Ah, the ever-increasing struggle to carve out a space and time for writing in a hectic week. My own writing, that is. I once had a creative writing professor tell me that people who write for a living are usually tapped out at the end of the day, and that the 'real' writers were the carpenters, plumbers, and labour workers of the world. This is true, but not always so restrictive. I actually find that my more technical writing at work fuels my creative writing. I don't mean to say that the situations at work necessarily creep into my personal writing, although sometimes it is unavoidable, but that it lends another form or structure that enables my writing to be more well-rounded. Also, when you know you are writing for someone else, especially in a work situation, as interesting as it may be, you realize you are in the act of writing and can't wait to be at home writing a poem or tweaking a fiction manuscript. The other advantage is that I don't have to switch any hard gears in my head.
At least, that is how it is for me. The tired factor comes in, as it does for anyone trying to balance a creative life with steady work. The romantic idea is that all you need is your paper and pen and to hell with that steady pay cheque. Well, it depends on what you need in life -- and, for myself, I need a roof to write under.
I will be negotiating a flex day at work, which will make all the difference in concentrating on my second job, my indentured servitude to my heart's passion (other than my wonderful, significant other who I will not be exploiting on this site -- except maybe in a few chosen morning couplets) -- an entire day to write, and maybe do a few dishes and cook some food, if needed. It is an interesting, fragile balance between work, family and writing -- and is there a correct prioritizing in this list? I believe they feed off each other, and can all be managed. I find myself now becoming engrossed in articles about how to solve this dilemma. Although I don't have little ones (except my kitties) to think about, yet, I am preparing myself and making mental notes about 'finding time to write when they are watching Sesame Street or having a nap'. "Yeah," I think to myself, "I can do that." Then no one is the wiser, and I can still be a picture-perfect, all present mom when that particular day comes.
My point is that, as writers, we need that free space - unencumbered and quiet - to create. We need to make a small separation from our other selves, our other titles - mom, employee or employer, wife, housekeeper. My apologies for speaking from a female perspective -- of course, Dad, employee or employer, husband. These are all essential parts of the writer, but roles we can let go of for a few hours a day. Writing is thinking, and connecting with ourselves.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Published Books
Poetry Books
A Mother's String, Ekstasis Editions 2005
Chapbooks
Shoebox Collections, 2003
Glenaireley chapbooks - Leaf Press, edited by Patrick Lane
Dinner Party, 2003
Letters We Never Sent, 2004
Object, 2005
Anecdote, 2006
A Mother's String, Ekstasis Editions 2005
Chapbooks
Shoebox Collections, 2003
Glenaireley chapbooks - Leaf Press, edited by Patrick Lane
Dinner Party, 2003
Letters We Never Sent, 2004
Object, 2005
Anecdote, 2006
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Waywords
I am extremely fortunate to be part of a writing group -- to meet and write with six incredible and talented women, and not just in the writing realm. We are the Waywords: Barbara Pelman, Cynthia Woodman Kerkham, Grace Cockburn, Pamela Porter, Karen Shklanka, Yvonne Blomer and myself.
We met at a Glenairely writing retreat in Sooke, BC, facilitated by Patrick Lane, in November 2002 and began our writing group in January 2003. Every second Sunday since then, we have been rotating houses, pouring tea, putting out goodies, planning writing exercies and critiquing each other's poems with hard, constructive criticism but in a gentle and supportive manner.
We have shared our lives - babies, marriages, deaths, endings and new beginnings - our successes and our periodic disappointments both on and off the page. We have had a number of victories to celebrate:
Pam Porter won the Governor General's Award for her poetic fiction, The Crazy Man, in 2005.
Yvonne is gathering literary acclaim for her first book of poetry, A broken mirror, fallen leaf, published by Ekstasis Editions in 2006. Check it out: http://toddswift.blogspot.com/2007/04/blomer-shortlisted-for-lampert.html
A Mother's String and Barbara Pelman's book of poetry, One Stone, were both nominated for the Victoria Butler Book Prize in 2006.
Grace won a CBC prize for a poem about her father's shoes a couple of years ago.
We are all slowly breaking into Canadian literary anthologies, bringing forth our own books, and making our stamp on the world of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction.
We are the Waywords ... you never know where we'll go next!
We met at a Glenairely writing retreat in Sooke, BC, facilitated by Patrick Lane, in November 2002 and began our writing group in January 2003. Every second Sunday since then, we have been rotating houses, pouring tea, putting out goodies, planning writing exercies and critiquing each other's poems with hard, constructive criticism but in a gentle and supportive manner.
We have shared our lives - babies, marriages, deaths, endings and new beginnings - our successes and our periodic disappointments both on and off the page. We have had a number of victories to celebrate:
Pam Porter won the Governor General's Award for her poetic fiction, The Crazy Man, in 2005.
Yvonne is gathering literary acclaim for her first book of poetry, A broken mirror, fallen leaf, published by Ekstasis Editions in 2006. Check it out: http://toddswift.blogspot.com/2007/04/blomer-shortlisted-for-lampert.html
A Mother's String and Barbara Pelman's book of poetry, One Stone, were both nominated for the Victoria Butler Book Prize in 2006.
Grace won a CBC prize for a poem about her father's shoes a couple of years ago.
We are all slowly breaking into Canadian literary anthologies, bringing forth our own books, and making our stamp on the world of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction.
We are the Waywords ... you never know where we'll go next!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
A Mother's String
ISBN 1-894800-69-9 A Mother’s String (poetry) $16.95
published 2005 72 pages
A Mother’s String is about the lessons we learn in love and patience. It is about the family ties that bind even in the absence of those we are bound to. The poems are haunted by the memory of homes lived in or wished for. In them we remember our younger selves who have still to learn how far we can climb, how far we can fall.
published 2005 72 pages
A Mother’s String is about the lessons we learn in love and patience. It is about the family ties that bind even in the absence of those we are bound to. The poems are haunted by the memory of homes lived in or wished for. In them we remember our younger selves who have still to learn how far we can climb, how far we can fall.
