Book Review of Turning Left to the Ladies by Kate Braid

by Andrea McKenzie Raine

Kate Braid's most recent book of poetry, Turning Left to the Ladies, published by Palimpset Press, is a personal account of being a woman working in the male-dominated construction industry. The poet weathered the daily battery of sexism and prejudice from her co-workers, and built protective walls to hold on to her position. She endured a series of initiations upon entering her profession, and her thorough knowledge of the work, tools and terminology earned her the credentials to write about being on the job, in her own right.
The poems move through the speaker's self-doubt, vulnerability, determination and, finally, acceptance. The poem, "How She Knows", demonstrates the speaker's dogged strength in a weaker position as she creates a wall between herself and her co-workers in the face of inevitable defeat. In the poem, "Spy", Braid attempts to blend in, to shed the female body and name and become a fellow worker; to learn more than the trade. The serious subject matter of the book also resonates through touches of humour and cheek, in the speaker's defiant attempts to transform from woman to construction worker, and to embrace her inner female again. This is evident in the poem, "The Female Form" in the line: Carpenteress--yes. I work hard at it, this look/ of the great outdoors, doing the work of men.
Strangely, the details of construction work in the poems mirror the construction of poetry in its rhythm of procedure, form, logic and demand for precision. The rhythm and cadence echo a swinging arm. Braid also taps into alliteration and personification, and explores an intimacy with building tools and the art of construction. Who knew there was a wealth of poems in the construction trade?
Braid has a sincere love and respect for the work, despite the need to disguise her gender. She re-emerges in her true skin at the end of her shift, as described in the poems "Day's End" and "Post-modern Breasts in the Bath". Slowly, steadily, she abandons her disguise and the poems move into a celebration of woman, amidst the paradox desire to disappear as woman. The poems ease into a place of acceptance and a stronger comfort with handling the tools, the men and herself. The hidden female voice emerges, still wary but with presence.

Book Review of Huge Blue by Patrick Pilarski

by Andrea McKenzie Raine

Patrick Pilarski's small poems, or meditations, in his first collection Huge Blue leave monumental footfalls in recording the various terrains of western Canada. In the tradition of Japanese poetry--haiku, haibun, tanka and senryu--the crisp and condensed images embody a larger experience and draw the reader into a heightened intimate moment. Pilarski uses these forms to capture his relationship with the natural world. The poems are placed like small stepping stones across the varying landscapes, and mark the resting points where the poet reflects on the journey's highlights with his travel companion. In Pilarski's use of the tanka prose and haibun form, there is a sprinkling of humour or surprise in the normalcy of everyday actions or reactions to the unfolding of the speaker's surroundings. For instance, in the poem "Last Load", the speaker comments on the adjustments to a new environment after a long journey and how his partner suddenly remembers 'the box of handmade pottery above the stove'. There is a sense of restlessness in an otherwise state of exhaustion; something random and contrast.
The poems also reflect on the seasons, and how the weather and natural landscapes are parallel to how the poet moves through his emotions in these changing landscapes. Nature is also personified, as witnessed in the lines: two mountains/ cross-legged in the valley/ watching the storm/ one pulls the screen, changes/ into its best white gown. Pilarski focuses on the seemingly small, yet miraculous happenings in the natural world. The use of the Japanese poetic form is appropriate to record these snapshots of time and place, and to share these personal experiences on a global plane. Huge Blue is published by leaf press. For more information, visit www.leafpress.ca.

Poetry to prose, and back again

Through unfavourable circumstances, I am now able to concentrate on my writing at home. Unfortunately, I was not able to cope in my day job due to unnecessary stress imposed upon me. I am feeling more motivated now to wrap up one or two writing projects that are near completion, before our little one arrives at the end of the summer.

My two main projects are completing my novel manuscript and finding a home for my 2nd poetry manuscript. I have taken an interest in screenwriting -- especially with my draft novel in mind. Recently I enrolled in a two-day screenwriting workshop, and am feeling inspired to explore this new genre. It seems I am moving away from poetry for the moment, although the poems are always there. There are so many different worlds of writing. Every world of writing also seems daunting and foreign until you learn the rules and the mold. It is a brave case of jumping in to see how deep the waters run.

Writing thoughts

I have been away - busy, in fact, working on another kind of poem that takes nine months to write. In the way of writing, I have been out of the literary loop for a few months, and am slowly emerging back out of my sleep-induced, sickly days. Still, I am continuing to write meditative couplets, creating a small book of poetry dedicated to my unborn. I have also been thankfully receiving my annual copyright entitlement cheques from Access Copyright and the Public Lending Rights Commission, which has been nice recognition for my work and validation as a poet, albeit widely unknown.

My Friday nights of reading poetry have gone to the wayside for the time being, as my work week seems to suck me dry by day five. I will get back into my old footing... just takes a little fire being lit under my butt.

