Tuesday, October 7, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 6, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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