The summer has rolled by, and now we are settling into the cooling month of September; embracing a new season with the opportunity for seclusion and reflection. I had a busy summer with a life-changing adventure: marriage. Now that the ceremony is over (but never the honeymoon), I am rediscovering the time and space to return to my various writing projects. My hand has been drawn to prose over this past year, so I am working to bring myself back to the strange, ever-changing landscapes of poetry. I am also playing more with the abstraction of poetry, rather than taking images based on my own ready-made experiences or perceptions -- I am trying to step further away from myself. I want to try on new skin, even if I don't understand where it is coming from or where it is leading me.
I am also going to make a more solid commitment to this blog (I can sense your eyes rolling... if you are still there). As I get deeper into my projects, more questions will arise. They are already forming, as I struggle with the confidence to say "okay, I've come up with this idea, but do I have the stamina and guts to follow through?" The answer always comes back as a triumphant "Yes!", but never in terms of "How". That is the journey.
First, I am making sure I spend time on my own writing each day -- morning: couplets, after work: blog, or tweaking any number of genres. Really, take your pick - poetry, book review articles, novels, and most recently an idea for a novella I've been exploring. I have more than ten projects lined up at this moment. Ambitious, right? Nerve-wracking, definitely. Doable? Yes. Tonight, I've started: I am in my writing room unwinding after my work day of, well, writing... but the excitement of my own writing (as opposed to the structured formulas and set language of government writing) takes the tiredness out. I'm now releasing the words that have been waiting not-so-patiently, and switching over to a place of play...
Monday, September 22, 2008
Morning Couplets
Trees bow to each other and dance madly; a celebration.
The dog in his yard stands bewildered, watching.
I light candles mid-day, a tribute to the heart
of December. Soon, we will blow out their cinnamon scent and join the wind.
A crisp sunlight, slice of sky, illuminates a year
closing, opens a window; a bird glides by effortlessly.
The cats pamper each other briefly, in an hour
of change and bricks lifted from shoulders sagged; a fresh coat.
As the rain buckets and near night greets us, we hibernate;
in our flannel, with writing utensils, I lasso words and he untangles numbers.
When the kittens forget the seasonal tree, and chase sunlight,
after the winter night storm that made us all twist our necks.
Like bears, we stay in our soft cocoons, rise to dark skies;
we walk, still asleep, burrow lightly into the folds of each other’s arms.
I am pummeled with sounds – the words and voices of unfinished
speeches and stories – of records by those real or not; always real work.
I awoke to more deaths printed and, still, this day chokes me;
this could be a last day I sleep through and glide my hand across.
The kittens circle the perimeter of the tree, invade diameters,and scramble across the hard surface with overturned parcels in their wake.
The dog in his yard stands bewildered, watching.
I light candles mid-day, a tribute to the heart
of December. Soon, we will blow out their cinnamon scent and join the wind.
A crisp sunlight, slice of sky, illuminates a year
closing, opens a window; a bird glides by effortlessly.
The cats pamper each other briefly, in an hour
of change and bricks lifted from shoulders sagged; a fresh coat.
As the rain buckets and near night greets us, we hibernate;
in our flannel, with writing utensils, I lasso words and he untangles numbers.
When the kittens forget the seasonal tree, and chase sunlight,
after the winter night storm that made us all twist our necks.
Like bears, we stay in our soft cocoons, rise to dark skies;
we walk, still asleep, burrow lightly into the folds of each other’s arms.
I am pummeled with sounds – the words and voices of unfinished
speeches and stories – of records by those real or not; always real work.
I awoke to more deaths printed and, still, this day chokes me;
this could be a last day I sleep through and glide my hand across.
The kittens circle the perimeter of the tree, invade diameters,and scramble across the hard surface with overturned parcels in their wake.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Morning Couplets
Housebound kittens watch a flurry of white;
flower boxes frosting under a patch of blue sky.
Packed icicles adorn the roof, two of them;
like twin swords they glisten and melt into the sun’s victory.
The warmth of black kittens contrast the icy white,
beyond my window pane, and the tire tracks of ambition.
There is a stillness in snow, winter gray makes me stay;
reflect on time slowing or moving forward, a reminder, a gift.
Snow melting, and our kittens chase their tails
when everything could be wiped clean as a chalkboard.