A Mother's String can be purchased at:
Ivy's Books (Oak Bay)
Tanners' Books (Sidney, BC)
A Review of A Mother's String, published in the Pacific Rim Review of Books, Summer 2006
by Linda Rogers
It is astonishing that such a young poet is so aware of the ambiguities of string. From umbilicus to birthday wrapping to leash to apron string, Andrea McKenzie uses the emotional material at hand to present the ordinary and sometimes extraordinary experience of girls - rejection, love, cruelty and reconciliation - in neatly wrapped packages of loss and redemption. Already McKenzie has learned how to offer her poems as gifts for the world. Her last lines make magnificent bows: I said it back/ When this happens, remember your body and stay there/ the cord gets tangled/ a hand coming down upon her head. Her linked images are proverbs knotted on a string so that none of them them may be lost on the journey from darkness to light. Most delightfully, McKenzie's quest takes her directly from the intensely personal to the universal. Unlike those poets who circle themselves and get nowhere, she has already turned from self-healing to mending a broken world.
Posted by Andrea McKenzie at 12:25 AM
1 comments:
Stephen said...
I have this book. It is very well well written, and very moving.
December 4, 2006 9:20 PM
Archived Articles
Caldwell reels in readers with new books and old bestsellers
Four siblings reunite with lost father through journals:Diaries hold more than memories for WWI soldier's four children
Blind 92-year-old launches travel book series: Seeing the world past the words
Wine -- women -- and writing: This wanderlust author refuses to settle
Pioneering vet tells story of a very full lifetime
The Call of Women in the North: Author Toni Graeme records their voices
Turn-of-the-century Japanese author is celebrated for the 100th anniversary of sharing his dream
Humane author explores second chances for incarcerated souls through writing
Lost and found: author tells of discovering her father's true identity shortly before losing him
Life lessons: Octogenarian author taps into ageless knowledge, love, and the miracle of life
More than one lifetime achievement is realized by a long time celebrated author
Author and WWII veteran asks "would you like to spend 1400 days with me?"
A senior pool of authors are plugging into a new wave of publishing
A Time of War: Veterans write about their trials of love, allegiance and anguish overseas
Creative Magic
Late Bloomers
Rubicon Chapbook Press
ArtsReach
PATH project
Tent City: The Right To Sleep
http://ascentaspirations.ca/wordStormandream.htm
The Practice of Yoga: The Benefits of Turning Ourselves Inwards for Healing
By Andrea McKenzie
The moment we wake up each morning, we start giving ourselves away in little pieces – we make breakfast for our family, try to maintain patience and understanding in traffic, perform our duties at work, return home to cater to our domestic lives, make time for social engagements, sleep and then wake up to a similar routine the next day. At what time do we have the luxury to focus on our own emotional and physical needs?
Yoga is a practice that reminds the body, mind and spirit of its intrinsic needs to stay healthy, fit and focused. In Yoga, we learn how to calm our chaotic minds and purge the clutter of daily demands. Yoga encourages slow, intentional movements to focus on all parts of the body and honour our thoughts and inner selves. All too often, we spread ourselves so thin that we don’t pay attention to our own needs.
There are various types of Yoga (yoga meaning union – between body, breath and mind) that lead to the same place, getting to that place of union through different paths. These types are: Mantra Yoga – Yoga of sacred sounds; Jnana Yoga – Yoga of self knowledge; Karma Yoga – Yoga of skillful action or selfless service; Bhakti Yoga – Yoga of devotional love; Raja Yoga – Yoga with an emphasis on meditation; and Hatha Yoga – Yoga focusing on the physical body through postures or Asanas, a physical practice of the postures meaning seat, and breathing techniques.
Twice a week, Tracy Boyd opens her doors to those wishing to practice Yoga at Island Yoga in the Fernwood district of Victoria, British Columbia. For three years, she has been running her Hatha flow Yoga practice for a mixture of beginner and intermediate classes. The classes at Island Yoga focus on allowing students to go inside the body and essentially ‘birth’ the posture from the inside out, gently creating curiosity within the body about its own limits and potential. Each posture energizes a different aspect of health in the body – depression, anxiety, muscle and joint pain, flexibility, fatigue, muscle stiffness, and digestion.
“It is true that we are our best teacher. To become an active, willing participant in our wellbeing and even our healing, we need to know and bear witness to ourselves,” said Boyd. “For me, the best way I have experienced this is to be quiet and listen to the guidance my body provides me.”
Boyd began practicing Yoga in 1999 due to a long-standing interest, and then out of necessity when she developed an intimate relationship with anxiety. She is now trained in the classical Ashtanga eight-limbed tradition and Hatha Yoga systems, as taught by Baba Hari Dass.
“I sought out classes and an instructor because I had heard that Yoga was beneficial in stress reduction,” said Boyd. She started teaching Hatha Yoga once she had completed her certification. “Through the classes I provide, I attempt to offer an environment where students can come face to face with themselves by a uniting of the body and mind through an integrated movement of the body and breath.”
Her classes include the following physical components and philosophy:
The positive effects of forward bending postures regularize blood pressure and strengthen the endocrine system,
Backbends strengthen the digestive and eliminative organs.
Twisting Asanas massage the visceral organs removing sluggishness in the liver as well as the kidneys,
Inversions purify the blood by removing toxins and waste products out of the system.
Seated Asanas calm the nervous system and reclining Asanas strengthen the nervous and immune systems.
Balancing postures strengthen concentration, and stabilizes the mind by making the breath smooth and steady.
Reclining Asanas are restorative and quieting, they bring balance and a cooling quality to the mind breath and body, and they also relieve fatigue and stress and strengthen the immune system.
The Yoga philosophy helps to remind both the instructor and student that Yoga practice is not limited to the physical movements, but also enhances the human capacity for patience, mental strength and focus, stability, and a calm state of mind.
