Morning Couplets

One poet thinking,
holding a universal thought.

One degree of separation exists between bird and beggar.
The bird finds a new lookout.

I berate my heavy eyelids after a night of TV.
I could have earned my red eyes working at words.

Sharing poems, extending words to teach;strangers, connecting, creating community.
I am behind in my organization, the folders on my desk need names and homes.

A work day lost; my morning head is irritated
by this rude awakening of wellness.

My daily scribbling lost, on a yellow notepad,
in a meeting; instructing me on how to reflect on things.

My lighter hair streaks, fading and brittle, reveal the darker source;
these features that don’t matter – not now, not yet.

After a swollen-eyed night
with his ankle on mine, a paperweight.

Waiting for this life to begin, I linger in dreams for
someone to happen, and a golden band around my finger.

Morning Couplets

I make sure we kiss before sleep, waking, and going to work;
his arms, a solid vice around me, say the new day is okay.

The quiet way she enters, long solid legs touch lightly on grass
with her feminine stance, delicately tasting the leaves.

Sun hitting leaves, and the sporadic rain
glistens on the outer walls of a gray house.

A bird high in the tree, small
and invisible, sings its life.

The clear sharp night makes us
pull our sleeves over our hands, stand closer.

Fallen leaves wait in the yard to be gathered;
their tired, frail bodies brightly finished.

The gray, near-fall morning creeps in, and the only warmth
that brings me out of bed – your lips on my lips – a soft parting with sleep.

I can’t visit the dead; dig into the ground
to shake hands after they have shaken off the earth.

I look for a clean spot on my Kleenex,
summer dribbling from my nose.

A family of deer at dawn,
mama leading her kids to the low branches.

Morning Couplets

We stand at our kitchen window, waking up to a deer strolling
into our backyard; a new neighbour.

Mornings and evenings drift away – the time we call ours;
the days we pack tight, to get through them like mud.

I think of my weight in the morning,
how I am better, smaller and unburdened.

The day adds pounds of decision and thought,
I struggle with my balance.

Our fridge moans and the backroom door sticks,
while we move ourselves into the cupboards and vents.

A mountain of boxes, and the military-like strategy of where to fit
what might not fit, but will, as we chip away at the walls.

A fog settles on the house, the street, the trees lose their contrast;
I shuffle inside the halls, put air back in and stretch out of night.

My first morning commute, the art of time management;
I suck back tea and jump headlong into wakefulness.

The difficulty of having a teacher, who feels too familiar
and thoughts slip in and out so easily; there is no room to second guess.

We stop the car, after a cartoon ride – my foot covets the clutch,
after gearing up and down, too slow, too quick to take a turn.

Morning Couplets

The quiet push to be writing, submitting, creating; the pull of work
and an urgency of time to be clean, ready and fed.

We join our finances, make a solid foundation;
a pool to pull together our lives, and our pursuits.

Drive in our car, buy our groceries,
expect my parents for dinner – share our union.

Yesterday, I stayed in my crusty shell, looked desperately for a beach, somewhere
to retreat and be in the salt; I don’t know why the urge seems so easy.

This morning we touch lips lightly, and I hear you stir my tea, as always,
an offering; a quiet word, mouthing “I love you” as you go out the door.

Shifting gears in a parking lot, I swerve around the invisible cars; gear down,
with the radio on low. After hours, lights on, I learn to be calm.

My voice swells like a small ball in my throat, expands into sound,
commits me to brave tasks – makes me be heard; I begin speaking in poems.

On the street, they wake up to the same day as yesterday, and glide through it sleepwalking, swerving, jabbing and bullshitting.

I walk past the unemployed, lined up, hopeful for a little more,
or the ones hovering nearby, downtown philosophers, guarding their shopping carts.

Our cat tries to get to the ghost in the bathroom, scratching
the door. He wants someone to be awake, and to follow him nowhere.

