeming them, and maybe viewed the poem as something scary that not everyone is open to experiencing. So, the exercise was also an act of awareness for poetry and that it doesn’t have to be the dry, rhyming poem, centuries-old, that perhaps made little sense to someone in highschool. The TV crew also interviewed Claire Rettie at the READ Society as part of this segment, to connect the accessibility to language through poetry for those ESL students and adults who struggle with literacy.
I met some incredible people. One gentleman was strolling downtown with his baby girl, and he later emailed me to share the story of his daughter’s terminal illness – Spinal Muscular Atrophy – with only a life expectancy of 4 years. She is two. He told me he and his wife had quit their jobs to care for her around the clock, and that he had only been downtown about 3 times in the past two years. He was also a writer himself, and was very touched and appreciative to have “some unexpected art thrown his way”. We are now email buddies, as he has invited me to share any news with him because the computer is his lifeline to the outside community these days. I received a few emails from the strangers I poemed, as I had included my contact information, personal email and writing blog, in the books I handed out.
The next morning I learned that a local radio station saw my 15 minutes of fame, and decided to focus on the topic as part of their morning show banter, which also lent more publicity for the cause of Random Acts of Poetry.
During the rest of the week, while focusing on my full-time day job, I managed to poem my colleagues and strangers in their work cubicles and in the lunch room. I also poemed the security commissionaire at the front desk, who thought being poemed was the coolest thing in the world. I also had an opportunity to poem my entire yoga class, a moment before we began our practice, and set a beautiful calming and uplifting mood to bring us all out of our hectic days and into the room.
Only three people refused to have me read them a poem, out of the 53 I asked. Not too bad. Yesterday I poemed three people in a Starbucks coffeeshop, including one woman sitting down with her little girl. I read them a poem about mothers called Picking Flowers, and afterwards the woman turned to her little girl and asked her what she thought the poem meant. The little girl said she liked to pick flowers, and her mom said, “Well, I think the poem is saying that you and your brother are my flowers.” Needless to say, I was almost teary. Everyone who I gave a book to was very touched to receive it, and one or two men said, “My wife will really enjoy reading your poetry, as well.”
Here are the emails I received from those I had poemed:
Hello Andrea. Thank you for a copy of your book! I really appreciate it and it was a pleasant surprise to have some art thrown my way today. I write a bit also but mostly about my experience looking after my terminally ill daughter Shira (song in Hebrew). You can check out some of my articles on Shira’s web site. May you have great success with your writing. Brad.
Visit Shira's Web Site At: http://www.asonginthisworld.com/
The next morning I learned that a local radio station saw my 15 minutes of fame, and decided to focus on the topic as part of their morning show banter, which also lent more publicity for the cause of Random Acts of Poetry.
During the rest of the week, while focusing on my full-time day job, I managed to poem my colleagues and strangers in their work cubicles and in the lunch room. I also poemed the security commissionaire at the front desk, who thought being poemed was the coolest thing in the world. I also had an opportunity to poem my entire yoga class, a moment before we began our practice, and set a beautiful calming and uplifting mood to bring us all out of our hectic days and into the room.
Only three people refused to have me read them a poem, out of the 53 I asked. Not too bad. Yesterday I poemed three people in a Starbucks coffeeshop, including one woman sitting down with her little girl. I read them a poem about mothers called Picking Flowers, and afterwards the woman turned to her little girl and asked her what she thought the poem meant. The little girl said she liked to pick flowers, and her mom said, “Well, I think the poem is saying that you and your brother are my flowers.” Needless to say, I was almost teary. Everyone who I gave a book to was very touched to receive it, and one or two men said, “My wife will really enjoy reading your poetry, as well.”
Here are the emails I received from those I had poemed:
Hello Andrea. Thank you for a copy of your book! I really appreciate it and it was a pleasant surprise to have some art thrown my way today. I write a bit also but mostly about my experience looking after my terminally ill daughter Shira (song in Hebrew). You can check out some of my articles on Shira’s web site. May you have great success with your writing. Brad.
Visit Shira's Web Site At: http://www.asonginthisworld.com/
View videos of Shira at: www.youtube.com/Shira2
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Andrea:
I really enjoyed your poem at lunch. Thank you.
A nice way to start the week-end.
Best of luck in your writing career.
Martine
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Morning Couplets
A soft purr from my kettle beckons me and I stumble
to awaken my fingers and toes, as I tumble back into reason.
I purge these useless belongings; bring new shine
and I revel in everything possible and forgotten.
Morning propels me forward into another age, retrospective,
the same sun, or is it, rising closer and setting further away.
A million ways to spend this sunshine, trap it in jars,
singe my garden petals – I choose only to let it sink deep.
He wants the simplicity of his skin today;
I crave the complexity of ink strokes – and we stay in.
The morning breeze moves high tree clusters; a barrier,
and the wind is too weak to rustle these lethargic grass stems and tiny blooms.
We wake from fuzzy dreams, take turns in the bathroom,
boil water and kiss, set down hopeful plans.
My belly swells late with morning overcast, wind overpowers
and sun struggles to land on our shoulders, a bright light constantly cooled.
In the rush of tires, footsteps, and the sound of work – there are birds,
and I carve out a minute to sit in this chair, let these sounds circle outside.
Drowsy leaves bend with the weight of sunlight,
my back stem straightens in the glow of mid-morning summer.
to awaken my fingers and toes, as I tumble back into reason.
I purge these useless belongings; bring new shine
and I revel in everything possible and forgotten.
Morning propels me forward into another age, retrospective,
the same sun, or is it, rising closer and setting further away.
A million ways to spend this sunshine, trap it in jars,
singe my garden petals – I choose only to let it sink deep.
He wants the simplicity of his skin today;
I crave the complexity of ink strokes – and we stay in.
The morning breeze moves high tree clusters; a barrier,
and the wind is too weak to rustle these lethargic grass stems and tiny blooms.
We wake from fuzzy dreams, take turns in the bathroom,
boil water and kiss, set down hopeful plans.
My belly swells late with morning overcast, wind overpowers
and sun struggles to land on our shoulders, a bright light constantly cooled.
In the rush of tires, footsteps, and the sound of work – there are birds,
and I carve out a minute to sit in this chair, let these sounds circle outside.
Drowsy leaves bend with the weight of sunlight,
my back stem straightens in the glow of mid-morning summer.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Random Poeming
I am three days into my Random Acts of Poetry Week, and I thought to give an update. Thankfully, Monday was my flex day, so I had the opportunity to knock off a bunch of Random Acts of Poetry. I headed downtown via bus in the morning. As my bus came along the road, I took in a deep breath. I knew I was going to make myself poem some unsuspecting passenger before the end of my ride. I sat beside a woman who looked groggy, but approachable. She set the ball rolling with her openness and enthusiasm. Thanks Courtenay! From there, I hit a couple of familiar coffee shops, and then I plunged into the unknown - the passers-by on Victoria's downtown streets. Needless to say, I got a few wary looks and a few curt 'no thanks!' but I wasn't going to be deterred. I wandered into friendly businesses and, if the staff weren't too terribly busy, I poemed them and they thanked me.
Later in the day, I made arrangements to have a reporter and cameraman from A-Channel News follow me around for awhile. They got a great story, and I got some more needed publicity. They portrayed me as the 'predator poet', but also commented on the people who ran away or tried to avoid me and how nonthreatening I was. After all, it was poetry! Then the question arose, is poetry scary for people? Possibly, if they already think they hate it or that they won't understand it. Luckily, I poemed a gentleman on camera who was thrilled to be poemed and an advocate of the arts. He even quoted Jack Kerouac! Later, he shared a very moving story with me about his baby girl who is living with SMA (Spinal Muscular Atrophy) disease. The gifts we are given... the stories we share...
So, all in all my first day was a relative success. Fifteen in total poemed.
On to Tuesday... I was at work, so I tried poeming my colleagues, and getting in a couple of fellow bus riders. Four in total poemed.
Today... again I was at work, so I poemed the executive administrative assistant who hugged me, and I also received a word-of-mouth request for poeming. Tonight I poemed my yoga class, which set the peaceful and reflective mood for our practice. Later, I poemed a cashier-in-training with a poem about being a cashier. The woman helping her exclaimed, "This is a Random Act of Poetry, isn't it?" It turned out she was the student of another local poeming poet, Susan Stenson. I am only halfway through this wonderful week... and I can't wait to poem again!
Later in the day, I made arrangements to have a reporter and cameraman from A-Channel News follow me around for awhile. They got a great story, and I got some more needed publicity. They portrayed me as the 'predator poet', but also commented on the people who ran away or tried to avoid me and how nonthreatening I was. After all, it was poetry! Then the question arose, is poetry scary for people? Possibly, if they already think they hate it or that they won't understand it. Luckily, I poemed a gentleman on camera who was thrilled to be poemed and an advocate of the arts. He even quoted Jack Kerouac! Later, he shared a very moving story with me about his baby girl who is living with SMA (Spinal Muscular Atrophy) disease. The gifts we are given... the stories we share...
So, all in all my first day was a relative success. Fifteen in total poemed.
On to Tuesday... I was at work, so I tried poeming my colleagues, and getting in a couple of fellow bus riders. Four in total poemed.