The main benefits of Yoga include the regulation of breath, which helps the mind to rest and undesired thoughts to diminish. As well, the body becomes flexible and strong, major organs of the body are strengthened, the glands and nervous system perform more efficiently, and circulation is improved.
“I believe that many or most people begin a Yoga practice by some need or desire to lessen stress or anxiety, as well as need of more exercise,” said Boyd. “However, if one sticks with the practice, there comes a point when people realize that although Yoga is certainly beneficial to the physical body, the practice enhances beyond the body. The physical practice is a doorway to meditation and a vehicle for peace or enlightenment to be experienced through the body.”
Westerners are turning more readily to the Eastern practice and philosophy of Yoga, as we are seeking broader answers than western medicine can sometimes provide. There is a growing need to seek these answers internally, rather than treat our varying illnesses as being exterior and separate. Yoga is becoming more visible as a westernized trend for exercise and stress relief, as well as a growing industry. As Boyd observes, “the growth of Yoga in our culture shows a great need and also necessity for finding stress reducing modalities in our lives.”
“Westerners have extremely busy and stressful lives nowadays and we need something to relieve the pressures of modern day living, and Hatha Yoga is a great resource for relieving stress,” said Boyd. “I think that people are recognizing and experiencing the importance of mind/body wellness and the benefits of integrating holistic healing with allopathic medicine. With this realization comes the understanding that we have the ability to become participants in our health and wellness,” said Boyd.
Above all, Yoga promotes an individual’s power to take control of their own health and well-being. The practice teaches how to listen to our own bodies and pinpoint where we hold physical or emotional tension and how to release this energy or convert it into a positive force. Boyd passes along the wisdom of her teacher to her students, “if you work on Yoga, Yoga will work on you.”
To learn more about Island Yoga, contact Tracy at islyoga@yahoo.ca or by calling 380-YOGA (9642).
Posted by Andrea McKenzie at 4:12 PM
1 comments:
Super B said...
Wow, those are some great articles!
December 9, 2006 11:43 AM
Speaker's Corner
First of all, thank you to everyone for your comments and helpful suggestions, both on and off my blog site. I really appreciate the feedback, and simply knowing that my site is creating a small buzz. I look forward to watching the energy grow, connecting with writers. I would like to take advantage of this space to build some discussion, so I thought to create topics around the writing and publishing process - the blood, sweat and bruises involved in our craft (not to mention the finger dents and ink stains we are all familiar with).
A few questions to spark a writing oriented discussion:
Seminar Question #1
Our writing is often influenced directly or indirectly by the people and events around us. We write as an outlet for understanding our world and the relationships in our world. The question for today is:Is it more important to safeguard the person depicted in a piece of writing - poetry or fiction - by not relaying these events, or to honour the writing as an art that needs to be shared? How would you approach this dilemma if there was a topic/person you wished to write about, but knew that the people involved may be hurt by it being published?I have such a poem that I am still hesitant to show to the person who is depicted, my birthmother, but also felt a strong need to honour and share with others:
My Life Up North
She had told the girls, my half-sisters,to stay inside with Pop.
That's what she called her boyfriend's dad.
She wanted some time alone with me,
our black hair reflecting the sun on a Prince George day.
Mid-July, no wind, and the heat making my throat dry.
So I only listened.
We held hands, walking along the main road,
and when we stopped to kiss - daughter and almost mother -
three teenage boys riding by in a jeep snapped their necks.
We sat across from each other in a nearby McDonald's,
not her favourite, but waht she could afford.
Her unkempt hair pulled into a low ponytail
reaching down her back.
Her missing teeth,
the lines around her eyes speaking for themselves.
The fact she was only 40.
Those who didn't know her would think she was hard as nails,
but I knew how softly she spoke,
and none of it kept her from smiling,
alth0ugh at times she laughed at the devil.
She told me about her father.
The day she came home sixteen and pregnant,
trying not to care.
He soon bundled her into his lap,
while she apologized for me.
How he may have been disappointed, but never angry.
How he must have held us both,
thinking of her end and my beginning,
and cried with her.
She told me about my birthfather,
how he played the guitar,
wrote poetry,
and threatened to punch her in the stomach when she was eight months along.
In a panic, she cried, "I think I felt it move!"
And he drew back his fist and went out for a beer.
She had been drowning ever since
her older cousin
first made her aware of herself before she was ready.
The tender mounds on her little girl chest,
the place between her legs
where only misery and pleasure came from.
The place that made her forget everything above her heart.
Now, four children later,and a man in her house who I've seen
pull her hair when she teased him,
wrapping it like cable inside his fist.
The way I've seen impatient passengers on buses
pull the cord,wanting to end their ride and move in a different direction.
He wouldn't let go until she put her words into reverse.
Often she props herself up in the corner of her kitchen counters,
a place she feels protected or invisible,
the same place I felt most at easein my own home, for years.
I watch as she rolls her paper cigarettes from a box of tobacco,
lights the end, and sucks vacantly on the fumes,
trying to fill some small place.
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
This is really a tribute poem to her, albeit gritty because that is real, but also tender and compassionate. This poem was a way for me to know her more intimately and understand her journey, as well as to explore my own role in the events of her life and how these events shaped us both.
Posted by Andrea McKenzie at 12:53 PM
Labels: Writing Discussion
1 comments:
Stephen said...
Andrea, that is a very powerful poem to me, especially as someone who knows you.In answer to your question, I think that artistic integrity and freedom of expression are important, but I think that protecting people is important as well. I would ask, is the dignity of the person being basically respected as much as possible within the frame of reference of the artwork?I do think its important to compromise as little as possible, particularly if the artisitc expression is very personal and cathartic.
December 19, 2006 10:16 PM
amazingrace said...