The Art of Reading Poems

As writers, we read poetry for pleasure and to better understand the craft; however, the work of reading a poem often requires great diligence. I've joined another poetry group that is more focused on analyzing the techniques and building of poems. Monthly, we gather in a small group to critique how a poem works. We are given an assignment ahead of time, to look at varying aspects of how poems are built i.e. rhythm or beat, imagery, metaphor, structure, themes, etc. Essentially, we review the poems that members bring to discuss/debate what the poet is attempting to do with the poem, and whether or not it is working. This group was organized by David Kosub, through the participation of members from the Planet Earth Poetry reading series. The blog for our group can be found at: http://www.speakingofpoems.blogspot.com/.

I attended my first meeting last week, and found the experience highly engaging. Initially, we brought these poems as curious readers, looking to the group for help in gaining a clearer insight into these poems, and asking the questions: What am I missing? What point is the poet trying to make? Where is the poem going? Why is this poem not accessible? We observed the rhythm of these poems, and quickly slid into the leaps of metaphor, first debating over whether the poet's intent was to be literal or substituting for a larger theme, such as the interpretation of Ted Hughes' poem, Poor Birds.

In the boggy copse. Blue

Dusk presses into their skulls

Electrodes of stars. All night

Clinging to sodden twigs, with twiggy claws,

They dream the featherless, ravenous

Machinery of Heaven. At dawn, fevered,

They flee to the field. All day

They try to get some proper sleep without

Losing sight of the grass. Panics

Fling them from hill to hill. They search everywhere

For the safety that sleeps

Everywhere in the closed faces

Of stones.

We wrestled with this poem. At first, we read the poem literally, seeing the birds as doing their bird-like activities. Then one member brilliantly pointed out: I see soldiers. The meaning of the poem instantly turned, as we began to pull out War images of front-line soldiers, and the emotions and actions associated with battle. This revelation occurred in many of the poems we were critiquing, and as a group we became elevated in our discoveries as somewhat novice readers.

Unlike my participation in our Waywords poetry group, we are not working on our own poems, but doing collective work to understand the poetry that is existing in the world by either esteemed or not-so-familiar poets.

I admit, I don't usually have enough time to commit to reading poems, although my book shelves are stacked with poetry simply waiting to be read, understood and appreciated. This group lends the opportunity to return to these poems and dissect them. After all, if a writer doesn't understand what other writers are doing, how can they model or improve their own work? Or have an intelligent discussion about literature and what they are attempting to do on their own? With my wine glass in hand, a gas fire blazing nearby, and notebook on my lap, I relished in the company of writers and the nostalgic atmosphere of being part of a 'study group' of sorts.

The group discussion was open and respected, as we all brought our different views and interpretations to the table, and bounced them around the living room. Often we will bring our pre-determined views and life experiences to a poem and, although it useful, it is not always easy to then carve away our own biases and see the true message of the poem, or accept the poet in their intent. Still, once the reader 'gets it', it is easier to develop a clearer opinion about the poet's intent and be able to understand why or why not we favour a poem. I look forward to our next meeting of poetic minds.

Morning Couplets

Every morning, we water the cats – let the flower petals burn,
until evening, dry and reaching; overflowing with summer.

The short hours of night often eclipse the daytime,
and leave us like vampires forced out of the dark.

A lifetime of doing and the hours to allow for such learning;
we put down the foundation blocks, make order and try to fit in the time.

I wake up to stories in the world, a light going on;
there is movement, and a promise.

I try to find sleep in the corner of my brain,
my fingers tick like the clock on the wall, counting the day.

The campfire smoke lingers in my hair, a weekend of being out of doors,
and I watch him closely while he stares at the fire, traveling.

We arrive home with salt and dirt in our hair; wash off our breathing shells,
and hold onto the presence of curious children, being reckless.

I think of how every morning you will be here, and I close my eyes
smiling, stroking the cat, and watching you move through the room.

All I can say, right now, is baby, and you rub my stomach and say yes,
and I say soon, and you say wait, and I say now.

An old flame sits in our living room, makes small references
to a time gone; we three laugh together, easily, at such changes.

Morning Couplets

Traffic-jam arteries and toothpick eye sockets;
heavy fingers type, carve tunnels, pound out the day.

Today, I leave my pillow at the same time I started my first day,
when she may have pulled me to her breast or watched me float away in white arms.