Today... again I was at work, so I poemed the executive administrative assistant who hugged me, and I also received a word-of-mouth request for poeming. Tonight I poemed my yoga class, which set the peaceful and reflective mood for our practice. Later, I poemed a cashier-in-training with a poem about being a cashier. The woman helping her exclaimed, "This is a Random Act of Poetry, isn't it?" It turned out she was the student of another local poeming poet, Susan Stenson. I am only halfway through this wonderful week... and I can't wait to poem again!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Writing on Week Nineteen
This past week was out of the ordinary, as I attended a nude poetry reading at the Solstice Cafe. The event was called "Poetry in the Raw" and was a fundraiser to send a local team of poets to Halifax to compete in the National Poetry Slam. These seven brave poets: Steven J. Thompson, Missie Peters, RadaR, strong.cottonwoods, Jane Bee and shaye avec i grec bared their souls, and everything else, on stage to a warm, understanding and receptive audience. Their performances were so powerful, the nudity was secondary. After a short time, the general focus was taken off their bodies and invested in their beautifully vulnerable words - all recited from memory.
A portion of the audience also showed their support to the troupe by stripping down as well. Myself included. I spent the latter part of the evening comfortably baring 'my girls', and didn't think twice about it or for one minute feel oggled by some disrespectful spectator. The environment was safe, the vibe was good and the context was clear. We were being human, together, and the poetry was set on promoting positive body image and self-actualization. Beautiful. I am sending out my best wishes to these amazing poets - set the competition on fire!!
A portion of the audience also showed their support to the troupe by stripping down as well. Myself included. I spent the latter part of the evening comfortably baring 'my girls', and didn't think twice about it or for one minute feel oggled by some disrespectful spectator. The environment was safe, the vibe was good and the context was clear. We were being human, together, and the poetry was set on promoting positive body image and self-actualization. Beautiful. I am sending out my best wishes to these amazing poets - set the competition on fire!!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Reviews
Thorburn Ages in Memory, Body, Poetry and Jazz
by Andrea McKenzie
If only we could step back through a mirror to have a closer look at our younger selves, while cross-examining and contemplating our present, aging bodies; to have conversations with those who are gone, and understand the inevitability of moving forward.
In Russell Thorburn’s book, Father Tell Me I Have Not Aged, the poems are like slide photos or quick glimpses of the past and other places. The reader is taken into a different age, whether it is younger, older or in another geographical setting. Thorburn’s poems explore fear and love, and an underlying danger exists.
There is a struggle between clinging to impermanent snapshots and mental pictures, and the paradox of the poet’s desire to release these memories. The reels of memory continue to reveal what is alive, even in the hint of death, and bring back those who are dead, acknowledge their death and, in turn, bring back life.
The poems are an entranceway into dreams and memory; there is a longing or regret, and a slant of betrayal in the depth of honesty when resurrecting old lovers and weaving them into the poet’s present, waking consciousness, as seen in “First Love”. The reader is left hanging in-between patches of memory, but the images are clear and alive.
Seasons and nature are prominent. For instance, in the poem “February” Thorburn uses the seasonal landscape to create a delicate and suggestive setting. In the poem, “For Those of Us Who Have Lost Our Jobs” the poet employs snow, and the cold weather to lend a harsher element with the cold biting the spirit. Nature often sets the stage for emotion to say what can’t be expressed otherwise.
The second section begins with the title poem, “Father, Tell Me I Have Not Aged”, which allows the poet to step back into the shadows of his childhood. There is also a strong focus on his mother and a yearning to enter her secret, silent world. The poet mirrors himself in his parents, and re-visits his own world and perceptions at various stages of growth.
In the third section, more eros appears and the poet manages to escape into a cinematic world, reflecting real life. The referencing of characters or real actors creates a limitation in these poems. Thorburn is asking the reader to work harder and develop a deeper interest and understanding of specific movies and plot lines. He invites a certain generation of readers. Still, the play by play scenes are melded with the poet’s imagination and interpretation of human themes – love, sex, fear and death.
The last section of the book turns to sophisticated literary references ie. Kafka, Sonnets to Orpheus, and Rilke in “Waiting for the Bus”. The imagery becomes surreal, opening up and slowly leading the reader out of the book, having come through the labyrinth. There is a stronger use of image repetition, such as ‘star-bulbed sky’, as the literary actors exit the stage. Thorburn also experiments with different line structures, such as fragmented couplets, and there is a gradual breaking down of thought and movement. The lines are sparse, creating more space to move, such as in the poems “Last Night on Michigan Street” and “Zeno Remembers”. Throughout the book, the rhythms of his poems ride different movements with a steady heartbeat. There is an unleashing and reigning in, like a jazz tempo.
Thorburn’s poems are about ending, or facing an end; another kind of passage for growing up and growing old, and being thrust into another unknown or kind of death.
by Andrea McKenzie
If only we could step back through a mirror to have a closer look at our younger selves, while cross-examining and contemplating our present, aging bodies; to have conversations with those who are gone, and understand the inevitability of moving forward.
In Russell Thorburn’s book, Father Tell Me I Have Not Aged, the poems are like slide photos or quick glimpses of the past and other places. The reader is taken into a different age, whether it is younger, older or in another geographical setting. Thorburn’s poems explore fear and love, and an underlying danger exists.
There is a struggle between clinging to impermanent snapshots and mental pictures, and the paradox of the poet’s desire to release these memories. The reels of memory continue to reveal what is alive, even in the hint of death, and bring back those who are dead, acknowledge their death and, in turn, bring back life.
The poems are an entranceway into dreams and memory; there is a longing or regret, and a slant of betrayal in the depth of honesty when resurrecting old lovers and weaving them into the poet’s present, waking consciousness, as seen in “First Love”. The reader is left hanging in-between patches of memory, but the images are clear and alive.
Seasons and nature are prominent. For instance, in the poem “February” Thorburn uses the seasonal landscape to create a delicate and suggestive setting. In the poem, “For Those of Us Who Have Lost Our Jobs” the poet employs snow, and the cold weather to lend a harsher element with the cold biting the spirit. Nature often sets the stage for emotion to say what can’t be expressed otherwise.
The second section begins with the title poem, “Father, Tell Me I Have Not Aged”, which allows the poet to step back into the shadows of his childhood. There is also a strong focus on his mother and a yearning to enter her secret, silent world. The poet mirrors himself in his parents, and re-visits his own world and perceptions at various stages of growth.
In the third section, more eros appears and the poet manages to escape into a cinematic world, reflecting real life. The referencing of characters or real actors creates a limitation in these poems. Thorburn is asking the reader to work harder and develop a deeper interest and understanding of specific movies and plot lines. He invites a certain generation of readers. Still, the play by play scenes are melded with the poet’s imagination and interpretation of human themes – love, sex, fear and death.
The last section of the book turns to sophisticated literary references ie. Kafka, Sonnets to Orpheus, and Rilke in “Waiting for the Bus”. The imagery becomes surreal, opening up and slowly leading the reader out of the book, having come through the labyrinth. There is a stronger use of image repetition, such as ‘star-bulbed sky’, as the literary actors exit the stage. Thorburn also experiments with different line structures, such as fragmented couplets, and there is a gradual breaking down of thought and movement. The lines are sparse, creating more space to move, such as in the poems “Last Night on Michigan Street” and “Zeno Remembers”. Throughout the book, the rhythms of his poems ride different movements with a steady heartbeat. There is an unleashing and reigning in, like a jazz tempo.
Thorburn’s poems are about ending, or facing an end; another kind of passage for growing up and growing old, and being thrust into another unknown or kind of death.
Writing on Week Eighteen
Last week I held a successful poetry reading during lunch hour at my place of work. There was a good turnout, and everyone seemed to enjoy the mental break from their daily grind of phonecalls and meetings. One gentleman brought his own poems to read, as I had stated in the invitation for the event, and also bought a copy of my book. So, I have befriended another fan of poetry at work. Over the weekend, I enjoyed reading a copy of Hafiz's 50 Ghazals, which this poet friend kindly lent me.
As much as I am writing poetry when inspiration strikes (or I have the motivation to dig down and find a poem), I am concentrating on reading the works of other contemporary and classical writers. I am gaining new appreciation for the common link all poets share - the eagerness to write about our worlds and put it into one world. There is no difference of time. A poem could have been written 200 years ago or 1000 years ago - the human condition doesn't change and our relationship with nature doesn't change.
Back to the reading; I was thrilled to have the support of my colleagues, and even those who were not able to attend showed interest afterwards and shared their encouragement. I tend to vibrate after having an unexpected discussion about the importance of poetry and the arts, and the basic recognition that we are not all simply slaves at our desks, but breathing people with whole passions and universes away from our 8-hour work days. If we are lucky enough to briefly combine our two selves, our worlds unite and new galaxies are formed. I was asked whether I have considered organizing another poetry reading at work. The answer is an enthusiastic "yes".
Random Acts of Poetry is also quickly approaching, and my poet friends are currently hanging out at The Poet Tree outside Munro's Bookstore on Government St. in the afternoons (for you locals!) reading their poems and giving them away on beautiful postcards to passers-by. Poetry is everywhere. It is an entity that is alive and well, and being well-fed, and it is clearly being sought and found by all those in need.