Ah - this is always difficult. In the case of your poem (which is both uncompromisingly honest and heartbreakingly gentle) the identity of the subject of the poem is known only to a very very few - your birth mother, but not your adoptive mother, and the "mother" normally associated with you. Therefore, the chance of her being recognized, and therefore hurt, is relatively small. A different matter, I think, if it were otherwise. Those who share the intimacy of our lives, who let down their guard, and reveal themselves to us in all their flawed magnificence, deserve, I think, to have that vulnerability protected. I don't believe the art of poetry excuses us from the obligations of common decency, respect for others, protection of the vulnerable. We may write about them, yes, uncompromisingly, truthfully (as we believe that truth to be - their version may be otherwise), openly, poetically, all those things; whether we publish those poems is a more difficult decision, and one for which we deserve to be held accountable. Grace
March 26, 2007 7:16 PM
Seminar Question #2 - The Rant
In poetry, I'm all for ranting. Especially if it is done in a unique, provocative way that carries a solid message and gets you wound up in that upward twister of words and rhythm. But my question is this - when is a rant a poem, and when is it, well, a flurry of incoherent ranting. Last night at Planet Earth Poetry, there were a couple of rants -- one was very well done with a question about society and consumership and all of our social issues and monitoring the population -- the poet had pizzazz. The other, well, I thought at one point he was going to start ricocheting off the stage like a squash ball, and I couldn't hold onto anything concrete he was saying. At the sad risk of cliche, he was a ranter with no rhyme and no reason. He conducted an insane symphony of rambling story line, atrocious, ear-splitting singing (a few covered their ears), profanity, shock-value, yelling, hair pulling, bad grammar (to top it off) and, well, what was the poem about?
I realize not all of you were subjected to this, and for those who were I am aware that there is a range of opinions. However, I'm sure many of you know what I'm talking about, and I'd just like to have your thoughts on what is the difference between a poetic rant and uncontrollable ranting?
A few questions to spark a writing oriented discussion:
Seminar Question #1
Our writing is often influenced directly or indirectly by the people and events around us. We write as an outlet for understanding our world and the relationships in our world. The question for today is:Is it more important to safeguard the person depicted in a piece of writing - poetry or fiction - by not relaying these events, or to honour the writing as an art that needs to be shared? How would you approach this dilemma if there was a topic/person you wished to write about, but knew that the people involved may be hurt by it being published?I have such a poem that I am still hesitant to show to the person who is depicted, my birthmother, but also felt a strong need to honour and share with others:
My Life Up North
She had told the girls, my half-sisters,to stay inside with Pop.
That's what she called her boyfriend's dad.
She wanted some time alone with me,
our black hair reflecting the sun on a Prince George day.
Mid-July, no wind, and the heat making my throat dry.
So I only listened.
We held hands, walking along the main road,
and when we stopped to kiss - daughter and almost mother -
three teenage boys riding by in a jeep snapped their necks.
We sat across from each other in a nearby McDonald's,
not her favourite, but waht she could afford.
Her unkempt hair pulled into a low ponytail
reaching down her back.
Her missing teeth,
the lines around her eyes speaking for themselves.
The fact she was only 40.
Those who didn't know her would think she was hard as nails,
but I knew how softly she spoke,
and none of it kept her from smiling,
alth0ugh at times she laughed at the devil.
She told me about her father.
The day she came home sixteen and pregnant,
trying not to care.
He soon bundled her into his lap,
while she apologized for me.
How he may have been disappointed, but never angry.
How he must have held us both,
thinking of her end and my beginning,
and cried with her.
She told me about my birthfather,
how he played the guitar,
wrote poetry,
and threatened to punch her in the stomach when she was eight months along.
In a panic, she cried, "I think I felt it move!"
And he drew back his fist and went out for a beer.
She had been drowning ever since
her older cousin
first made her aware of herself before she was ready.
The tender mounds on her little girl chest,
the place between her legs
where only misery and pleasure came from.
The place that made her forget everything above her heart.
Now, four children later,and a man in her house who I've seen
pull her hair when she teased him,
wrapping it like cable inside his fist.
The way I've seen impatient passengers on buses
pull the cord,wanting to end their ride and move in a different direction.
He wouldn't let go until she put her words into reverse.
Often she props herself up in the corner of her kitchen counters,
a place she feels protected or invisible,
the same place I felt most at easein my own home, for years.
I watch as she rolls her paper cigarettes from a box of tobacco,
lights the end, and sucks vacantly on the fumes,
trying to fill some small place.
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
This is really a tribute poem to her, albeit gritty because that is real, but also tender and compassionate. This poem was a way for me to know her more intimately and understand her journey, as well as to explore my own role in the events of her life and how these events shaped us both.
Posted by Andrea McKenzie at 12:53 PM
Labels: Writing Discussion
1 comments:
Stephen said...
Andrea, that is a very powerful poem to me, especially as someone who knows you.In answer to your question, I think that artistic integrity and freedom of expression are important, but I think that protecting people is important as well. I would ask, is the dignity of the person being basically respected as much as possible within the frame of reference of the artwork?I do think its important to compromise as little as possible, particularly if the artisitc expression is very personal and cathartic.
December 19, 2006 10:16 PM
amazingrace said...