Light leaves us and we are left in a cave; we’d rather see
the false shadows on the wall than this reality.

A gun shot no one hears; the birds and deer won’t tell us
his last words spoken in love into the night.

The shell of a day waits to be filled,
an empty pie crust, cooling.

We fall back to last week, when the world was round and unaltered;
now the world is triangular, balancing on a fragile point.

We walk about in this Labyrinth, look into the trick mirrors
and find nothing, nothing that will convince us that we are real.

The alarm goes off, and is shut down; we try to push the numbers back
for sleep, and for the sake of our brief mortality.

My bones want to stretch long, greet the day unfolded
with arms raised high like an arch, a lightning rod.

A wet spot on the counter, another drop in the pond; I slide
out of bed and bend my knees to walk.

Morning Couplets

Owning of space, owning our schedules and property, owners of
our family rights, our time to go forth.

A morning run to shake off these emotional holds
like leaves, separating, only to return next season.

Our cats paw at the flower boxes, run circles
in a confined space; a mock freedom, a trial run.

This temporary space, a countdown to the next phase;
more ground and duty, our sanctuary.

For a year the slow hand ticks, then spins around
the clock, a measurement of our lives and the time we fill.

A ship sunk and I had not thought of icy waters before,
only bodies lost, and large print on front page headlines.

Amazing Grace drifts over the trees, takes me over the sea;
a transport – and gray air hangs around the dull heat.

I learn to shift gears in the evenings; park,
travel in slow, deliberate circles, and release the clutch.

I am not in the middle of traffic; I am
the girl in the wading pool learning to float.

Rain pelts the ground, a summer drink;
my bloodstream idles, meanders through these moving limbs.

Morning Couplets

We put down our pens and head for airplanes; we disband
for another year in solitary corners of the country.

A puncture in my large toe drains out the nutrients;
My foot sags in puddles dragged behind me.

I take the weather everywhere
a small notebook in my pocket.

We head up island on new wheels
christened by suicide insects and quiet stones in the road.

We strip down our house to make it less ours;
the thought of leaving and others invading this space.

Agreements made, subject to time and money,
we wake each day to find out if we won.

A house at the end of a street waits for us
to enter, first in our dreams and then with solid, waking steps.

Our cats go outside without restraints,
a balancing act of trust and independence.

One falls off the balcony, clawing at the air all the way down
perhaps he wonders, how did this happen? How did I get here?

A series of days spent, filling large bins
with our belongings to keep and to purge.

The Work of Being Read

Over the past week, I have been working at choosing poems for my next flurry of submissions to various Canadian literary anthologies. I haven’t sent out my work in months, so it is about time to get back in the saddle. I am going to try and keep my ‘balls in the air’ by keeping my poems in circulation, rather than put all of my eggs in one basket, sending select poems to one literary magazine, and waiting for a yay or nay letter in four to six months. I have also been passing out my draft manuscript of Turnstiles to friends and family, and patiently awaiting feedback and reviews. I’ve already been given a few valuable suggestions and much encouragement. Last week Patrick held an intimate reading for the launch of his debut novel, Red Dog, Red Dog at the Alix Goolden Hall in Victoria. He said something at the reading that stuck with me: writing about what you know does not mean writing about everything that has happened to you personally. Writing about what you know means having a wealth of information gathered from all the shows you’ve watched, people you’ve met, books you’ve read, news stories, foreign places you’ve been to or heard about, and conversations you’ve had with other people and picking up pieces of their lives.

Last night I had the pleasure of attending the 5th Annual Victoria Butler Book Prize Awards gala in the Union Club Building. I was cheering on two friends of mine, who are becoming celebrated authors in their own right: JoAnn Dionne (Little Emperors: A Year with the Future of China) and Arleen Pare (Paper Trail). I have reviewed both of these excellent books on my blog. JoAnn’s book is a memoir about her experience teaching English to elementary school children in China, and Arleen’s book is a mixture of poetry, fiction and memoir about her years working in government beauracracy. Arleen Pare won the Victoria Butler Book prize for adult literature. There was also an award presented for the category of Children’s literature, created by Bolen Books. It was an exciting night for all of the short-listed authors, presenters and guests!