As much as I am writing poetry when inspiration strikes (or I have the motivation to dig down and find a poem), I am concentrating on reading the works of other contemporary and classical writers. I am gaining new appreciation for the common link all poets share - the eagerness to write about our worlds and put it into one world. There is no difference of time. A poem could have been written 200 years ago or 1000 years ago - the human condition doesn't change and our relationship with nature doesn't change.
Back to the reading; I was thrilled to have the support of my colleagues, and even those who were not able to attend showed interest afterwards and shared their encouragement. I tend to vibrate after having an unexpected discussion about the importance of poetry and the arts, and the basic recognition that we are not all simply slaves at our desks, but breathing people with whole passions and universes away from our 8-hour work days. If we are lucky enough to briefly combine our two selves, our worlds unite and new galaxies are formed. I was asked whether I have considered organizing another poetry reading at work. The answer is an enthusiastic "yes".
Random Acts of Poetry is also quickly approaching, and my poet friends are currently hanging out at The Poet Tree outside Munro's Bookstore on Government St. in the afternoons (for you locals!) reading their poems and giving them away on beautiful postcards to passers-by. Poetry is everywhere. It is an entity that is alive and well, and being well-fed, and it is clearly being sought and found by all those in need.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Turnstiles - excerpt
1.
Martin opened his eyes. He squinted between his zippered lashes, stuck together with sleep. A small army of shoes marched past his face, half-hidden inside a dingy, blue sleeping bag. His first instinct was to place a limp, protective hand on his nearby knapsack. He was inside a short tunnel that lay beneath a busy London street beside Hyde Park. He didn’t look up. He knew what their faces would convey; their cowardly faces. He was experiencing the real Europe, instead of peering out at it through heated hotel windows or army bunk beds and tour buses. He didn’t have to pay anyone for his space of concrete bedding. He was free. He closed his eyes again. Martin was free.
He ignored his growling stomach. He could smell the subtle waft of French fries from the nearby Hard Rock Café. Tourists - they were all missing the local colour. He would visit Joe, the hotdog vendor, later on for lunch. He got his hotdogs free from Joe. Then he would lie under a tree in the park and watch the tourists get dinged two pounds for using the lawn chairs. He felt as though mindless sheep surrounded him. He had it all figured out. A year ago he had bought a cheap ticket to London and decided to depend on the day to see him through. Martin cherished every consequence. He held on to every face that examined him with curiosity and disgust. He always kept a plain expression. He had no reason to indulge anyone with emotion. In fact, he barely spoke. Except to people like Joe.
When he opened his eyes again, a different army of shoes were marching past. The tunnel was never quiet, and he had long gotten used to the intrusion of echoing sounds and rustling pavement. It was a small sacrifice. He wriggled out of his bed and began to pack up. He would return later that night. Martin had become a familiar sight, and some of the locals knew this tunnel was his home. So did the other shoestring backpackers. Martin marched alongside the army out of the tunnel. The sun was out, and again he squinted. He ran a hand over his stubble head and rubbed his eyes. He turned left.
The sun was already seated royally in the sky as Martin strolled down the wide, crowded sidewalk. He could see the faint shape of an umbrella a few blocks away, and as he came closer he recognized Joe. Martin’s stomach began to growl again.
“Get your hotdogs here! Hello Sir, what a gorgeous day. Would you like a hotdog? Get your hotdogs here! Good day, love! Can I get you a hotdog? Would you like the works?” Joe called to the passing public all day long. He set up his stand on the same corner every day, and everyone who frequented that spot knew him. Some just by his ruddy, round face and others knew him well enough to have a word or two. Martin felt he could relate to Joe because it seemed they were both stuck in London making a living on the sidewalks, and most of the people bustling by chose to ignore them.
“Hey, Joe,” Martin showed a couple of teeth and then retracted his smile. Even though he liked Joe, he was still careful not to let anyone get too close. “Catering to the North American public, are we? It’s amazing you are able to sell hotdogs here. I guess if you had your way, you’d be selling cans of haggis.” (Joe is a Scot – even more unwelcome in London)
“Marty, my boy!” Joe’s face opened wide with good-natured eyes. “How was your night? Those bloody bed bugs didn’t bite ya, ay, lad?” Joe boomed in his rich, Scottish accent, completing disregarding Joe’s offhand remarks.
“Nah, Joe. No rats, neither. Just the bloody tourists waking me up in the morning,” Martin grimaced.
“Bloody tourists?” Joe raised his eyebrows so high they looked comical. “You better button your tongue, Marty. If there were no tourists there’d be no hotdogs! Besides, what the devil do you think you are... a member of the general voting public?
“You’re the worst kind of tourist, Marty. You don’t pay taxes and you don’t leave!” Joe chuckled and flung a hotdog with ketchup and mustard into Martin’s waiting hand.
“See ya tomorrow, Joe,” said Martin without looking at his friend, and began to walk away.
“See ya, Marty,” Joe said quietly to himself because Martin was already out of earshot. And they both knew they meant it. Tomorrow. Chances were they would find themselves in the same skin, and doing the same thing. The two of them were like hamsters trapped in transparent, plastic balls looking out at the world without being able to break free of their bubbles, and constantly bumping into walls.
The radio alarm clock began to hum in Willis Hancock’s hotel room. He groaned, rolled over, and slapped an unseeing hand on the off button. He rolled back and stared groggily at the dented pillow beside him. She was already gone, and he tried to recollect the night before. He rolled his eye towards the dresser. There was his wallet, open and most likely empty. His pants lay crumpled beside it. He rubbed his hands over his face and chuckled. Then he began to rise. He was anything but happy. She had definitely served her purpose, but the others had been more professional, and much more discreet. When this happened, he usually didn’t realize he had been robbed until hours later when he found himself at a store counter fumbling for his credit cards.
“You cheeky little bitch,” Willis mumbled to himself as he flipped through his wallet. She hadn’t been discreet, but she had been thorough. Even his lucky Franc coin from his trip to Paris in 1980 was gone. It must have caught her eye. Ignorant street kid.
“She’ll never use it,” he mumbled. “Never in a million years.” And suddenly he felt vulnerable without it. This afternoon he was going to the courthouse to hear his father’s will. His father. He sure as hell had never been a Dad. He hadn’t earned the title. Dads played cricket on summer days. Fathers called from foreign cities to say, again, that they wouldn’t make it to the biggest day of your life. Willis was tempted to throw the wallet in the wastebasket, but he gently placed it back on the dresser with an air of defeat.
An hour later he was showered, sharply dressed, and hurriedly locking the hotel room behind him. He strolled with purpose through the chic lobby and out onto the pavement. He was not rushing to his appointment with excitement or even mild anticipation. He was rushing to get it all over with. He desired the whole matter to be dead and buried. There was a shameful question repeating itself over and over again in his head, and he tried desperately to ignore it… ‘What did the bastard leave me? His only son. What did the bastard leave me? Bastard… bastard… bast…’ he began walking faster.
As he rounded the corner, the large impersonal, grey building loomed before him with its long stone steps. He vaguely imagined guillotines. Willis couldn’t remember the streets he had walked, as though something else had brought him to this place without his knowing or consent. In many ways, it had. He did not want this part of his life to exist. Where was Occam’s razor for moments like these? How wonderful it would be to splice out all the undesirable bits.
Willis threw these encroaching thoughts from his mind and scurried up the stone steps. The engraved wooden entrance doors looked large and imposing, but were surprisingly light and swung open with ease. Willis couldn’t help thinking that perhaps these doors were much like his father. If only he had taken the time to turn the doorknob. Once again he banished his useless mind chatter. None of it could be helped now. His father’s lawyer was waiting for him, perched on one of the many benches placed along the sides of the grandeur hallway. The white marble floor was immaculate. Almost so that if he desired he could see his reflection near his feet, but few dared to look at themselves in a courthouse.
The man rose to meet Willis. Willis knew this man well. Too well. Sometimes the disappointing calls from his father would be telegrammed through this man’s voice.
“I’m sorry, son…” the voice would say, “your father has been held up in a meeting.” Even this man knew his father well enough to know he was only that. A father. A sperm donor. An absent male figure. The dictionary was far too generous with the word. Father. A male parent. God. One who originates, makes possible, or inspires something. The word Dad was merely listed as a colloquial term, or a short-cut for Father. It was all so backwards.
“Hello, Wil,” the man extended his hand, which was taken without hesitation. However, Willis shook hands limply. He was still overwhelmed by this place and these people and papers and things. They were all just things. Was he grieving? He didn’t know. It was all packed somewhere inside his big toe. Everything would take a very long time to reach his mouth, and then his brain.
“Hi, Sam,” he answered in a voice that seemed barely audible. Sam motioned him into another imposing room nearby. There were too many thresholds today. The room was small and dimly lit. The blinds were down and the large desk and tall bookshelves seemed to judge Willis from their standpoints. Willis loosened his tie, feeling the musty tone of the heavy dark brown books and neglected carpets. It was a furnished closet where many unsaid things happened.
“Would you like some coffee?” Sam offered. Willis thought he could use something a bit stronger, but he politely raised his hand in decline. Sam poured himself a cup and settled in behind the modest oak desk. He folded and unfolded his hands and then laid them flat before him. There was no real sense of sorrow in the room, but the situation was delicate and Sam wasn’t sure where to begin. He didn’t want to touch a raw nerve.
“I have your father’s papers, Wil,” he began. He pulled an envelope out of a large, squeaky drawer in his desk and deftly handed it over. Willis didn’t make any move to open it.