Ah - this is always difficult. In the case of your poem (which is both uncompromisingly honest and heartbreakingly gentle) the identity of the subject of the poem is known only to a very very few - your birth mother, but not your adoptive mother, and the "mother" normally associated with you. Therefore, the chance of her being recognized, and therefore hurt, is relatively small. A different matter, I think, if it were otherwise. Those who share the intimacy of our lives, who let down their guard, and reveal themselves to us in all their flawed magnificence, deserve, I think, to have that vulnerability protected. I don't believe the art of poetry excuses us from the obligations of common decency, respect for others, protection of the vulnerable. We may write about them, yes, uncompromisingly, truthfully (as we believe that truth to be - their version may be otherwise), openly, poetically, all those things; whether we publish those poems is a more difficult decision, and one for which we deserve to be held accountable. Grace
March 26, 2007 7:16 PM
Seminar Question #2 - The Rant
In poetry, I'm all for ranting. Especially if it is done in a unique, provocative way that carries a solid message and gets you wound up in that upward twister of words and rhythm. But my question is this - when is a rant a poem, and when is it, well, a flurry of incoherent ranting. Last night at Planet Earth Poetry, there were a couple of rants -- one was very well done with a question about society and consumership and all of our social issues and monitoring the population -- the poet had pizzazz. The other, well, I thought at one point he was going to start ricocheting off the stage like a squash ball, and I couldn't hold onto anything concrete he was saying. At the sad risk of cliche, he was a ranter with no rhyme and no reason. He conducted an insane symphony of rambling story line, atrocious, ear-splitting singing (a few covered their ears), profanity, shock-value, yelling, hair pulling, bad grammar (to top it off) and, well, what was the poem about?
I realize not all of you were subjected to this, and for those who were I am aware that there is a range of opinions. However, I'm sure many of you know what I'm talking about, and I'd just like to have your thoughts on what is the difference between a poetic rant and uncontrollable ranting?
Readings
Federation of BC Writers 30th Anniversary Celebration Reading
14 Commercial Street, The Bombay Lounge (downstairs) - Nanaimo - Saturday, April 14th at 1:00 P.M.
Poetica Erotica, Writes of Spring, at Bean Around the World Cafe - Victoria, Fisgard and Store St. - Saturday, April 21, 2007 at 7:30 P.M.
The Black Stilt Cafe, Hillside and Scott St. - Victoria - Friday, April 27, 2007 at 7:30 P.M.
Dark Horse Books - Victoria, 623 Johnson St. - Sunday, April 29, 2007 at 2:00 P.M.
Ministry of Health, 1515 Blanshard St. - Victoria - Wednesday, September 12, 2007 at 12:00 P.M.
“Tongues of Fire” Launches Chapbooks, Celebrates the Spoken Word
A Victoria-based poetry series called “Tongues of Fire” is celebrating its second year of success, and steadily attracting attention. The series began with a group of three writers who met at a Sheri-D Wilson workshop at the Victoria School of Writing (VSW) in summer 2005. The troupe wanted to start a poetry series as an extension of their found love of spoken word art, performance poetry, and a means to stay connected in the writing community.
The group created “Tongues of Fire”, which occurs at the Solstice Cafe on the 2nd and 4th Thursday of every month at 7:30 p.m. The original three members, Steven J. Thompson, Julia Day Flagg and Genevieve Robichaud, grew to include three more keen ‘tongues’ – Kory Jeffrey Klassen, Graham Kelly, and Janice Thompson.
“We were all interested in the art of spoken word as it was a fresh and raw version of poetry, and more or less, some of us had been heading in that direction with the work that we were doing. As for the show, we wanted to have an outlet for this newly discovered energy,” said Thompson.
Shortly after Julia moved to Vancouver, “the universe aligned in our favor once again. Shayne avec i grec approached us. We knew Shayne from the general poetry scene, as he was also running a short lived poetry series in Cook Street Village around the time when we were getting our show up and running. Shayne joined the group in September of this year. So we are now seven.”
“Tongues of Fire” posters can be found around town and at the Universities, highlighting each event. There is also a growing mailing list, as the troupe relies on word of mouth and/or passing out hand bills advertising the shows. Featured readers often also come with their own group of supporters, which helps to increase the profile of shows.
“Tongues of Fire” has begun launching chapbooks, showcasing the Tongues’ diverse poetic voices.
“The chapbook is something that we've wanted to do since shortly after the group was formed. Now after almost a year and a half, the show is starting to run like a well-oiled bicycle. So now we have more energy to do it,” said Thompson.
There is always a challenge involved in transferring spoken word performance poetry to the printed page, as the same impact may not be conveyed. The spoken word takes on a different energy.
“That's the challenge. If the content and the subject matter are relevant, and expressed in a fresh idea and fresh language, [the poem] will make an impression [on stage or in print]. I believe every poet faces that challenge,” said Thompson.
“Tongues of Fire” is created for “Lovers of poetry, lovers of lit, lovers of life, and people that want to be entertained,” said Thompson. “In our feature performers we try to bring in poets that can connect with an audience, and a diverse one at that. We want poetry to be a place where you don't have to have a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows to fit in.”
“Tongues of Fire” happens at the Solstice Cafe, 529 Pandora Ave. 7:30 pm. The admission cost is $3.00.
14 Commercial Street, The Bombay Lounge (downstairs) - Nanaimo - Saturday, April 14th at 1:00 P.M.
Poetica Erotica, Writes of Spring, at Bean Around the World Cafe - Victoria, Fisgard and Store St. - Saturday, April 21, 2007 at 7:30 P.M.
The Black Stilt Cafe, Hillside and Scott St. - Victoria - Friday, April 27, 2007 at 7:30 P.M.
Dark Horse Books - Victoria, 623 Johnson St. - Sunday, April 29, 2007 at 2:00 P.M.
Ministry of Health, 1515 Blanshard St. - Victoria - Wednesday, September 12, 2007 at 12:00 P.M.
“Tongues of Fire” Launches Chapbooks, Celebrates the Spoken Word
by Andrea McKenzie
A Victoria-based poetry series called “Tongues of Fire” is celebrating its second year of success, and steadily attracting attention. The series began with a group of three writers who met at a Sheri-D Wilson workshop at the Victoria School of Writing (VSW) in summer 2005. The troupe wanted to start a poetry series as an extension of their found love of spoken word art, performance poetry, and a means to stay connected in the writing community.
The group created “Tongues of Fire”, which occurs at the Solstice Cafe on the 2nd and 4th Thursday of every month at 7:30 p.m. The original three members, Steven J. Thompson, Julia Day Flagg and Genevieve Robichaud, grew to include three more keen ‘tongues’ – Kory Jeffrey Klassen, Graham Kelly, and Janice Thompson.