He caresses dishes with soap and water, while I coax
the existence of cats from a hardwood surface; these acts of living.
Yesterday’s interview and today’s chipped nail polish;
roads clear and winter moves in with the sun behind it.
I rise first and devour words for breakfast;
my hands are utensils, the cold outside – an instrument.
A meal prepared, a table christened, and friends brought
to warm cups of conversation; a growing circle.
The overcast sky holds in warmth, our hands held
under blankets; we dream of each other under a thick, white blanket.
flower boxes frosting under a patch of blue sky.
Packed icicles adorn the roof, two of them;
like twin swords they glisten and melt into the sun’s victory.
The warmth of black kittens contrast the icy white,
beyond my window pane, and the tire tracks of ambition.
There is a stillness in snow, winter gray makes me stay;
reflect on time slowing or moving forward, a reminder, a gift.
Snow melting, and our kittens chase their tails
when everything could be wiped clean as a chalkboard.
He caresses dishes with soap and water, while I coax
the existence of cats from a hardwood surface; these acts of living.
Yesterday’s interview and today’s chipped nail polish;
roads clear and winter moves in with the sun behind it.
I rise first and devour words for breakfast;
my hands are utensils, the cold outside – an instrument.
A meal prepared, a table christened, and friends brought
to warm cups of conversation; a growing circle.
The overcast sky holds in warmth, our hands held
under blankets; we dream of each other under a thick, white blanket.
A week in May
I have fallen off the radar, again. I let the entire month of April, National Poetry month, go by without a single blog entry. However, I did not let the month slip by completely unnoticed. I squeaked in a lunchtime poetry reading at work on April 30, with the help of a poet colleague of mine, Charles. We shared the microphone and had a decent turnout. We also recorded our reading and Charles is working at creating an MP3 file. Once this happens, I will post our reading on my blog and facebook profile.
Otherwise, my attention to poetry has been slipping. I haven't been attending the Planet Earth Poetry series at the Black Stilt Cafe as regularly as in the past -- I am so drained by the end of the week, and I want to spend my time resting at home, and letting my ideas gestate. It reassured me to know that the likes of P.K. Page admitted to not writing a single poem for years, and she managed to come back into the spotlight. Life does have a way of shifting in waves. Right now, my focus is on my upcoming wedding. I do manage to write the odd poem, and I am working at finishing my draft of Turnstiles. It is all work, and exploration. I am also frustrated that I am not being accepted for publication of the poems I do spend time with and send out into the world, heart full of hope. I've entered random poems and contests for publication, and only received pleasant rejection letters. I believe it is all timing, and perhaps my time hasn't arrived yet. I won't give up.
I find that my day job, writing for the government, is sucking me dry. I once had a poetry prof warn me that if I choose a career in writing, the last thing I will want to do is come home at night and write. I am grateful for my work flex days, my writing days. I wish I could work from home every day as a writer.
Otherwise, my attention to poetry has been slipping. I haven't been attending the Planet Earth Poetry series at the Black Stilt Cafe as regularly as in the past -- I am so drained by the end of the week, and I want to spend my time resting at home, and letting my ideas gestate. It reassured me to know that the likes of P.K. Page admitted to not writing a single poem for years, and she managed to come back into the spotlight. Life does have a way of shifting in waves. Right now, my focus is on my upcoming wedding. I do manage to write the odd poem, and I am working at finishing my draft of Turnstiles. It is all work, and exploration. I am also frustrated that I am not being accepted for publication of the poems I do spend time with and send out into the world, heart full of hope. I've entered random poems and contests for publication, and only received pleasant rejection letters. I believe it is all timing, and perhaps my time hasn't arrived yet. I won't give up.
I find that my day job, writing for the government, is sucking me dry. I once had a poetry prof warn me that if I choose a career in writing, the last thing I will want to do is come home at night and write. I am grateful for my work flex days, my writing days. I wish I could work from home every day as a writer.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Announcements
Ekstasis Reading at the Pacific Festival of the Book - March 15, 2008 @ Victoria Arts Connection
Morning Couplets
The force of re-entry from an orbit retreat; hitting ground
with pen in hand, I plunge back into the world.
Pieces of wood snap together and boast their deep burn,
red and solid; the transformation of space and energy.