“Shouldn’t mother be here?” Wil stalled.
“Your mother conveyed point blank that she isn’t interested in what he had to say.” Wil nodded solemnly. She was still his widow, but he had been less than a husband to her. She had known the truth behind his unscheduled business trips years ago. However, she had kept quiet and continued to pack his lunch every morning and make pork chops every Tuesday night. It had been a different era then and she probably made herself believe there was nowhere else for her to go. Maybe it would have been easier if he had run off and left her for good. Besides, she had to stay. She had Willis to think about. And now Hancocks Sr. was dead. The freedom of it was suffocating. Wil squirmed in his seat. Sam noticed and decided to move things along. He was starting to feel uncomfortable, too. He jerked the papers impatiently towards Wil and immediately felt sorry for it. Wil glanced at him sharply, warily, as though he’d been wakened from a deep sleep. He didn’t want anything from his father, either. Not like this. But, feeling cornered, he accepted the envelope and toyed with the seal.
“Do I have to open this now?” he asked, sounding like a child who didn’t want to do a chore. “Here?”
“I must be a witness to make sure you understand all the implications of your father’s last wishes,” Sam answered in a distant voice. Wil began to peel open the seal. The package felt quite heavy for a man who had been so empty. He pulled out a stack of papers attached with a paper clip. There was too much print. Large blocks of paragraphed ink that Wil didn’t want to swim through. He passed the document back to Sam with a plea in his eyes for some comprehension.
Sam replaced his reading glasses with an air of formality and began to read:
Here states the last will and testament of I, Willis Hancocks Sr., to be read upon my time of death. To my faithful wife I leave my property estate…”
Faithful! How the bastard could even constitute the word and never know the meaning. Wil felt his innards turn and was relieved for his mother’s absence in this obscene mockery.
“…and to my only son I leave a portion of myself that I can only hope will fill the gaps I have left behind…” the remainder of the document contained instructions for the dividing of his assets, including a generous portion, which was granted to Sam for both his personal and professional services through the years. Wil barely heard the rest of it.
“How much?” he interrupted. Sam stopped in mid-sentence and removed the ominous glasses. His eyes were small and beady. A dusty blue. He had a luke-warm glance that took on a cooler slant if disrupted.
Sam had been a dutiful friend, even when it had gone against his better judgement. He tried to be discreet about the will even now, but the younger Wil knew him too well. He could sense by the way Sam’s voice began to trail off.
“It’s quite a sum, Wil,” he replied in a serious tone.
“How much?”
“Your father wasn’t very good with his feelings. He didn’t really know how to express…”
“How much?” Wil was becoming irritable.
“Two hundred and fifty million pounds, son.” His voice was like a dull thud in the room. Then he added, “I’ve already taken the liberty of depositing the funds directly into your account.” Wil felt immobilized in his chair. The cushion had suddenly become quicksand. He was a millionaire, just like his father. Just like his father.
“What if I don’t accept?” brilliant, he thought. Wil wanted no part of his father’s impersonal, hard cash world.
“Then the money will be given to the city,” Sam looked urgent. His loyalty still lay with his friend. And the last thing Hancocks Sr. ever wanted was to invest one cent in the government. He never trusted the politicians to do the right thing with their liberties. If Wil had known that he would have marched down to the city hall and delivered the boodle himself. But, he didn’t, and the affections he had carried unreturned for his father lay like silt in his stomach. He didn’t want his father’s money to go into a new McDonald’s or a city parade. The men stood up abruptly and shook hands. Wil just wanted to escape. When he emerged from the ominous courthouse doors, he took a long pause on the entrance steps. He drew everything in and the world looked stranger. Even the clouds appeared to be moving faster across an otherwise pleasant sky. The voices around him slowed down. The tempo in the atmosphere was out of step. The mechanics in his brain had been reduced to a hamster in a wheel, overworked. What had just happened?
Martin had been wandering the streets all morning. The sidewalks were wide and crowded. The streets themselves had a smaller ratio of traffic and he was tempted to walk along the painted dotted lines in the road and dodge the cars. At least he would get paid if someone bumped into him. The mobs on the sidewalk lived by the rule of every man for himself. He tried to avoid the shoving and also give it back where he could, and rarely did he make eye contact. He had grown sour and didn’t want to admit his own thoughts, even to himself. But the truth was he was young and ready to accept his creature comforts again. He began to miss pillows, basic warmth, and friendly conversation. Only now he had delved so deep into his notions of the world being dictated by money, politics, and fads, that he didn’t know how to slip back into the norm undetected. His rebellious nature had won him a reputation in the spreading vicinity of his tunnel life. His thoughts pushed behind his eyes as he walked recklessly. What could he do now? He had no money. Suddenly the colourful printed paper and accumulative clinking coins he once detested seemed essential. He kicked the pavement in defeat. There was no use fighting the greedy gods. Could he work? Would anyone hire him? Here? His appearance was almost frightening. He prayed for rain between using the public showers twice a week, which cost two pounds. Martin didn’t want to admit that he had failed in his attempts to rail against the grain, to not be a sheep. He always returned to the underground walkway. He considered it his home – after all, wasn’t home a place you could escape to after your legs grew weary and your head swelled with the pressure of people and words and laborious tasks. Perhaps Marty’s home didn’t provide the best comfort, but it provided him with shelter and a place to submerge from the busy streets. The hum of cars and shoes clanking on the grates above him provided company late in the night when only a few stray souls might join him or pass through, stealth-like, hiding also from the moonlight or police car beams. Marty wandered the streets of London by day and hid from them in the late, dark hours. As he headed back to Hyde Park, he would often see the homeless people cluster together in alleys. They were prohibited from seeking soft grass beds in the parks, even in the warmer season. So, in alleys they lit each other’s cigarettes and spat on the sidewalks. They swayed from the drink, and huddled together to keep warm and upright. They cajoled with each other and laughed with smoker’s lungs. Marty knew none of them and he avoided them. Whatever choices those poor, fading souls had ever made in their lives, they had not chosen to live on the streets with every door closed against them. At least, the choice had not been a conscious one. How the warmly lit windows in every flat on every block must have appeared to them. Marty was painfully aware of his free will in the matter. He wasn’t ready to surrender, yet. He still chose the broadness of the streets over being confined in those brightly lit boxes of windows looking down. Now his smug feelings had turned to jealousy. He suddenly hated the tourists brushing by him cheerfully with their Harrods bags, for a different reason. They had something he didn’t have. They were free. Martin sat down and occupied a piece of concrete.
As Wil rounded the corner he almost tripped over a grungy looking young man sitting on the pavement. The man looked as though he had walked across the continent. The blue of his eyes as he glanced up, startled, looked lost and old. The young man’s expectant hand emerged from his jacket sheepishly, and wavered open before him. Wil hesitated for half a second and then pulled out an executive leather booklet from his inside pocket. He then pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and began scribbling furiously inside the booklet.
“Here chap, here’s a big fat cheque and all you have to do is sign it,” Wil said. Wil roughly stuffed the content into the man’s waiting hand and hurried off, jamming both his empty hands into his deep pockets.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Writing on Week Seventeen
A Writing Room of One's Own
I am posting this blog entry from my first writing room, and it's been a long time a-coming. I am also posting this from my first 'stand alone' house. Who says a writer has to be starving? Well, after the mortgage payments we might be, but that's alright. I have a writing room --and it is far away from the television set. I have been used to balancing my laptop on my lap, on the couch, in front of the TV for so long... now sitting at a real writing table, being flanked by my stocked bookshelves and inspirational decor is, well, heaven... if you believe in that sort of thing. Next, paint. A warm colour that will draw me in, but not give me an additional headache (writers tend to rub their foreheads a lot).
My co-homeowner has also donated his beloved reading chair to my room... a simple reclining chair with blue padded fabric from IKEA. Ah, the poetry books I'll savour there... Okay, I know I'm going on a bit. It is all I can do to stay in my desk chair, writing, and not dancing around the room like Natalie in West Side Story.
At work, it is sometimes mildly distracting, thinking of my room and the ideas hatching...
I have already been more productive in this room over the past week, then I have been all summer. In my defense, house-buying, -selling, and -moving is a labour.
I have completed and sent off another poetry review to a certain online and print magazine (I will reveal more details if, and when, the review is published), and I am gradually preparing for my commitment to Random Acts of Poetry in October. Already, I am scoping out likely, less-intimidating people on the bus to share my poems with.
Today, my official announcement for a lunchtime poetry reading at work was sent out. The internal Communications Coordinator was kind enough to create a snazzy event poster for me. I feel encouragement all around, and I know it will be a great time.
For now, the reality of my day job looms and the evening has disappeared, yet again, so I will end here... happy to dream about my writing space, knowing I will find it is still here in the morning.
Morning Couplets
I tend to forget my breath during the day,
to expand my lungs as though first coming out of sleep.
One bird with a sprained wing under a tree, another dodges tires
for morsels on a busy street. We, too, take great risks to thrive.
A day to discover the world again, to break out
of this hum-drum bubble we can only stretch so far to burst.
I inaugurate this new season with a journey, one foot in front
leads the other to some hopeful destination; the sun, a bright compass.
These days when dogs chase the waves back to the mountains,
I retreat, too, into babies on blankets of rock broken into fine ground.