“We were all interested in the art of spoken word as it was a fresh and raw version of poetry, and more or less, some of us had been heading in that direction with the work that we were doing. As for the show, we wanted to have an outlet for this newly discovered energy,” said Thompson.
Shortly after Julia moved to Vancouver, “the universe aligned in our favor once again. Shayne avec i grec approached us. We knew Shayne from the general poetry scene, as he was also running a short lived poetry series in Cook Street Village around the time when we were getting our show up and running. Shayne joined the group in September of this year. So we are now seven.”
“Tongues of Fire” posters can be found around town and at the Universities, highlighting each event. There is also a growing mailing list, as the troupe relies on word of mouth and/or passing out hand bills advertising the shows. Featured readers often also come with their own group of supporters, which helps to increase the profile of shows.
“Tongues of Fire” has begun launching chapbooks, showcasing the Tongues’ diverse poetic voices.
“The chapbook is something that we've wanted to do since shortly after the group was formed. Now after almost a year and a half, the show is starting to run like a well-oiled bicycle. So now we have more energy to do it,” said Thompson.
There is always a challenge involved in transferring spoken word performance poetry to the printed page, as the same impact may not be conveyed. The spoken word takes on a different energy.
“That's the challenge. If the content and the subject matter are relevant, and expressed in a fresh idea and fresh language, [the poem] will make an impression [on stage or in print]. I believe every poet faces that challenge,” said Thompson.
“Tongues of Fire” is created for “Lovers of poetry, lovers of lit, lovers of life, and people that want to be entertained,” said Thompson. “In our feature performers we try to bring in poets that can connect with an audience, and a diverse one at that. We want poetry to be a place where you don't have to have a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows to fit in.”
“Tongues of Fire” happens at the Solstice Cafe, 529 Pandora Ave. 7:30 pm. The admission cost is $3.00.
Morning Couplets
Sunlight pierces through the cold air, a sharp blade
teasing the sturdy plants with a diluted warmth.
The morning turns to noon and the intruding day,
tries to whisper through closed shades as my lover brushes unruly hair from my cheek.
There is snow on the other side of the city,
winter has not reached me yet with its white, dry fingers.
And after the snowfall wakes us, we wipe delicate flakes from our eyes,
step out of one blanket into another and savour the warmth of our skin.
Birds flutter into the trees; always curious
where the other ones go, a flurry of indecision or necessity.
teasing the sturdy plants with a diluted warmth.
The morning turns to noon and the intruding day,
tries to whisper through closed shades as my lover brushes unruly hair from my cheek.
There is snow on the other side of the city,
winter has not reached me yet with its white, dry fingers.
And after the snowfall wakes us, we wipe delicate flakes from our eyes,
step out of one blanket into another and savour the warmth of our skin.
Birds flutter into the trees; always curious
where the other ones go, a flurry of indecision or necessity.
Photo Gallery
Poems
Seventy-five Percent
Look at the sky and imagine
the blue hugging your feet.
The ocean, a passage that envelopes
the rest of the globe,
retreats from land by day,
overtakes it by dusk.
Appearing serene on the fringe,
the metronome of white-capped waves
roll in like postcard greetings.
Look now to the edge of sky
and tell me the colour of tomorrow clouds.
The fine, steady line of the horizon
twists, tantrums,
sometimes never reaches the beach.
I want to show you where the land ends
and the earth continues.
The ocean is a place to feel small.
Here, near the desert you lose yourself –
an isolation, a different kind of small.
You are safe
you can hold sand in your hands
longer than water.
A Lesson In Love
Love was something you made your parents believebefore you went to bed.
I made a boy chase me,pedalling faster and fasterin the rain.
Splooshing his thin legs through puddles
I laughed and later he kissed me.
Love fell from my tongue,just a word I had heard.
I drew heart-shaped lines when I was nine. "I love you."
How his face flushedand his eyes gapedwide and strained, like dry egg whites.
I was too big for my body.
I haven't learned love.
Hands and lips.
He said love after denting my mattressand licking my ear.
What did he love?
It was just a word that needed to be heard.
I said it back.
What was I saying?
I was too big for my body.
I said it back
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
Kheda
The bamboo trees reaching like jail bars in the jungle, kheda
a place pretending to tame wild things.
I see the giants grazing on palms
a family of prisoners restrained
forgetting their freedom.
This is how we box nature, to make it tidy
and bring across continents like television sets for viewing.
A section of wild land and ivory shrunken beneath hot sun.
A depletion in the earth.
* Kheda - an enclosure or corral for the capture of wild elephants
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
The Visitor
She raps the rhythm of a secret knock
in her sleep –
the one she learned in a dream. The hallway is so long.
When he lets himself in, she will know him.
She lives alone, surrounded by her antiques,
refuses to fade into the decor and become another
fixed item in the room.
She refuses to surrender this place.
All this place knows is time.
She waits for him
while the milk sours in the fridge
and everything else is past its due.
She waits for the guest
who never arrives too soon.
Between her afternoon naps, she reads the newspaper
to learn what she will be missing.
Reads Dickens,
memorizes lines from Austen.
She keeps everyone’s past alive;
the last one to tell the stories.
She envisions her visitor as a dark stranger
from the Bronte books – perhaps Heathcliff –
or her husband
come to gather her fragile bones in his arms
and carry her
down the long hallway
as he did on their wedding night.
She is a widow now, a grounded sparrow,
still lingers beside her tree
she tumbled out of three blocks
from her birthplace.
She waits,
falls asleep in her chair.
With one ear buzzing,
she listens for her secret knock.
*This poem will be aired on CBC Radio One sometime during April - National Poetry Month
Sorry I Had To
locate her name in the global directory
not sure of how
many matches might come
and perhaps you didn’t think
of this tool, this landscape.