I am struggling with the google books situation, wondering how to approach the fact that nearly my entire book is available for free online, and a measly one-time compensation of $60US from Google to keep it that way. What to do?

I am still working on my novel, Turnstiles, which becomes more and more like a beast that demands feeding. I am thinking of adding the background to another secondary character, but their back story is the length of a novella on its own. I'm still in the thinking, sketching, note-taking stage: I try to remind myself that the words are there, and that this isn't writer's block. It is an irrational fear... like walking into a disgustingly dirty kitchen and knowing it has to be cleaned -- and you are the only one who can clean it.

So, if any of you thought I was dead, I am not... although some days I am a little brain-fried and immobile. I am here, I am writing, and I will come back.

Happy New Writing Year!

Like a sleepy bear, I am emerging from my winter hibernation cave once again. I have not blogged for nearly two months and, although it may be a relatively short time, it feels like an eternity. Some of you may have noticed that I have disappeared for a longer stretch - this was because on the advice of a wise friend I chose to limit my viewing access from potential couplet thieves (see morning couplets). With that said, if any of you wish to be removed from my blog list, please let me know.

As with the start of every year, I am full of writing ideas and hoping for the stamina to see them all through. My first goal is to finish my novel manuscript (on draft #3, and counting) and ship it off to a literary agent by summer 2009. This is going to be a year of creation. I have a novel to complete, a novella to work on, poems to polish and send out (I received another rejection letter recently, but the rejection had a surprisingly encouraging tone), and short stories to ponder.

In my wildest of dreams, I am continuously scheming a way to either have a day job that I passionately love (publishing leaps to mind), or set myself up so that I can become a full-time writer at home (years in the making)! In the meantime, I aim to connect and reconnect with writing friends and groups. I know I can't do it all, and life/work balance is always a challenge, but this is my endeavour.

In the midst of the Christmas craziness and, well, work and home life in general, I have neglected my writing lately. I've been stealing away poetic couplets on post-it notes at work and journal when I have the time and energy, but I have to admit that the rest of the time I've been a slave to the great winter past-time: television (or the idiot box, if you prefer). However, I have been reading steadily, with a stack of books awaiting me. I also managed to pull off a few book reviews in the fall that can be viewed in The Pacific Rim Review of Books. The current issue isn't posted online, yet, but you can visit the site at: http://www.prrb.ca/.

In the end of November 2008, I attended my annual poetry retreat at Glenairely with Patrick Lane and a group of both familiar and new writers. We spent a glorious 4-day session wringing poems out of us that we weren't sure would come. They leaped forward with pure magic, along with our new found connections and stories. The space itself lends a certain kind of magic, one that is hard to imitate once we all find ourselves back at home in our own quiet writing spaces.

I intend to make good use of my writing space this year, for as long as I can; to embrace it unabashed and with full force. I am surrounded by shelves filled with imaginative words in this room from the living and dead. If these books can't talk to me, or if I can't find inspiration here... well, that would be the unthinkable.

Beyond Measure - A Book Review

by Andrea McKenzie Raine

Pauline Holdstock's novel, Beyond Measure, takes place in Italy in the 1500s, and spirals around the main characters Paolo, Orazio, his daughter and assistant Sofonisba, Ceccio the land lord, Matteo Tassi, Alessandro and Caterina, the slave girl. Each character has a desire to be appreciated, if not seen.

Paolo, an artist, treats human subjects like objects; he searches for the inanimate flesh to make it come alive once again in his art. He cannot see beyond his own flesh and, therefore, has a compulsive need to capture the beauty of the human form in his paintings. He is calculating, methodical and manipulative in the way he obtains these objects. Paolo attempts to move past the emotional element of his subjects to get to the purpose of his art, as illustrated in the following passage:

"...The skin of a hanged man is as the skin of any other. It is its own miracle, a paragon of suppleness and strength and exquisite sensitivity and, when hairless and smooth as in youth and in the female form, a thing of beauty beyond compare."

When Caterina, the slave girl, is presented to Paolo, he becomes obsessed with the living quality of her female form and her strange markings. Caterina is an unwitting gift or pawn, passed around between the characters for the benefit of monetary, artistic and personal status. Paolo insists on painting her in the nude, as he says "a muse clothed is against Nature. The muse must be naked. She is naked truth. The naked flame of inspiration."

The novel examines the existing classes, and relationships between master and slave. The need each character has to interact with the other characters, in their varying positions, is modeled on hierarchy, obedience, responsibility and human value. Paolo reserves the right to manipulate human beings to dissect and exploit them, for the sake of art. Still, for his livelihood and art, he must answer to his landlord, Ceccio.

The circling relationships between the characters are interconnected and dependent, with different agendas revolving around their individual needs for the slave girl, Caterina. She will win them esteem, power, love, or artistic pursuit. Art and people are for bartering, and a means of ownership. Nothing is sacred in terms of art or human life, as each are subject to revisions.