A trill of bird song drowns the tired sound of city work;
I strain to hear the dialect of such small, winged creatures.
I watch the vines as they twine around my patio,
knowing no plateaus, only opportune room to grow and bloom.
In this quiet, half-naked noon, I cure his ailment;
a night of little rest bending to a day of massive hope.
A night in bloom as colours resonate in scented dreams;
a changed landscape from stretched limbs reaching out to light petals.
Dragged back into the sensual, less lucid world; I leave
one of intuition and boundless flight not given by chance.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Random Acts of Poetry - 2007
VICTORIA POETS TO COMMIT ‘RANDOM ACTS OF POETRY’
Random Acts of Poetry, a celebration of poetry and literacy, begins its fourth year during the week of October 1st to 7th, 2007. Random Acts of Poetry is a project of the Victoria READ Society, a non-profit literacy organization, established in 1976. Random Acts of Poetry is funded by The Canada Council for the Arts.
During the week, 37 poets across Canada, from Victoria to Newfoundland, including three of Canada’s Poets Laureate, will commit Random Acts of Poetry in their cities. On buses and subways, in donut shops and cafes, police stations, grocery stores, shelters, curling rinks, on city streets and country lanes, poets will read poems to strangers and give them their books. Poets will also read their poems in ESL and Adult Literacy classes across the country.
In the Greater Victoria area five poets will offer poems to passersby: Victoria’s Poet Laureate/road kill inspector/Sunday school teacher Carla Funk; Random Acts of Poetry founder/private eye/raven watcher Wendy Morton; Barbara Pelman, teacher at Reynolds Secondary School/wannabe tango dancer; Susan Stenson, teacher at Claremont Secondary School editor of the Claremont Review/bodytalker and Andrea McKenzie, daydreaming journalist.
“Poetry,” says Wendy Morton, “is the shortest distance between two hearts. I have read poems to people who hadn’t heard a poem in thirty years, and watched their eyes fill up with tears. Some burst into laughter or laid a hand on my shoulder, hugged me, took my hand. Poetry can connect us with each other as humans as no other art form I know. Poetry is a gift that we can create from whatever life has in store for us.”
Across Canada poets will commit random acts in: Victoria, Vancouver, Nanaimo, Kelowna, Calgary, Edmonton, Moose Jaw, Winnipeg, Stratford, Markdale, Brantford, Toronto, Collingwood, Ottawa, Windsor, Hamilton, Montreal, Fredericton, Sackville, Saint John, Charlottetown, Halifax, Antigonish, St. John’s.
http://national-random-acts-of-poetry.blogspot.com/2007/08/andrea-mckenzie.html
http://www.victoriabookprizesociety.ca/doc/Book%20Prize%20Showcases%20Literary%20Arts.pdf
Friday, August 17, 2007
Favourite Poem of the Month
The Lady of Shallot
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Part I
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shallot.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shallot.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shallot?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shallot."
Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shallot.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shallot.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shallot.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shallot.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shallot.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shallot.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shallot.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web,
she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shallot.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shallot.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shallot.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shallot.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shallot.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shallot.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shallot."
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Part I
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shallot.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shallot.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shallot?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shallot."
Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shallot.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shallot.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shallot.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shallot.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shallot.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shallot.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shallot.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web,
she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shallot.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shallot.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shallot.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shallot.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shallot.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shallot.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shallot."
Writing On Week Sixteen
The fear of making something happen, like standing on top of a ski slope. There is the momentum of the passion to create pushing you, and the pull of opportunity. The only trouble is that you don't know what is at the bottom of the slope. So, I have to write and trust, and send it out for someone to catch.
I haven't been sending out many poems lately. At times it feels like an endless cycle of rejection. I just haven't hit the right time. I'm not completely discouraged, I am simply focusing on the creating process and marketing what I already have published. I am selectively submitting poems a couple of times a year to different literary publications, but I'm not going broke on stamps and contest entry fees.
At the moment, I am working on my second poetry manuscript and concentrating on editing the first draft of my novel. I continue to envision success, and wonder what it could mean. As writers, we are the most fragile of egotists. The hard part is bringing it forward, and making the world listen. We want to set free our words, and yet hang on to our last edits for as long as we can. (This sentence was edited numerous times)
This week I started the ball rolling again... I put forward a volunteer commitment to organize a poetry reading at work. The incredible part ( or maybe not so incredible) is that I work in an environment where people would actually assemble and give up their regular lunch hour to listen to poetry. My co-workers are already encouraging me, asking about the details and making promises to attend.
I've decided to leave a few minutes open at the end of the reading for anyone who wants to read poetry, their own or a favourite poems, so that it is more accessible. This won't be a poetry cafe atmosphere where people are accustomed to celebrating creative thought, so I want to transform this work space and let the audience breathe and feel comfortable and engaged. This isn't just about me and my book.
Still, I am trying to bring my work forward and, at the same time, kick off a poetic vibe. The fact that I am the catalyst for this event thrills me, and causes some mild trepidation. I've been getting in the habit of putting myself forward, and pushing down the fear. I've made contact with an established poet, Russell Thorburn, offering to review his most recent book of poems titled, Father, Tell Me I Have Not Aged. My drive is active and my mind is filled with ideas, plots, phrases and poems. I'm letting my passion push me and not worrying so much about what lies at the bottom of the ski slope.
I haven't been sending out many poems lately. At times it feels like an endless cycle of rejection. I just haven't hit the right time. I'm not completely discouraged, I am simply focusing on the creating process and marketing what I already have published. I am selectively submitting poems a couple of times a year to different literary publications, but I'm not going broke on stamps and contest entry fees.
At the moment, I am working on my second poetry manuscript and concentrating on editing the first draft of my novel. I continue to envision success, and wonder what it could mean. As writers, we are the most fragile of egotists. The hard part is bringing it forward, and making the world listen. We want to set free our words, and yet hang on to our last edits for as long as we can. (This sentence was edited numerous times)
This week I started the ball rolling again... I put forward a volunteer commitment to organize a poetry reading at work. The incredible part ( or maybe not so incredible) is that I work in an environment where people would actually assemble and give up their regular lunch hour to listen to poetry. My co-workers are already encouraging me, asking about the details and making promises to attend.
I've decided to leave a few minutes open at the end of the reading for anyone who wants to read poetry, their own or a favourite poems, so that it is more accessible. This won't be a poetry cafe atmosphere where people are accustomed to celebrating creative thought, so I want to transform this work space and let the audience breathe and feel comfortable and engaged. This isn't just about me and my book.
Still, I am trying to bring my work forward and, at the same time, kick off a poetic vibe. The fact that I am the catalyst for this event thrills me, and causes some mild trepidation. I've been getting in the habit of putting myself forward, and pushing down the fear. I've made contact with an established poet, Russell Thorburn, offering to review his most recent book of poems titled, Father, Tell Me I Have Not Aged. My drive is active and my mind is filled with ideas, plots, phrases and poems. I'm letting my passion push me and not worrying so much about what lies at the bottom of the ski slope.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Morning Couplets
I survey my unfinished room, think of great sketches,
sculptures without limbs, a musical score hidden in a mislabeled box.
Five mornings out of seven days, a single pillow, a radio voice;
today the week ends, our life starts. Your birthday is May, and mine July.
I wake beside emptiness on this heavy-clouded day;
a still tap in the bath, a piano in the corner, a morning waits to be filled.
A few hours traveled in another place; I unpack
luggage from my eyes and remove night shoes.
A jigsaw with bent and missing pieces, a ribcage
of sunlight shows an unswept floor.
I try not to ponder too much on how the sun rises,
not the logistics, but the eternity of it.
A soft, bright breeze stirs the new, confirms the uncertain,
something lost in the evening, pushed up by the descended moon.
When our morning becomes the entire day, we leave the rotation
of earth to its work; his beard shimmers red and gold sparks in sleep and in love.
A stillness in sun-touched branches, I try to model this:
in another flurry of morning we train ourselves to sip tea, and he tells me “write”.
In this world there is a light, and in this light there is a door,
and in this door there is a crack, and in this crack there is a dream.
sculptures without limbs, a musical score hidden in a mislabeled box.
Five mornings out of seven days, a single pillow, a radio voice;
today the week ends, our life starts. Your birthday is May, and mine July.
I wake beside emptiness on this heavy-clouded day;
a still tap in the bath, a piano in the corner, a morning waits to be filled.
A few hours traveled in another place; I unpack
luggage from my eyes and remove night shoes.
A jigsaw with bent and missing pieces, a ribcage
of sunlight shows an unswept floor.
I try not to ponder too much on how the sun rises,
not the logistics, but the eternity of it.
A soft, bright breeze stirs the new, confirms the uncertain,
something lost in the evening, pushed up by the descended moon.
When our morning becomes the entire day, we leave the rotation
of earth to its work; his beard shimmers red and gold sparks in sleep and in love.
A stillness in sun-touched branches, I try to model this:
in another flurry of morning we train ourselves to sip tea, and he tells me “write”.