I had to know
the shape of her name
each stroke and incline. The hard sounds.
You thought my geography
was not so good.
Forgive me
I could not resist retracingthe broken lines on the map you left.
published on Leafpress.ca Monday Poems
Turnstiles
In as much as completing the first draft of my novel, Turnstiles, that I have been working on since I returned from a two-month solo back-packing trip around Western Europe and the U.K. in 1998. I didn't believe I had really experienced enough to write a full-length book until I saw more of the world (and developed a keener and more mature eye for social issues in the world). Now, as I've been told, comes the real work. I'm going to revel in this part until the start of 2007... then I'll start tearing the first draft apart, where needed. Naturally, the main question is always 'so, what is your book about?' Here is a synopsis of the book:
Turnstiles is a novel with elements of social commentary. The main characters are three youths (aged early to mid-twenties), each representing a social ill that is an increasing problem in society. Marty is a street person, Wil is a wealthy aristocrat, and Evelyn (aka Yvonne) is a prostitute. The novel is not political in any way, but it does speak to these social problems through the smaller scope of each character’s individual trials. There is a struggle that exists between the need to serve one’s own needs and to participate in the larger social scheme that is expected. Marty and Wil are both trying to fit in to the world, but on their own terms. They are naive characters, searching for an Eden-like state of being, who develop their views of the world and themselves through broader experience, travel, and social interaction. They achieve these new perspectives by switching their fortunes.Marty is an idealistic youth who leaves British Columbia to live in London, England. He travels to London with little money and no concrete plans. Eventually, he runs out of money and is forced to panhandle because he doesn’t want to join the workaday world, which he views as socialism and materialism. Wil is a Londoner and aristocrat who recently lost his wealthy and estranged father. In his father’s will, Wil was left an astronomical amount of money, which has already been deposited into his account. In desperation, he makes out an unsigned cheque of this amount and randomly gives it to a street person, who happens to be Marty. Evelyn is a character who, in the midst of regaining her independence and inner strength, indirectly connects and motivates Marty and Wil. Turnstiles weaves a story that brings discovery and healing for each character by way of a journey.
Here is an excerpt:
The train was slowing down, and the relentless, hypnotic message in the click clacking of the wheels could almost be deciphered. As soon as the train was in the station, Martin and Evelyn stumbled through the passenger door like newborns coming into a strange world. Once they stepped foot on the dirty platform they were disoriented, but kept running. As they came into the terminal, their mad dash dissipated into a jog so as not to bring unnecessary attention to themselves. Although their appearances brought notice, they were perceived as a young couple running to catch a taxi, rather than fugitive-types fleeing from a pursuit on their lives.
... The queue inched forward, person-by-person, going over the edge. Martin shuffled down the human conveyor belt until he, too, had to state his destination and was handed a ticket. This rectangular piece of paper, which could be torn so easily, was his passport to a new life or an extension of his old life. Even though his daily regimen in Hyde Park had been tethered and desolate, it was a familiar place. And more than twice today, Martin had questioned himself of what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Oddly enough, there were no real answers and he could no longer justify his doubts.“Track seventeen,” the man in the conductor’s hat announced sharply from behind the counter. When asked about his destination, Martin squeaked, “Paris.” Not because he ever had the desire to stroll through the streets of Paris, but simply because he knew about the Chunnel. Paris would not be a far journey, geographically, and he was taking baby steps. He spoke no French – but he knew how to be silent and still make his way. Martin sat on one of the rickety benches that lined the platform on track seventeen. They were planted like telephone poles until they miniaturized and disappeared. He looked to his left and remembered he was at the end, or the beginning. Those seated at the far end perhaps believed the same thing, he mused. He had no luggage with him. An elderly couple seated on the bench next to him acknowledged his youth, and smiled. He wondered if they were marvelling at him, thinking to themselves, 'must be wonderful to be young and free,' and remembering, even though they were headed in the same direction. He smiled back, not really understanding what he was smiling about. The train he was waiting for could be taking him to the end of the earth.
Posted by Andrea McKenzie at 11:56 AM
Labels: Books
1 comments:
Sean said...
This teaser is too short! I'm looking forward to more.
December 7, 2006 1:23 PM
Turnstiles is a novel with elements of social commentary. The main characters are three youths (aged early to mid-twenties), each representing a social ill that is an increasing problem in society. Marty is a street person, Wil is a wealthy aristocrat, and Evelyn (aka Yvonne) is a prostitute. The novel is not political in any way, but it does speak to these social problems through the smaller scope of each character’s individual trials. There is a struggle that exists between the need to serve one’s own needs and to participate in the larger social scheme that is expected. Marty and Wil are both trying to fit in to the world, but on their own terms. They are naive characters, searching for an Eden-like state of being, who develop their views of the world and themselves through broader experience, travel, and social interaction. They achieve these new perspectives by switching their fortunes.Marty is an idealistic youth who leaves British Columbia to live in London, England. He travels to London with little money and no concrete plans. Eventually, he runs out of money and is forced to panhandle because he doesn’t want to join the workaday world, which he views as socialism and materialism. Wil is a Londoner and aristocrat who recently lost his wealthy and estranged father. In his father’s will, Wil was left an astronomical amount of money, which has already been deposited into his account. In desperation, he makes out an unsigned cheque of this amount and randomly gives it to a street person, who happens to be Marty. Evelyn is a character who, in the midst of regaining her independence and inner strength, indirectly connects and motivates Marty and Wil. Turnstiles weaves a story that brings discovery and healing for each character by way of a journey.
Here is an excerpt:
The train was slowing down, and the relentless, hypnotic message in the click clacking of the wheels could almost be deciphered. As soon as the train was in the station, Martin and Evelyn stumbled through the passenger door like newborns coming into a strange world. Once they stepped foot on the dirty platform they were disoriented, but kept running. As they came into the terminal, their mad dash dissipated into a jog so as not to bring unnecessary attention to themselves. Although their appearances brought notice, they were perceived as a young couple running to catch a taxi, rather than fugitive-types fleeing from a pursuit on their lives.