Paper covered shelves, homeless in their temporary home;
this place of disorder, schedules lost, and a wormhole for the renovators
of thought and work.
Our cats don’t mind the chaos – jumbled furniture,
piled books and yesterday’s news – more surface space.
Kittens scratching at heads, night time cardboard rustles;
a test of skill in the morning rewarded late afternoon.
My kittens lie away from me, until a phone rings or visitors
take my attention, their ego brains attack, vie for my affection again.
Rain falls heavy in carport pools, our half day ticks
by lounging bare on the couch, as we watch the cats race.
We wake to white blankets – this cold warmth of brightness;
snug inside with words, warm tea, our own singular warmth shared.
Our kittens don’t notice the snow – their world, us, loud toys
across the floor. Maybe they can’t see white or anything past normal conditions.
A white-trimmed tree sways like a cobweb, snowy
breeze pushes through an early winter.
with pen in hand, I plunge back into the world.
Pieces of wood snap together and boast their deep burn,
red and solid; the transformation of space and energy.
Paper covered shelves, homeless in their temporary home;
this place of disorder, schedules lost, and a wormhole for the renovators
of thought and work.
Our cats don’t mind the chaos – jumbled furniture,
piled books and yesterday’s news – more surface space.
Kittens scratching at heads, night time cardboard rustles;
a test of skill in the morning rewarded late afternoon.
My kittens lie away from me, until a phone rings or visitors
take my attention, their ego brains attack, vie for my affection again.
Rain falls heavy in carport pools, our half day ticks
by lounging bare on the couch, as we watch the cats race.
We wake to white blankets – this cold warmth of brightness;
snug inside with words, warm tea, our own singular warmth shared.
Our kittens don’t notice the snow – their world, us, loud toys
across the floor. Maybe they can’t see white or anything past normal conditions.
A white-trimmed tree sways like a cobweb, snowy
breeze pushes through an early winter.
Little Emperors' Book Launch - March 1, 2008
On March 1, 2008, my close friend, JoAnn Dionne, launched her first book titled, Little Emperors. The book is a memoir of her time spent teaching English to elementary students in the Republic of China. She takes a look at the boundaries acknowledged and dissolved both in the classroom and beyond the school gates, and the change in China's politics and collective thinking, succumbing to Western influences. Her memoir is both humourous and startling from the daily activities she relays, and life-altering adventures she encounters in a communist country. The book is a reflection of her acqaintances, choices, observations of people and ideas, and emotions while in a foreign place as she struggles with her foreign concepts and assimilates herself into a new world.
She organized her launch to be held in a new art gallery called Dales in Chinatown, Victoria, BC. A fit setting and a phenomenal turnout, as her audience was packed to the rafters. She graciously invited a few local writers - Steven J. Thompson, Yvonne Blomer, Liz Walker, Missie Peters, and myself -to read our selected poems (her favourites) before she read excerpts from Little Emperors. As part of her launch, she also invited a spokesperson from the Free Tibet society. Her memoir is a sharing of her broadening perspectives and embracing of Eastern culture, as well as a message to Westerners about the atrocities that still occur in that part of the world; atrocities that are against basic human rights.
I am honoured to be able to call such a brilliant, adventurous writer my friend, and to have witnessed her great accomplishment and be a part of the celebration of her book.
You can check out her book at: http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Little-Emperors-Year-Future-China-JoAnn-Dionne/9781550027563-item.html
She organized her launch to be held in a new art gallery called Dales in Chinatown, Victoria, BC. A fit setting and a phenomenal turnout, as her audience was packed to the rafters. She graciously invited a few local writers - Steven J. Thompson, Yvonne Blomer, Liz Walker, Missie Peters, and myself -to read our selected poems (her favourites) before she read excerpts from Little Emperors. As part of her launch, she also invited a spokesperson from the Free Tibet society. Her memoir is a sharing of her broadening perspectives and embracing of Eastern culture, as well as a message to Westerners about the atrocities that still occur in that part of the world; atrocities that are against basic human rights.
I am honoured to be able to call such a brilliant, adventurous writer my friend, and to have witnessed her great accomplishment and be a part of the celebration of her book.
You can check out her book at: http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Little-Emperors-Year-Future-China-JoAnn-Dionne/9781550027563-item.html
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