In this world there is a light, and in this light there is a door,
and in this door there is a crack, and in this crack there is a dream.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
League of Canadian Poets' AGM in June 2007
Yvonne Blomer's reading at the League of Canadian Poets' AGM, June 9, 2007 - short-listed for the 2007 Gerald Lampert Award
Yvonne & Andrea Yvonne & fellow poet Kate Braid
Writing on Week Fifteen
Poetry is everywhere. It is on everyone's lips and sometimes in the most unexpected places. I work in government and, for employee morale and just for fun, there is a whiteboard in the stairwell for people to write down their thoughts, draw goofy pictures or solicit opinions. I saw a written comment "There is no money in poetry, but then there is little poetry in money." Someone else had come along and written "there is money in poetry, if you know how to find it." I wrote a simple "Cheers!" beside it.
The fact is, I've been able to turn my work cubicle into a mini poetry booth, and sold five copies of my book by displaying it on my file cabinet. No supervisors have shut me down, yet! People have a leaning towards the arts; it is part of our human make-up. One colleague of mine was generous enough to share a poem he had memorized in University, and I was treated to both the Greek and English translation.
Even those who swear up and down that they don't like poetry and never understood it - read them a good, accessible poem and they could change their minds right in front of you. I will be participating in the annual Random Acts of Poetry event in October 2007, and am feeling more encouraged about it. In the past, the thought of approaching strangers and ambushing them with a poem had scared me to death. I thought I might be verbally abused or shoved to the side, but then I look at the buskers belting out their creativity every day, all over town. Perhaps not everyone throws a coin into their hat, but I think we all secretly applaud them. The proof is in the pudding - and I've been given support and praise at my work for my efforts. People understand the importance of the arts, and it is warming to witness.
The fact is, I've been able to turn my work cubicle into a mini poetry booth, and sold five copies of my book by displaying it on my file cabinet. No supervisors have shut me down, yet! People have a leaning towards the arts; it is part of our human make-up. One colleague of mine was generous enough to share a poem he had memorized in University, and I was treated to both the Greek and English translation.
Even those who swear up and down that they don't like poetry and never understood it - read them a good, accessible poem and they could change their minds right in front of you. I will be participating in the annual Random Acts of Poetry event in October 2007, and am feeling more encouraged about it. In the past, the thought of approaching strangers and ambushing them with a poem had scared me to death. I thought I might be verbally abused or shoved to the side, but then I look at the buskers belting out their creativity every day, all over town. Perhaps not everyone throws a coin into their hat, but I think we all secretly applaud them. The proof is in the pudding - and I've been given support and praise at my work for my efforts. People understand the importance of the arts, and it is warming to witness.
Monday, July 9, 2007
A Memoir
I was conceived by the hopes of strangers who would become my parents by a written signature. Little did they know what they were taking home - what to do with me when I danced out of control, drew pictures on any blank surface, except the walls, and wrote down words. I stood alone on stages and danced for darkened audiences, sang in the backseat loudly, yelled at my sister when I tried to teach her how to write full sentences when she was three. My red-faced pupil shrinking in her chair as I bleated, "No, no, no!"
To this day, she refuses to know how to spell. I smiled for pictures, showing my top teeth or my bottom jaw, or both. I roared down black diamond ski hills when I was eight. My dad calling behind him, "meet you at the bottom!" I hung out of roller coasters and gondolas, wanting to see the distance from earth and my rush to the ground. I wrote bottomless pages, willing myself into a tailspin, to the point of forgetting how I began. Going further down.
I fell into men who like to decide for me at the flip of a coin. Will I love her or not? I stepped on the coin. Kept walking, only after a lifetime.
I fell into women who poured me into bottomless glasses of booze and said, "who needs men?" and we danced on night club speakers, kissed strangers, fell into taxicabs and tailspin beds.
I put one foot down to make the room stop. I lived alone, packed my life full, quarrelled, wrote, walked around in the dark. I went to funerals. Too many funerals, but not so many as some. Still, I grappled with loss. I clung to loss, fell into men I couldn't touch, couldn't touch me, who made love to me through computers and phonelines. Men who could let go when they wanted to, at the drop of a dime.
I watched a broken clock on the wall, only for a lifetime. I put in a new battery, drove forward, threw myself into time - papers, textbooks, teachers and bosses.
I learned instruction. I learned to be happy. I learned the pain of submission. I learned to fall into myself. Eventually, I fell into a man who I decided could love me.
To this day, she refuses to know how to spell. I smiled for pictures, showing my top teeth or my bottom jaw, or both. I roared down black diamond ski hills when I was eight. My dad calling behind him, "meet you at the bottom!" I hung out of roller coasters and gondolas, wanting to see the distance from earth and my rush to the ground. I wrote bottomless pages, willing myself into a tailspin, to the point of forgetting how I began. Going further down.
I fell into men who like to decide for me at the flip of a coin. Will I love her or not? I stepped on the coin. Kept walking, only after a lifetime.
I fell into women who poured me into bottomless glasses of booze and said, "who needs men?" and we danced on night club speakers, kissed strangers, fell into taxicabs and tailspin beds.
I put one foot down to make the room stop. I lived alone, packed my life full, quarrelled, wrote, walked around in the dark. I went to funerals. Too many funerals, but not so many as some. Still, I grappled with loss. I clung to loss, fell into men I couldn't touch, couldn't touch me, who made love to me through computers and phonelines. Men who could let go when they wanted to, at the drop of a dime.
I watched a broken clock on the wall, only for a lifetime. I put in a new battery, drove forward, threw myself into time - papers, textbooks, teachers and bosses.
I learned instruction. I learned to be happy. I learned the pain of submission. I learned to fall into myself. Eventually, I fell into a man who I decided could love me.
Writing On Week Fourteen
The power of memory - how we cover events, or let them dance somewhere far in the background - it takes courage to bring them to the front again, center stage. Last weekend I participated in a one-day memoir writing course with Yvonne Blomer. Throughout the day, we were given prompts to reactivate our memory cells and take us into other, long forgotten places - or places and events that have always been close to the surface, still sitting on our shoulders and directing our current paths.
We were asked to write about the following, with time constraints: the story of our life, a meditation on our name, a phrase in another language, a cab ride, our hands, a fa vourite movie, a personal event linked with a world or pivotal event, a favourite book, and a childhood photograph.
We were given the opportunity to share our writings and, as with any piece of writing, a part of ourselves. There were a few passes, which is not unusual with such intimate parts of our being. When we are asked to let anything come from the recesses of the past, often everything does come - raw and uncensored. For me, it was a surreal memory from my childhood that I still can't quite sort out, from a time when everything seemed strange and confusing and I wasn't in the pilot's seat. Then there were pleasant, interesting memories that I was more willing to dissect and take another close look. Funny how we remember different events differently, and how we can take a new perspective looking back. Sometimes more compassionately of another person's perspective from the same memory.
There is often a sense that we don't quite have the right to attempt writing a memoir because we feel we need to be at the end of our life, or have led a wildly interesting life to validate writing about ourselves. Not true, as we learned in Blomer's course - we each have a valid story to tell. One woman in the course made a comment about how she prefers to take a real memory and embellish it, make it something more or something else and drift away from the truth. So, instead, she uses her memories as springboards for other creative ideas. A memoir can take so many directions, inwards and outwards, back and forth into so many new and forgotten discoveries.
We were asked to write about the following, with time constraints: the story of our life, a meditation on our name, a phrase in another language, a cab ride, our hands, a fa vourite movie, a personal event linked with a world or pivotal event, a favourite book, and a childhood photograph.
We were given the opportunity to share our writings and, as with any piece of writing, a part of ourselves. There were a few passes, which is not unusual with such intimate parts of our being. When we are asked to let anything come from the recesses of the past, often everything does come - raw and uncensored. For me, it was a surreal memory from my childhood that I still can't quite sort out, from a time when everything seemed strange and confusing and I wasn't in the pilot's seat. Then there were pleasant, interesting memories that I was more willing to dissect and take another close look. Funny how we remember different events differently, and how we can take a new perspective looking back. Sometimes more compassionately of another person's perspective from the same memory.
There is often a sense that we don't quite have the right to attempt writing a memoir because we feel we need to be at the end of our life, or have led a wildly interesting life to validate writing about ourselves. Not true, as we learned in Blomer's course - we each have a valid story to tell. One woman in the course made a comment about how she prefers to take a real memory and embellish it, make it something more or something else and drift away from the truth. So, instead, she uses her memories as springboards for other creative ideas. A memoir can take so many directions, inwards and outwards, back and forth into so many new and forgotten discoveries.
Morning Couplets
Waking before light and slow numbers on the bedside clock;
the soft thud of newspaper, the world begins again.
A calling of purpose to rise from warm, flannel sheets,
the last day of the week; a day to be ready.
The early morning birds sing me awake, while I dream
of traffic routes, movement, speech - the tests of today.
The urgency of Sunday, church chimes float through
my heathen space, my heart belongs to this pen - a creative, unbuilt worlds.
A deceptive spring peeks in my blinds, bright
icy air beckons, while my love blows a kiss, and breezes out the back.
A red room, blue sky, white dreams -
a new day - how can I choose my colours?
An alarm clock spills the world into my room, chaos of political strife,
ticking bombs, dividers - I find safety next to a warm body, unclenched hands.
Tea for one, an unfinished book, still morning;
an early international call. A warm breeze off the sea.
I wake, on the other side of strong cross-currents, in this place -
a table of poets, a lofty bed, soft light through bay windows and no bay.
Four walls and a cup of tea greet me, a sense of somewhere
and the hours roll out before me like curled receipts.
the soft thud of newspaper, the world begins again.