... The queue inched forward, person-by-person, going over the edge. Martin shuffled down the human conveyor belt until he, too, had to state his destination and was handed a ticket. This rectangular piece of paper, which could be torn so easily, was his passport to a new life or an extension of his old life. Even though his daily regimen in Hyde Park had been tethered and desolate, it was a familiar place. And more than twice today, Martin had questioned himself of what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Oddly enough, there were no real answers and he could no longer justify his doubts.“Track seventeen,” the man in the conductor’s hat announced sharply from behind the counter. When asked about his destination, Martin squeaked, “Paris.” Not because he ever had the desire to stroll through the streets of Paris, but simply because he knew about the Chunnel. Paris would not be a far journey, geographically, and he was taking baby steps. He spoke no French – but he knew how to be silent and still make his way. Martin sat on one of the rickety benches that lined the platform on track seventeen. They were planted like telephone poles until they miniaturized and disappeared. He looked to his left and remembered he was at the end, or the beginning. Those seated at the far end perhaps believed the same thing, he mused. He had no luggage with him. An elderly couple seated on the bench next to him acknowledged his youth, and smiled. He wondered if they were marvelling at him, thinking to themselves, 'must be wonderful to be young and free,' and remembering, even though they were headed in the same direction. He smiled back, not really understanding what he was smiling about. The train he was waiting for could be taking him to the end of the earth.
Posted by Andrea McKenzie at 11:56 AM
Labels: Books
1 comments:
Sean said...
This teaser is too short! I'm looking forward to more.
December 7, 2006 1:23 PM
The Lapsed Blogger
I am back... after a whirwind of events in starting a new year, mostly writing-related, I have returned to my post. I don't know how many of you are actually monitoring my site (and, once again, my apologies for not delivering or following up on my weekly writing entries), but I have been approached by a waiting groupie or two asking 'hey you, what's happening with your blog?'. In my defense, I also had some technical difficulties caused by changing my email address and experiencing a failing wireless router. The good news is, I have a slew of new ideas and projects I am working on that I can't wait to share with all of you. The blog entries may have ceased for a bit, but you can rest assured the writer has not.
As I stated from the beginning, this is a writer's blog, aimed to address the victories, trials and tribulations in the act of writing. It is not always about being alone in a quiet space, but also the part where we have to emerge from safe shells (the thoughts and keyboard) and take our words off the printer and out into the world. We are not just working with words, we are working with people -- and, let's face it, people who are otherwise known as publishers can be scary. We send off our paper victories hoping to receive something back in ink that reads 'we want you'.
I have been working at sending myself out into that world again. I've recently submitted poems to Descant and Poetry magazine, as well as Malahat Review. I'm keeping a record template of all my submissions (life can get a bit scattered at times, and I need structure, reference, time management and evaluation).
In between all of the creative writing mayhem (it's only mayhem because I have so many things I want to be doing at the same time), I am now working full-time as a Correspondence Writer in the BC Ministry of Health. Yes, this is a steep learning curve and I am half-way through my probation period (6 months). I love knowing that I am a writer in every sense of the word, and that I am getting a pay cheque for writing. Every crevice of my life is writing. How fortunate is that?
Victoria's poet laureaute, Carla Funk, said to me "you're always writing, aren't you?" I had to answer "yes". I took her comment as both a profound compliment and an attribution to my status as an emerging writer in my community. Writing is such a natural act for me, I don't often acknowledge the scope of my published work or the volume of work I commit to. It is true, though, if I am not writing an article, I'm writing a poem and if I'm not writing a poem, I'm writing a journal entry, and if I'm not doing that, I'm either thinking or writing about my fiction, making notes, and when I'm not doing any of the above I am either organizing more article ideas, or simply jotting down two lines of morning ghazals with a pen in one hand and mug of tea in the other. It is funny that I don't consider myself to be prolific only because I don't have 10 books under my belt and am not churning out a poem a day. Isn't it strange how we view ourselves in our passions?
As I stated from the beginning, this is a writer's blog, aimed to address the victories, trials and tribulations in the act of writing. It is not always about being alone in a quiet space, but also the part where we have to emerge from safe shells (the thoughts and keyboard) and take our words off the printer and out into the world. We are not just working with words, we are working with people -- and, let's face it, people who are otherwise known as publishers can be scary. We send off our paper victories hoping to receive something back in ink that reads 'we want you'.
I have been working at sending myself out into that world again. I've recently submitted poems to Descant and Poetry magazine, as well as Malahat Review. I'm keeping a record template of all my submissions (life can get a bit scattered at times, and I need structure, reference, time management and evaluation).
In between all of the creative writing mayhem (it's only mayhem because I have so many things I want to be doing at the same time), I am now working full-time as a Correspondence Writer in the BC Ministry of Health. Yes, this is a steep learning curve and I am half-way through my probation period (6 months). I love knowing that I am a writer in every sense of the word, and that I am getting a pay cheque for writing. Every crevice of my life is writing. How fortunate is that?
Victoria's poet laureaute, Carla Funk, said to me "you're always writing, aren't you?" I had to answer "yes". I took her comment as both a profound compliment and an attribution to my status as an emerging writer in my community. Writing is such a natural act for me, I don't often acknowledge the scope of my published work or the volume of work I commit to. It is true, though, if I am not writing an article, I'm writing a poem and if I'm not writing a poem, I'm writing a journal entry, and if I'm not doing that, I'm either thinking or writing about my fiction, making notes, and when I'm not doing any of the above I am either organizing more article ideas, or simply jotting down two lines of morning ghazals with a pen in one hand and mug of tea in the other. It is funny that I don't consider myself to be prolific only because I don't have 10 books under my belt and am not churning out a poem a day. Isn't it strange how we view ourselves in our passions?
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