Morning Couplets

We have a pumpkin to carve, his eyes to slant and crooked
mouth to menace, his seeds to roast and innards to light.

Rain puddles shrink on the pavement, after we fall asleep
in a flood – our warm ark holds off winter showers.

My kitten shrouds herself in bubble wrap, after she destroys
most of its armour – small capped gun shots, clear and deadly.

My roof, a sound tarp; these walls, a windbreaker
against a steady sheet of rain, as the sky douses the Earth with fire rescue pails.

We rise from our comforter mid-afternoon, billowed out
as the wind touches window pane, we rest through winter starting.

The violent sway of branches keeps us inside, makes us
put the kettle on more often, re-hook up cable, live under blankets
while nestled in pages.

Our kittens play in their safe confinement, they watch the trees
dance with no fear of cold forces; far from the street, they attack
chair leg with no fear of cars.

We rise from bed at three in the afternoon, after a night
of industry, eat chocolate for breakfast, still call it morning –
these are decadent days.

Slow into this morning posture – corpse pose to sun salutation –
light pen tip, fingertips on morning scales, this massage.

Ingredients for breakfast, too little. The soy milk gone and
eggs dissolved past expiry; this poor fridge maintenance. Still, I feed him.

Writing on Week Twenty-three

I have been away from my blog for sometime. To be honest, I am starting to believe that my day job as a government correspondence writer is sucking the writing life right out of me. Also, it is winter. I had approached the beginning of our winter season with the romantic notion that this would be a time to reflect on my various writings. I went so far as to purchase a journal for the sole use of recording my thoughts about the poems I enjoyed reading. I've made one entry so far on my own amateur perceptions of Emily Dickinson's poetry. I've been taking her into the bath with me, reflecting on her long-dead passions on life. Here are my thought on her poem titled, Hope (I encourage you to look it up):

In the poem, the poet is personifying hope by turning it into a grounded bird within us - something that hasn't yet tested its wings. Still, the bird sings, ever faithful, and unrelenting to its caged existence. It knows how to free itself, and to look beyond the danger and hostility of the unknown. Hope asks for nothing and needs no promise. It simply knows and believes, beyond any and all circumstances, in the truth, regardless.

Perhaps sharing these musings will evoke another category for my blog participation. I would like some feedback, once you've read the poem yourself. I know this is work, and I am the last person to boast staying on schedule these days, but I would like to create some more dialogue.

I have completed my second poetry manuscript, and am now making the preparations to submit it to a publisher. This also takes time, and careful consideration in the presentation of one's work. I need to construct a synopsis of my book of poems, which is a challenge in itself. There is a much fainter line connecting the poems, which look at the aspects of human existence from different angles. The poems are slices of life, relationships and death; snapshots in time and how we perceive our world individually, emotionally and critically.

As for my novel, I am near approaching a word-count that complies with the standard novel length of 80,000 words. I've managed to pound out 7,000 more words since the Surrey International Writers' Conference I attended in October 2007. I am weaving the scenes together, and digging deeper below the surface of a few once-shallow characters. There are gaps that I've identified and am working to close - some more easily than others. I've found I've reached a point of critical research, which will require extensive reading, note-taking, discussion and observation. I've already begun. My goal for finishing the first draft of my novel is summer 2008.

Lately, I've been attending different events at the Solstice Cafe in Victoria. There is another poetry troupe that convenes on the second and fourth Thursday of each month, Tongues of Fire. Their poetic style is more performance-based, but really anything goes. I have one poem that I would like to commit to memory and perform because I believe it would be much more powerful. It is a poem written from a disturbing memory. The poem is called, Bully. I was also invited to submit another poem to the upcoming issue of the Tongues of Fire chapbook, Sparks. If you're local, watch for it. Tongues of Fire is becoming my second poetry home.

The other event I've attended at Solstice is the Cafe Philosophy, which occurs every Wednesday night. My main purpose in attending these philosophical sessions is to gain research for my novel, as I have a few scenes where a group of men meet in a tavern to discuss the problems of the world and human nature. So, I decided to engage in such an environment. I found the discussion very open, inviting and stimulating.

Basically, a topic is thrown out and there is a facilitator who passes around a cordless microphone to those who would like to share their thoughts, ideas and arguments on the topic. Some refer to academic findings in the field of philosophy or psychology to support their ideas, and others draw from personal experience or belief.