A calling of purpose to rise from warm, flannel sheets,
the last day of the week; a day to be ready.
The early morning birds sing me awake, while I dream
of traffic routes, movement, speech - the tests of today.
The urgency of Sunday, church chimes float through
my heathen space, my heart belongs to this pen - a creative, unbuilt worlds.
A deceptive spring peeks in my blinds, bright
icy air beckons, while my love blows a kiss, and breezes out the back.
A red room, blue sky, white dreams -
a new day - how can I choose my colours?
An alarm clock spills the world into my room, chaos of political strife,
ticking bombs, dividers - I find safety next to a warm body, unclenched hands.
Tea for one, an unfinished book, still morning;
an early international call. A warm breeze off the sea.
I wake, on the other side of strong cross-currents, in this place -
a table of poets, a lofty bed, soft light through bay windows and no bay.
Four walls and a cup of tea greet me, a sense of somewhere
and the hours roll out before me like curled receipts.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Short stories
The Woman Downstairs
The woman downstairs heard every noise that wasn't there. Her husband was no longer there to snore and roll in his sleep, so she turned her ears to the small thumps and shallow breaths of the people upstairs. Every sound in the dark resonated like a bomb exploding. She would wake up to listen, and then roll from her bed to write letters, to perhaps hear some sympathy. She would press the send button, thrusting her indignant cries out into the night, to send rude awakenings to the morning recipients who had to do something to stop her letters from waking them, after everything had changed and the noises vanished. Even though there were the same soft thumps and shallow breaths, the daylight provided a sound buffer. A sound wall. Something for her obsessive thoughts and unsound mind to ricochet off.
She kept a notebook by her pillow, ready for the next midnight assault and her onslaught of complaints. Her two-bedroom suite caused too much noise. Silence can be loud. Her letters began to fly around the world - out of her head, fingers and room. Her lonely dementia; a one-dimensional life. And the letters came back, acknowledged. Her thoughts confirmed. There was a sound in the world and she kept everyone awake with it - presidents, council members, plumbers, carpenters, teachers, government servants, and the writers, who wrote more replies and received more letters.
Every complaint reached the door of the people living with their small thumps and soft breaths upstairs who barricaded themselves in layers of carpet, sweaters, and stacked boxes. The quiet people who she dream of in the night, living themselves into a corner of existence who had enough of paper, who protested fiercely. The people who defended their slow breaths and late night thumps on the hard surface - their floor, her ceiling. Noise trickles through the cracks, old pipes bursting, and rotting walls.
How could they not hear each other? How could they live? The woman's empty bed, cold and deprived of her late husband's soft breaths in the night, his footfall on the floor going to run water through the old pipes in the night. Her adversity to the low sounds of breathing, and other people living.
The woman downstairs heard every noise that wasn't there. Her husband was no longer there to snore and roll in his sleep, so she turned her ears to the small thumps and shallow breaths of the people upstairs. Every sound in the dark resonated like a bomb exploding. She would wake up to listen, and then roll from her bed to write letters, to perhaps hear some sympathy. She would press the send button, thrusting her indignant cries out into the night, to send rude awakenings to the morning recipients who had to do something to stop her letters from waking them, after everything had changed and the noises vanished. Even though there were the same soft thumps and shallow breaths, the daylight provided a sound buffer. A sound wall. Something for her obsessive thoughts and unsound mind to ricochet off.
She kept a notebook by her pillow, ready for the next midnight assault and her onslaught of complaints. Her two-bedroom suite caused too much noise. Silence can be loud. Her letters began to fly around the world - out of her head, fingers and room. Her lonely dementia; a one-dimensional life. And the letters came back, acknowledged. Her thoughts confirmed. There was a sound in the world and she kept everyone awake with it - presidents, council members, plumbers, carpenters, teachers, government servants, and the writers, who wrote more replies and received more letters.
Every complaint reached the door of the people living with their small thumps and soft breaths upstairs who barricaded themselves in layers of carpet, sweaters, and stacked boxes. The quiet people who she dream of in the night, living themselves into a corner of existence who had enough of paper, who protested fiercely. The people who defended their slow breaths and late night thumps on the hard surface - their floor, her ceiling. Noise trickles through the cracks, old pipes bursting, and rotting walls.
How could they not hear each other? How could they live? The woman's empty bed, cold and deprived of her late husband's soft breaths in the night, his footfall on the floor going to run water through the old pipes in the night. Her adversity to the low sounds of breathing, and other people living.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Writing on Week Thirteen
I am working on relieving tension in my life because, as a writer, I find that my emotions often get in the way of reality. There is often a struggle to let go of the ego, that universe in the self that shields us from the conflict of a different reality happening outside the body and, essentially, the mind. As writers, we can use this to our advantage, to create worlds. Still, I tend to stay in that world and lose sight of the daily grind that, at times, gets in the way. Also, my ego will get in the way of the writing process. I find it difficult to follow my own rule to keep writing and let it happen. I have constructed projects in my mind, written on long-term 'to-do lists' that will keep me motivated and creating for a long time; however, this will to sit down and start sometimes goes sideways. I journal before I sit down to work.
I recently had a discussion with my yoga instructor about consciously slowing down and being more aware of the mind's internal and external realities. I tend to internalize everything and not look more closely at what that external influence may actually be, and whether it has much at all to do with me. The world is an overwhelming place - is the trick to accept it all, or try to harness it into some manageable, bite-sized way?
This is not an attempt to sort out the question of reality. We have our own realities and one reality can be complete imagination - in writing, and in life. The question is how to stay firm to my own reality without allowing the realities of others to manipulate my perceptions.
I move deeper into my postures and, when the mind chatter happens, which is a running dialogue, I try to channel it into some creative energy. The mind chatter goes onto the page and off my shoulders.
I recently had a discussion with my yoga instructor about consciously slowing down and being more aware of the mind's internal and external realities. I tend to internalize everything and not look more closely at what that external influence may actually be, and whether it has much at all to do with me. The world is an overwhelming place - is the trick to accept it all, or try to harness it into some manageable, bite-sized way?
This is not an attempt to sort out the question of reality. We have our own realities and one reality can be complete imagination - in writing, and in life. The question is how to stay firm to my own reality without allowing the realities of others to manipulate my perceptions.
I move deeper into my postures and, when the mind chatter happens, which is a running dialogue, I try to channel it into some creative energy. The mind chatter goes onto the page and off my shoulders.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Writing on Week Twelve
I have returned from attending my first League of Canadia Poets AGM, held in Edmonton, Alberta. I met brilliant poets and had an opportunity to join in and share my work. During the AGM, there were a number of panels presented on writing. I was thrilled to be in a place with other writers, and an organization that supported writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje and Al Purdy, to name a small few. I attended the Form Poetry and Technology and Poetic Collaboration panels. Form poetry is far from being a lost form, but it is having a revival. There was an insightful conversation about the use of the traditional sonnet and liberated sonnet, and the possibility of creating other sonnet forms. I have been working only in free verse for so long, I was partly intimidated to try form. As a result of the panel, I was inspired to write a sonnet today - the first of many.
The second panel addressed the use of today's technology for poets collaborating with other artists i.e. websites, blogs, poetry CDs, music lyrics, photography, video poems. There are so many possibilities at the click of a button.
The league organized a new members reading at a restaurant called The Kasbah in downtown Edmonton, and it was a wonderful evening with words and wine flowing. On the last evening, we were treated to a stirring lecture from Mark Abley, more wine and words flowing, and an awards presentation for the Pat Lowther and Gerald Lampert book awards at the Edmonton City Hall.
Our own wayword poet, Yvonne Blomer, was short-listed for the Gerald Lampert award for her first book of poetry, a broken leaf, fallen mirror. She gave a thoughtful reading and left a firm mark as an up-and-coming poet and new member of the league. Steven Price won the award for his first collection of poems about Harry Houdini, An Anatomy of Keys. Gary Hyland, a poet from Moosejaw, Sasksatchewan, was presented with a well-deserved Lifetime Honourary membership of the League.
The weekend was a great introduction to the League of Canadian Poets - to be present and involved - and brush shoulders with wonderful writers in all career stages. To spend a weekend away talking about the sound, placement and magic of words, what could be better?
The second panel addressed the use of today's technology for poets collaborating with other artists i.e. websites, blogs, poetry CDs, music lyrics, photography, video poems. There are so many possibilities at the click of a button.
The league organized a new members reading at a restaurant called The Kasbah in downtown Edmonton, and it was a wonderful evening with words and wine flowing. On the last evening, we were treated to a stirring lecture from Mark Abley, more wine and words flowing, and an awards presentation for the Pat Lowther and Gerald Lampert book awards at the Edmonton City Hall.
Our own wayword poet, Yvonne Blomer, was short-listed for the Gerald Lampert award for her first book of poetry, a broken leaf, fallen mirror. She gave a thoughtful reading and left a firm mark as an up-and-coming poet and new member of the league. Steven Price won the award for his first collection of poems about Harry Houdini, An Anatomy of Keys. Gary Hyland, a poet from Moosejaw, Sasksatchewan, was presented with a well-deserved Lifetime Honourary membership of the League.
The weekend was a great introduction to the League of Canadian Poets - to be present and involved - and brush shoulders with wonderful writers in all career stages. To spend a weekend away talking about the sound, placement and magic of words, what could be better?