Morning Couplets

We want to move. Move into larger living, move into money,
into the world. We want steps that lead up to our front door.

After an explosion of tee-lite wax in the bathroom,
she bites at her fur, pink and sticky.

He rolls out of bed and onto the highway,
a 40-minute ride out of three hours sleep, to work.

Morning light changes the slant of shadow
on the hardwood floor, near the sleep-dented couch.

We run in concentric circles, only bumping into each other
at night, when time stops, when our hands and thoughts begin to merge again.

Stiff tendons and swelled joints, a few pints in my belly,
after running in circles overnight.

We all fall asleep at breakfast, and watch our friend nurse another beer,
head bobbing, one for the road; the antidote.

We move toward each other under the sheets, push off the comforter, and huddle against
the hot noise complaints and cramped living.

I concentrate on slow movements – reach my hands up and swan dive into a forward-fold
my head heavy, hanging; the backs of my legs tingling, taller.

As day crawls over the city I am leaving, I wait on a curb for the sun to hit me,
dodge rain drops, and fizzle with the heat of going back.

Announcements

Last night, the winners of the 5th Annual Victoria Butler Book Prize were announced: Arleen Pare (Adult Literature) and Chris Tougis (Children's Literature). Check out the website at: http://www.victoriabutlerbookprize.ca/vbbp.html

Morning Couplets

A split in the brain, sharp pain in my hair follicle;
she lies on a steel plate, in a drawer, gone from everyone.

In the silence, there is a death; and after death
there is a pause that gives way to memory and heartbreak.

My parents’ house filled with souls, living and gone;
I can’t say any are dead, some of them I bring home.

We layer the floor with area rugs, overlap themes,
patterns and colours with rubber underlay, a sound barrier.

I’ve seen the house I want for us, in my mind,
the corridors are wide and each room holds a life and purpose.

Guitar strings pluck at my brain, her voice
still uncoils, rises up from inside my ribs.

A small woman on a stage can make a noise that resounds
around the earth, a tidal wave builds, with us in the arena.

A rumble in the dark, my face stuffed into a pillow,
to deafen the sound, and his hand soothes a beast I did not invite.

A heart-shaped token of something sweet, to chase away
bad dreams. My loose eye sockets and sad shoulders.

We walk through houses, perhaps ours, survey
the dimensions and wall colour; envision ourselves.

Morning Couplets

I move through the day like thick sludge, my feet
drag weight, my voice low, sparse, selective.

I pull myself up and out, look towards work and next year,
a favourite TV show, and think of her not being able.

Saying goodbye with her absent hand under mine,
thin skin rolling off her body, she begins to shed this life.

Our short hallway, a race track, our cats slalom
around corners with expertise, their legs no longer fishtailing behind.

A noise complaint at 7 am; we know our cats
don’t have room to stretch their claws, or the capacity to tell time.

A popping microphone and glowing stage; a heavy silence
breath held in and my words fill their ears.

Into the ring with another poet, this elbowing for space
in the local magazine, on the stage, in the mail, on the list.

The cars line the street, bumper to bumper, snails
turning into jaguars, watching for red circles.

He says he doesn’t want to go, go there, go anywhere
clutching his travel mug, glazed eyes seeing the tires in front.

The world wakes up without her;
my limbs are heavy and overworked.

Morning Couplets

He stumbles into his clothes, his head full of sleep,
toothpaste kisses – his contracted nose, trying to keep the sickness in.

A dream of an old lover’s car – the colour, style, speed;
the teenaged debt and driving without a licence.

The way the sun hit the campsite, small planes overhead;
only a few rabbits now – the buildings, smaller.

Cats break our ribs as they race, chasing tails;
the day started, and the quiet corner in the bedroom is gone.

Calendar squares fill up with ink reminders,
a week missing, a long breath exhaled on an empty block.

My muscles decompress from the memory of a yoga mat;
that strange, disobedient body becomes mine, again.