I will attend again. The winter nights are hindering me in some ways. You would think that being in a warm coffeehouse with a mug of hot chocolate, coffee or chai tea would not be an obstacle... but the evenings are short and the work days are long. I've also been fighting off colds and struggling to fit in all of my writing pursuits. I have more projects and ideas on the horizon (I reassure myself that I will finish them in this lifetime).

I am enthusiastic about the writing connections I am establishing. I've reconnected with someone who is eager to share our novels-in-progress for support and feedback. I am also continuing to meet with other aspiring poets, through my workplace, who are making time to meet for coffee or lunch to share our literary work and ideas.

I would like to create more reading opportunities to sell the last few copies of my first book, and then move on from there. All of this requires the energy to split my life in various ways, and save my ambitions for the end of the work day -- the one that, for now, pays the bills.

Writing on Week Twenty-two

With all of the Chrismas chaos, my blog updates have gone temporarily to the wayside. I recently took a course on how to organize your life so that you can fit everything in and achieve balance and serenity. Aside from staying on top of my daily work tasks, I'm not sure if I'm following my life schedule as closely as I had intended.
At the end of November, I was able to escape my day-job desk and immerse myself in poetry. For the past six years, I have attended an annual 4-day retreat at a place called Glenairely (Centre for Earth and Peace) in East Sooke, BC. Our fearless instructor for these retreats is Patrick Lane, who with tongue-in-cheek usually kicks off the retreat with a confessesion of his own mixed feelings and dread about setting us all up for failure in the assignments he's prepared for us. At the end of the retreat, he always comes back to this point and tips his hat to us for astonishing him with our work. His main mantra is that a writing block is simply fear - we all have something to say. During these four days, each of us is challenged to say it, and say it in the best possible way through our poetry. This year, we accommodated 17 poets (in the past, our limit was 12) and yet we still managed to cram ourselves around the kitchen table. We pay a reasonable amount for beds, meals and a quiet space to write. Our meals are prepared by our maestro chef, Wendy Morton. We spend our days sharing our poems in a circle, then breaking to work on our own writing, and being called for meals by a clanking bell on the porch (makes one feel as though they are on a homestead).
In this place, we each strive to stretch our own personal boundaries and comfort zones, as well as lose ourselves in the words and lives created by our fellow poets. Often, for me, a theme will arise in my writing. On this retreat, I began to explore the lives of my grandparents. For the first time, I wrote a poem for my father's father who passed away when I was 14. I didn't have a strong connection with him, and sometimes I grieve it, not really understanding who he was and what he wanted in his life. Therefore, I wrote a brief poem about his coming to Canada from Scotland in mid-life, and having so much uprooted. So much left behind.
These retreats are soul-feeding and sacred, and every year (usually the following Autumn) we publish a beautiful chapbook through Leafpress (leafpress.ca) from one of our poetry assignments. These books are memories, rewards and gifts.

After the retreat, a few of us were fortunate to read poems at the Mole Restaurant in downtown Victoria as part of a Chocolate and Poetry evening. The restaurant revised their dessert menu to include raw chocolate, and there was a good-sized, yet intimate audience to indulge in both features. It is always helpful to discover a new venue that is willing and enthusiastic to lend a space for our poems. A sweet success, to be sure!

Morning Couplets

He returns with tea and grapefruit, six slices, a slight rendition of Cohen.
I am a bare-breasted Cleopatra, a romanticized bargain-bin Suzanne.

As a chemist, I mix lemon and milk without curdling;
as a writer, I sleep late, blend outside radio words with dreams.

A deep blue sky clear of stars and planets, and I am awake
with the teachers and garbage collectors; stealing a piece of the day for myself.

The parked cars, treetops and buildings are silhouetted
against almost day; a simple contrast I try to resolve.

My couch, a garden of detached flowers and leaves,
this depiction of fall, while I write in late morning.

Two small, furry bodies wait through the night,
to bound into morning and explore the wilderness of the living room.

Our third day half gone, and still nothing is lost;
we exist in our own hours, determine the sunset.

I drag you from sentence to sentence, and we spend days
driving through my paragraphs and looking for full colons: trying to
complete my list – you know you are the commas I rest upon.

Like a squirrel, I munch on almonds, as my mind climbs trees
and stores away friends and stories for the winter months.

There are too many words in this room, not enough seconds
in a minute, in an hour, in a day to absorb this lucid work.

Announcements

Karen Chester (grand prize winner) and me


Last month I entered a poetry contest through Cafe Fairfield, and this past week I received a book prize as a runner-up. There were three of us - a grand prize winner ($50 and a book) and two runners-up. Okay, it wasn't a first prize of $1,000, but I don't really care. This was my first prize for writing poetry.