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Morning Couplets
I awoke on his side of my bed, tangled in the comforter;
his body pillow stowed away on the floor, instead the empty space kept me warm.
Remnants of yesterday fall like dry, dead skin in the carpet,
the smell of dust particles in sunlight, receding shadows called back to the dull stars.
A bloated tea bag, cherry blossoms dangling from branches,
plump raisins suspended in milk – the patience of mornings and seasons.
Sunlit branches sway in a cold wind, birds serenade
spring in this winter month.
The waking world is blurry; I lap up my tea, tasting,
and watch my slowed hand move across the page.
his body pillow stowed away on the floor, instead the empty space kept me warm.
Remnants of yesterday fall like dry, dead skin in the carpet,
the smell of dust particles in sunlight, receding shadows called back to the dull stars.
A bloated tea bag, cherry blossoms dangling from branches,
plump raisins suspended in milk – the patience of mornings and seasons.
Sunlit branches sway in a cold wind, birds serenade
spring in this winter month.
The waking world is blurry; I lap up my tea, tasting,
and watch my slowed hand move across the page.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Writing on Week Eleven
How is your writing? Are you managing to send out submissions, enter contests, manage to put a stanza or two on paper? Are you able to harness in your words and make them dance? If so, I am living vicariously through you this week. My flex day is another week away - my day to write - and in the meantime I work at writing morning couplets and keeping track of the days' events. Mostly, I'm trying to stay away from the usual distractions, but it can be a losing battle. Sometimes, the constant notifications of contests and literary events can be overwhelming. We are still struggling with the perameters of space and time. I'm glad these words, alone, are coming.
I find it helpful to discuss writing with a handful of friends I am able to bounce ideas off of, including my supportive Waywords. I have a co-worker with whom I can debate punctuation and discuss writing, in general - our styles, inspiration, influences, energies, authors, articles - whatever is niggling at our writing brains.
For writing incentive, I find the freedom of being wireless helps as I am not confined to my cubby-hole closet with all of its paper and books piled around me. You would think this mound of paper clutter would lend inspiration by osmosis, but it is often mere clutter that clogs the way for new work.
Sleep is overrated and I wish I didn't need it as much as I do. There are too many pages to fill and pore over.
The draft of my first novel should be bound in book form for review by next week, thanks to a friend who has offered to do this for me. I will have 10 copies to give to friends and family for their editing comments.
This week I will be flying to Edmonton to attend the League of Canadian Poets AGM (June 8-10). I am exhilarated by the thought of meeting other writers and sharing ideas.
I realize this entry is greatly dis-jointed - little spurts of thought as I try to start my ignition. Let me know how you are doing and, if you feel comfortable, share your published work or writing intents.
I find it helpful to discuss writing with a handful of friends I am able to bounce ideas off of, including my supportive Waywords. I have a co-worker with whom I can debate punctuation and discuss writing, in general - our styles, inspiration, influences, energies, authors, articles - whatever is niggling at our writing brains.
For writing incentive, I find the freedom of being wireless helps as I am not confined to my cubby-hole closet with all of its paper and books piled around me. You would think this mound of paper clutter would lend inspiration by osmosis, but it is often mere clutter that clogs the way for new work.
Sleep is overrated and I wish I didn't need it as much as I do. There are too many pages to fill and pore over.
The draft of my first novel should be bound in book form for review by next week, thanks to a friend who has offered to do this for me. I will have 10 copies to give to friends and family for their editing comments.
This week I will be flying to Edmonton to attend the League of Canadian Poets AGM (June 8-10). I am exhilarated by the thought of meeting other writers and sharing ideas.
I realize this entry is greatly dis-jointed - little spurts of thought as I try to start my ignition. Let me know how you are doing and, if you feel comfortable, share your published work or writing intents.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Favourite Poem of the Month
He Sits Down on the Floor of a School for the Retarded
I sit down on the floor of a school for the retarded,
a writer of magazine articles accompanying a band
that was met at the door by a child in a man's body
who asked them, "Are you the surprise they promised us?"
It's Ryan's Fancy, Dermot on guitar,
Fergus on banjo, Denis on penny-whistle.
In the eyes of this audience, they're everybody
who has ever appeared on TV. I've been telling lies
to a boy who cried because his favorite detective
hadn't come with us; I said he had sent his love
and, no, I didn't think he'd mind if I signed his name
to a scrap of paper: when the boy took it, he said,
"Nobody will ever get this away from me,"
in the voice, more hopeless than defiant,
of one accustomed to finding that his hiding places
have been discovered, used to having objects snatched
out of his hands. Weeks from now I'll send him
another autograph, this one genuine
in the sense of having been signed by somebody
on the same payroll as the star.
Then I'll feel less ashamed. Now everyone is singing,
"Old MacDonald had a farm," and I don't know what to do
about the young woman (I call her a woman
because she's twenty-five at least, but think of her
as a little girl, she plays the part so well,
having known no other), about the young woman who
sits down beside me and, as if it were the most natural
thing in the world, rests her head on my shoulder.
It's nine o'clock in the morning, not an hour for music.
And, at the best of times, I'm uncomfortable
in situations where I'm ignorant
of the accepted etiquette: it's one thing
to jump a fence, quite another thing to blunder
into one in the dark. I look around me
for a teacher to whom to smile out my distress.
They're all busy elsewhere, "Hold me," she whispers. "Hold me."
I put my arm around her. "Hold me tighter."
I do, and she snuggles closer. I half-expect
someone in authority to grab her
of me: I can imagine this being remembered
for ever as the time the sex-crazed writer
publicly fondled the poor retarded girl.
"Hold me," she says again. What does it matter
what anybody thinks? I put my arm around her,
rest my chin in her hair, thinking of children,
real children, and of how they say it, "Hold me,"
and of a patient in a geriatric ward
I once heard crying out to his mother, dead
for half a century, "I'm frightened! Hold me!"
and of a boy-soldier screaming it on the beach
at Dieppe, of Nelson in Hardy's arms,
of Frieda gripping Lawrence's ankle
until he sailed off in his Ship of Death.
It's what we all want, in the end,
to be held, merely to be held,
to be kissed (not necessarily with the lips,
for every touching is a kind of kiss.)
Yet, it's what we all want, in the end,
not to be worshipped, not to be admired,
not to be famous, not to be feared,
not even to be loved, but simply to be held.
She hugs me now, this retarded woman, and I hug her.
We are brother and sister, father and daughter,
mother and son, husband and wife.
We are lovers. We are two human beings
huddled together for a little while by the fire
in the Ice Age, two hundred thousand years ago.
Alden Nowlan
I sit down on the floor of a school for the retarded,
a writer of magazine articles accompanying a band
that was met at the door by a child in a man's body
who asked them, "Are you the surprise they promised us?"
It's Ryan's Fancy, Dermot on guitar,
Fergus on banjo, Denis on penny-whistle.
In the eyes of this audience, they're everybody
who has ever appeared on TV. I've been telling lies
to a boy who cried because his favorite detective
hadn't come with us; I said he had sent his love
and, no, I didn't think he'd mind if I signed his name
to a scrap of paper: when the boy took it, he said,
"Nobody will ever get this away from me,"
in the voice, more hopeless than defiant,
of one accustomed to finding that his hiding places
have been discovered, used to having objects snatched
out of his hands. Weeks from now I'll send him
another autograph, this one genuine
in the sense of having been signed by somebody
on the same payroll as the star.
Then I'll feel less ashamed. Now everyone is singing,
"Old MacDonald had a farm," and I don't know what to do
about the young woman (I call her a woman
because she's twenty-five at least, but think of her
as a little girl, she plays the part so well,
having known no other), about the young woman who
sits down beside me and, as if it were the most natural
thing in the world, rests her head on my shoulder.
It's nine o'clock in the morning, not an hour for music.
And, at the best of times, I'm uncomfortable
in situations where I'm ignorant
of the accepted etiquette: it's one thing
to jump a fence, quite another thing to blunder
into one in the dark. I look around me
for a teacher to whom to smile out my distress.
They're all busy elsewhere, "Hold me," she whispers. "Hold me."
I put my arm around her. "Hold me tighter."
I do, and she snuggles closer. I half-expect
someone in authority to grab her
of me: I can imagine this being remembered
for ever as the time the sex-crazed writer
publicly fondled the poor retarded girl.
"Hold me," she says again. What does it matter
what anybody thinks? I put my arm around her,
rest my chin in her hair, thinking of children,
real children, and of how they say it, "Hold me,"
and of a patient in a geriatric ward
I once heard crying out to his mother, dead
for half a century, "I'm frightened! Hold me!"
and of a boy-soldier screaming it on the beach
at Dieppe, of Nelson in Hardy's arms,
of Frieda gripping Lawrence's ankle
until he sailed off in his Ship of Death.
It's what we all want, in the end,
to be held, merely to be held,
to be kissed (not necessarily with the lips,
for every touching is a kind of kiss.)
Yet, it's what we all want, in the end,
not to be worshipped, not to be admired,
not to be famous, not to be feared,
not even to be loved, but simply to be held.
She hugs me now, this retarded woman, and I hug her.
We are brother and sister, father and daughter,
mother and son, husband and wife.
We are lovers. We are two human beings
huddled together for a little while by the fire
in the Ice Age, two hundred thousand years ago.
Alden Nowlan
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