One cat stashes invaluable treasures in the bottom of our bed,
while the other distracts us with hungry head-butts and spurts.

I listen to the colourful lives of others, now gone;
these eccentrics – drinking, marrying, running at the wall.

On my walk to work, I encounter some of the same
faces that show a vague recognition of me, meeting at crosswalks.

Wake with a dry mouth, no sound, no twist in your neck;
my grandma – her eyes practicing sleep, her ears wide open.

Morning Couplets

We move like molasses – only noon and the day waits;
we emerge into spring, a slow trot down to the water.

Turn your back on the weather and it will shift,
light rain teases, on and off like a switch – no plan, no warning.

Patches of sunlight or is it false, a stage light or candle beam?
This bluff of rain and spring – the reason, April tip-toeing in.

The idea of work, going out of the house, clogs my arteries;
I fall ahead to 30 years, when I can finish my book.

The time it takes to write a letter and explain
to someone what you can’t give them, unless they are dying for it.

Living inside an astronaut’s helmet, or a deep sea
diver in this comforter – the juice near my bed, oxygen.

He can’t recall his broken sleep, early morning risings;
our Houdini cats wait to be found inside the bathroom.

My head is clear enough to process work; a red line
across his head, in the back, is evidence of a small animal’s distress.

First barefoot day, gathering sand in toes,
rock heat on my soles; write green poems growing.

Wanting to send my stunt double out,
the minutes tick while I look for the right voice to broadcast.

Favourite poem of the month

PAPER MATCHES

By Paulette Jiles

My aunts washed dishes while the uncles
squirted each other on the lawn with
garden hoses. Why are we in here,
I said, and they are out there?
That's the way it is,
said Aunt Hetty, the shriveled-up one.
I have the rages that small animals have,
being small, being animal.
Written on me was a message,
"At Your Service,"
like a book of paper matches.
One by one we were taken out
and struck.
We come bearing supper,
our heads on fire.

Morning Couplets

A flurry to sign up before deadline; two days, ten words,
another toss into the contestant hat for some slight recognition.

His ear punctured by morning purrs, head butts
and extended claws; her oblivion in being. Happy.

On Mondays, I have to get rid of the weekend,
and accept that I’ve done all I could do in two sun-filled days.

He traces a raised line of cat claws with kisses
and ointment to draw out the sting, gone down by morning.

Everything I can’t think of from yesterday;
what I can’t say is caught and tangled in a dream catcher.

I mourn the death of pre-children, a sigh of not quite relief;
my boy cat lies outside the bathroom door, waits with me.

I don’t believe this is spring, not yet; still a breeze,
as I walk to work under discarded petals and gray sky.

My cat attacks my toes, under the covers,
an unidentified alien thing moving. What he must believe.

Boiled water in a mug says it is morning, part of
his ritual and mine, when there is time.

I make wet eggs, old eggs, my earnest attempt
at breakfast, he glues on a smile and reheats the pan.

A Circle of Poets

On the weekend, I had the opportunity to attend an afternoon poetry workshop with an esteemed American poet, Jim Bertolino, at Wendy Morton’s cozy abode in Sooke, B.C. I haven’t attended a concentrated writing workshop in ages, and found it enlightening to once again be in the circle of poets eager to learn, grow and express through exercises and techniques. It was a way to bring me back further into the world of poetry, after drifting for awhile – to think again in terms of the musicality, space, image and rhythm of words. I often feel that I am at home in these circles, brought into an exclusive group with a secret language, flexing our wings.

A Work in Progress

I am directing my energies towards completing a novella in the first person that is gaining momentum. I am writing about fictional conversations with my grandpa, who passed away nearly ten years ago, using myself also as a loosely fictional character. I am trying to keep his voice real, the way I can still hear him, but it is not easy. Both conversations take place in the mind of the granddaughter who has chosen to retreat to her grandpa’s remote cabin in Golden, B.C. for a summer. I think I can get away with creative licence in not always having the authenticity of his voice, as the voices overlap in thought.