Art is the central theme, and the characters are tied to it either physically or intrinsically. Holdstock's writing is thorough and painstakingly descriptive. She leaves out no detail of the work involved. For instance:

"Carefully he sticks pins into the anima and, in a process of trial and error, positions it securely in the mould, closing the two halves round it. The protruding pins keep it away from the inner walls; it hangs inside, clear of the shell of the mould, trapped and at the same time free, the way, Maestro Paolo once remarked, the rough unfinished soul hangs inside the body, a disparate element, longing for fire. So the artist's work, said Maestro Paolo, was the mirror of God's creation, Man."

The language used is clinical and instructive, and yet poetic and transcendent. Beyond Measure is, essentially, a commentary on art: how one's work is viewed by outsiders, other artists and critics, and the lengths that artists will go to come close to divinity. As well, the sacrifices people will make to achieve their desires.

Morning Couplets

Create the day, and erase; release the mind’s fallacies,
events holding you, that aren’t otherwise real.

A chair in the corner, a book moved on the bookcase,
evidence of someone paying attention to the outside.

This house holds in the heat, the writing room
cold enough for work.

The dark mornings disorient, stumbling to work down dark roads;
the owl doesn’t know it is daylight – hoots nocturnally in the tree.

I wake up to duty, to feed the cats; I stay awake,
get ready to tread off in my good clothes and stay inside all day.

The left hand has never met the right one,
and doesn’t know it is doing anything.

I question how I spend eight hours of my day –
growing or drowning, learning or head-splitting?

The extroverted world makes me go inwards;
everyone plugged into each other – no space for a silent thought.

A blank wall, blank screen, black night; a bright mind,
a chance for something to happen.Days dying.

They all go with no ticket,
no test, no shiny diploma - they pass through.

The Blackbird’s Song by Pauline Holdstock

by Andrea McKenzie Raine

The Blackbird’s Song is a story about the challenges of faith. The reader is introduced to a group of three Christian missionaries who are chosen and sent to China to ‘spread the word’ by holy instruction.

The story is told through the eyes of one of the missionaries, Emily, who watches as her companions, one being her husband, William, struggle along with her in China’s harsh and unpredictable environment. The group also has the obstacle of not starting off strong and united, as a woman, Martha, exhibits extremist behaviour in the group and rails against the intent of the group for adaptation and survival in the strange country. Their struggles deepen as horrible mishaps befall them, and Emily begins to lose her sense of faith. A division begins to take place within the group, as conflicting ideals either real or perceived are brought to the surface, which in turn bring about internal conflicts and suppression of true feelings.

The language is poetic. For instance, “Tsechow was spread below them like a wasp’s nest broken open in the sun.” Holdstock also uses strong, descriptive images to evoke the emotions in the characters and the impact of their new environment. As well, the frequent use of short, fragment sentences echoes the abruptness and urgency of changing scenery, quick action, and sharp, violent thoughts.

The undercurrents carry the tense vibe of changing ideas, while there are increasing overtones of religious strife. Emily is steadily drifting from the group, into herself and questioning her faith and reasons for being there, while Martha is drifting away further into the dangers of the country and her own madness. Emily becomes disillusioned with the idea of God, and feels abandoned. There are also children included in the journey, those of Emily and her husband, who are suffering alongside the adults through the elements and trials of the failing mission.

There is a division of purpose in the group that emerges, displayed in the notions of Christian beliefs, religious extremism, and paganism threatening their united ability to infiltrate the society and assist the Chinese people. Still, there is a silence in the group, as the members don’t wish to communicate these changing dynamics. The mission is falling apart, as the each of the members begin to succumb, in their own way, to the unrelenting landscape and people. New demons arise to test the foreigners, and the group begins to collapse within itself as a result of mind-trickery, obsession, fear and suspicion.

The foreigners face an upward battle, and a constant threat of death, in a land that doesn't want them. Eventually, their stead-fast and narrow views about fortune, faith and god become inverted in the culture they were once trying to save.

Morning Couplets

Words wrestle in me like pregnant thoughts,
their small serifs poke through tissue, paper thin and full of intent.

Skin letting go from muscle; the flesh rises along with me,
a memory of some past self, now buried under life.

It is possible to carve the day into slices,
watch the clock, don’t watch the clock, and watch the clock again.

A thin layer of frost holds in the day,
we should all be sleeping still.

I am not awake for his humour, a side wit;
as my brain still adjusts from dark to light, blur to focus.

Why does the self turn, like a revolving snakehead?
Strike at others, fangs ready to bite into itself.

Chataranga; body made of softwood, this pose
a strengthening of the will to bend, and not break.

Fur flying at 4am, and squawking like a seagull
inside the house, begging for something we can’t give.

A pursuit of being happy; the completeness
and the work that comes with luck.

The art of slowing; to dip into the future,
taking in each minute, the length of a breath and holding.

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.