My significant other continues to remind me that I was a short-listed participant in the CBC Radio poetry slam in March 2006. I was paid for my efforts (handsomely, I might add). So, perhaps I do exaggerate when I say this is my first prize or acknowledgement. To put it into better perspective, it is the first time I entered a contest, received a phonecall, showed up, shook someone's hand and received a prize (in this case, I won a book), and then was able to showcase my poem. It was a sign of encouragement to keep going, and that there will be more opportunities to earn prizes in the future.



Thank you Cafe Fairfield!

Writing on Week Twenty-One

The established laws of form poetry, and the dead white male poet. How do we break away from it? The answer: with time and historical changes. It is no different than learning from the masters, and then trying to either mimic or challenge what they did, taking a form and making it your own. I met a new poet friend for lunch this week, who showed me a new form he is playing with (although I don't think anyone can possibly write the same poem or truly steal poetry, I will only reveal that his poetic form strives to reflect the structure of music in a unique, concrete way). We entered a discussion on whether a new form or idea of poetry would be accepted, since it doesn't necessarily follow the time-tested rules of poetry. Are there rules? Yes, there is definitely a craft and a science to poetry, but there is also room for new expression.
I likened his frontiering endeavour to Bissett. In Bissett's poetry, there is a structure, but the entire infrastructure of language is challenged within that structure. How else did poetry evolve from the iambic pentameter of the Chaucerian age, to the Sonnets of Shakespeare, to the 'no holds barred' cavaliers, to the sentimental romantics, to the prim fundamentalists, to the naturalists, to the modern beatniks and post-modern, free-flowing, stream-of-consciousness poetry, and then reverting back to form and trying something new from the beginning. Always, as poets, we are questioning language -- how we can reign it in, twist it around, make it fit, and finally let it go and transform into what it will. We can hold in the lines, but not always the content that flies off the page. Sometimes, the poem begs to be something else, and if you don't let it - it will find a way anyhow, at times something completely unexpected. Or else it will play dead and not do anything you ask.
We also discussed the notion of the dead, white, male poet - and how His poetry was revered for centuries. Women poets were forced to not reveal their gender when submitting their poetry, and very few or none were brought into the classrooms of the last generations for study. Even fairly recently, students of the 60's were busy re-discovering poets such as Keats and Blake. These poets have their genius and their place, but we are now enjoying an age where a range of female poets are bursting onto the scene.
My friend was acknowledging to me how, by reading my work and the work of other women poets half his age, his perspective is refreshed. He admitted that he never would have been inclined to explore the poetry of female voices when he was younger. As a young man, perhaps he felt a young woman's perspective of the world would clash with his own ideals, or simply not have anything of substance to offer him. How far from the truth. We are not classes of race or gender - we are human beings (I believe I've stressed this point before). As human beings, we are all going to view the world and interact with it differently, given our own personal environments and history that shapes our path and existence; how we perceive everything. At a later stage, my friend was able to look at this writing of a wholly different perspective than his own, and appreciate the fresh view. As well, to his astonishment, many of the themes and ideas and perceptions meshed with his own. He wrote a poem, which he shared with me, about his coming to the words of women poets who were not born when he was first navigating his way through poetry, and the gifts they bring him.

Morning Couplets

My pulse is strong in morning meditations, a neglected rhythm;
find a blank page, a reliable pen, put ink on paper, repeat.

Nothing is truer than a rush of words, moments when – on your hands,
skin, any makeshift slate or canvas, another’s arm or forehead – you simply must!

The day is locked in my glass table top, I only need look down
to see blue skies reflective, to predict a change in the wind.

He plays Sudoku, wrestles with numbers; I read the newspaper –
wrestle with untimely deaths in another landscape.

No machine gun-fire in these clouds, only brown-tinged leaves,
flowers to deadhead and the passing season to mourn.

A brown bird visits, knocks on the neighbouring window
like an expectant guest, and his crew awaits for stirring of other life.

There is a kind of bustle in days with no page breaks, a constancy
to fill in these short chapters with some sensible prose, to maintain order.

Today is a white page, like any day, but blinding
like a blizzard it tosses me to the furthest corner; a rolled ball.

We start in mid-elipses... after an evening of wine and dance, still floating
on white-dressed sentiments and exchanging our own silent vows on ivory pillows.

He stumbles out of our sheets with a scratchy throat,
his eyes not yet in, and a coating of dreams too short.