This novella is becoming an important project for me, as it is an opportunity to reconnect with my grandparents and rekindle their personal histories and stories about growing up in early Victoria. When I was younger, I didn’t pay close attention to the wealth of their stories. As well, I lost my grandpa too soon and there were many unfinished conversations, or ones that we never had the chance to start. This is also a chance to ask the questions that he probably wouldn’t have answered, mostly about the time he served in WWII and how that period in his youth affected the rest of his life.

I find myself approaching this project like someone with a long stick poking a sleeping bear – there is so much depth and I want to create a story or environment that unfolds like a journey and does him justice. I don’t want to travel too far down into fabrication, and at the same time I need to be careful of what truths I reveal. I also have many topics to research – as this journey is also physical and geographical. There is travel time involved on roads that I haven’t travelled alone before. I will need to learn about the adventure of driving through the B.C. interior and into the Rockies. I drove across the province once before, as a passenger, to Elkford, B.C. On the way back home, we drove through Golden and slept in the truck on the side of the road. The most I saw of Golden was the sunrise and a gas station. There is no doubt that I have my work cut out for me, and I don’t have the luxury of taking a road trip any time soon.

I also want to incorporate my grandma’s knowledge and love of the wildflowers in B.C. – she was an artist and enjoyed painting our native flowers.

The motivation for this novella was sparked by a contest through Mother Tongue Publishing to write a novel or novella set in British Columbia.

My other news is that last night I received several bound draft copies of my novel, Turnstiles, which were printed for me by a friend. I am so excited to finally have bound copies to pass around to family and friends for review and critique. This will be the final step in making any necessary changes before sending pages with a query letter to a publishing agency.

Morning Couplets

The cats look out like coast guards on this soggy day;
they watch the birds bathe and squirrels run out of the trees.

Spring clean the litter away, sunlight
picking up every speck of winter’s gray evidence.

Monday again and the rain has stopped, I want him
to photograph the cherry blossoms, in such a way, to inspire.

This renovated space falls apart, old pipe
and broken balcony; the impermanence of things.

Thoughts on an open site – an invitation to write,
to writers, more text to read; another angle of the word.

A red flare rockets, a piece of an old ship
carries ghosts and artifacts, time and uncertainty.

Paint a picture of a past event; the colour is never the same and when is it okay
to blend the colours into something imagined, based on story, and share it?

Possibilities lift from our pillows, and manifest into
real time, a real day – the future not so far.

A phone call can mean everything; tell you who you are
where you’re going next, the weight of those thin lines that connect.

The alarm clock fails to tell him it is morning;
a sudden burst of shower and swearing, cats scatter.

Morning Couplets

Wind crashes against window, the hoop and holler
of late night jamboree, and god dousing the flames.

He envelopes me in half sleep, waking, wriggled toes
and skin, here, present and far from dreaming.

A character gently disturbed, tug on his arm,
make him stretch out of mind fibers onto a white page.

Disconnected from the world with a slow Internet,
we rub our eyes, wanting Saturday and unable to accept today.

Sun filters through, Sunday still under a thin blanket;
we wait for the cable guy to hook us up, feed us through chewed wires.

Our alarm slept in and he calmly kisses me, fresh from dreaming;
an hour late, and still he hangs back to kiss the cats, look at me.

Uncoiled from sleep, from winter rains, time springs forward –
a rush to work, pump out night and get ready.

A first bird calling, sings to morning light, a tinkling of glasses;
the way we slowly rub one finger along the rim, arouse our eardrums.

Calculating weeks, looking down the growing beanstalk,
and we passed cloud number nine months ago.

Morning Couplets

When he’s showered, and dressing in the red-lit room, I am lucid
and try to make my legs move. The neon numbers on the clock are abrupt.

Quiet. Soft scuffing of cat paws, pacing and digging;
the assembly of day, drawing this picture before stepping in.

I bring in music, a small device I will take anywhere;
replace the rhythm in my head and songs I made.

My memory betrays me – his fingernail split and I can’t
remember how; those coarse black hairs grow from the top of my head.

Pulsing the snooze bar and rolling on a wide ocean
of mattress, and pillows like flotation devices.

Finding sleep behind wet, stubborn eyelids;
you lying there, a disturbance in me and nothing to do with you.

His coat on and my eyes adjust, wanting this morning
and no desire for more sleep, the writer awakens.

Early morning complaints from the woman downstairs;
thin walls and a thick head, our need to start the day clean.

Two wrong numbers on Saturday morning, one cat vanished;
the other cat, like Velcro, bristles against my hand.

Sunday with no sun, a day of rest;
a day of rest before resting ends, and the moon, a warden.

Morning Couplets

Rain and sun together, candles sparking the corners;
intermittent stages of winter slide into spring.

He sleeps off the work, the night, and the sickness;
his body, a dark mound, a fifth grader stayed home.

My brain pounds against pavement; I am already
laced up in shoes, ready to race through puddles.

I pick at my mouth for words, to unclog some dam –
and only coffee drips from my lips; my dry well cracks.

A female clown and daisy-down, upside down frown;
I knew you’d eventually come around.

Claw marks in the table from some desperate escape,
after a new discovery gone wrong by the cat.

A fault in Gibraltar causes the earth to shift, a jolt,
possibly a move closer to home – a broken voyage.

There are no hard barriers – your sleep before I close
my book, your rising before I move a muscle, and the in-between.

When I think to stumble off my pillow, out from a warm night,
I am greeted by day-sleepers, curled up, who don’t talk to me otherwise.

The cats hunt loose thread, and anything that moves;
I chase after an early morning thought.

Biting Off More Than I Can Chew

The notion of bundling myself under blankets with my books is becoming more and more appealing. I need to start organizing my time better to really accomplish everything I want to do. During the week, I spend nearly ten hours a day away from my house. I know... I can hear your tiny violins, and I also know that I don't have as long or frustrating a commute as many people do, but I still find it difficult to cram into the morning whatever I need to do before work. I mean the time for me. I've given up on my morning yoga, and I am lucky if I can churn out a few morning couplets. I usually leave the house with wet hair and a packed shoulder bag (containing a novel, writer's magazine or notebook for lunchtime). I also faithfully cart around a few copies of my poetry book, A Mother's String, just in case. It is always the way -- as soon as I don't have a copy with me, I meet someone who is interested in buying my book. This rarely happens when I do have my book with me. I wouldn't call this Murphy's Law, but it is definitely annoying.

On the writing front, I may be biting off a little more than I can chew. At least it seems that way at the moment. My husband cooks dinner (I am the luckiest woman in the world!) most nights to allow me the time to write. More thinking and structured planning happens than actual writing, but I do get down some thoughts and decent passages. My poems are usually written at my Waywords group, or unexpected moments. I am currently chipping away at a novella, and I am patiently awaiting the first draft of my novel to be printed in book form for review. I have also committed to writing several book reviews for the Pacific Rim Review of Books (PRRB), and I recently submitted an application for a Canada Council grant to assist in research for my second novel. All of these words, places, characters and story lines are swimming around in my head. I try to ignore the quiet, nagging guilt of trying to write rather than cook for my husband. Yet, I make sure our house is relatively clean and organized. I can't help but think: "I hope this means my work will be published someday".

Room to Write

by Andrea McKenzie Raine

You smell like ashes, your hair is all tangled and you are wearing a dirty old paper bag. Come back when you look like a real princess.
- The Paper Bag Princess

The rest of the house sneers –
who is she to leave hairs in the bathtub,
to leave the unpacked boxes,
to stay absorbed in her books?

Your words smell like ashes, your stanzas are all tangled –
come back when you are a real poet

I look at all my smelly words.

I told someone about my new writing room,
and she said, “Oh, how wonderful
to have a room where you can shut the door.”
But I never do.
I think of how I might be
shutting something out, or in –

I look at all my messy stanzas.

In my room, I bristle a little,
at any intrusion. I fly around
until I am dizzy.

My elbows poke at the four corners of this paper-bag fortress
with its unguarded border; how easily I could flee.
Instead, the room reins me in and marks this territory.

Enough! I puff out my chest, let fly my fiery words
and slay the critic, the cynic, and all the dirty rascals.