Category: Commentary

My musings and maunderings…

The February Coffee House DADA Poem

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February dada poem
February dada poem

Here it is! this poem was a group creation. Rebekah and I cut out words and phrases and put them into a bag . Then the audience at the February Peace Region Songwriters, Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe (Dawson Creek, BC) selected snippets randomly. We then put the snippets together into this poem. (a little ‘poetic license’ was used by using the ‘you’re’ as ‘your’. Yes we are aware it’s the wrong form of the word for this context, but hey, it’s a ransom note poem!)

DaDa Poem
You’re period of mourning uncovered death in the fifth position.
Illuminate yourself.
Morning. slipped into her robe
and heard a masculine voice say: “What can we do?…especially if he’s innocent,
Stronger than a season
Between home and night that never slips away
moment by moment, slowly, looking,
do you look inside the flowers blooming last.

It is either very profound or very bizarre, or perhaps a bit of both but it was fun to do and it brought up some interesting images. Images like ‘morning slipping into a robe’ and ‘a season between home and night.’ I like these images and perhaps they, or modified versions of them, will eventually find their way into my poems. You’ll never know until you look inside the flowers blooming last…

Goddess in the Garden Rewrite.

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Emergence Indigo-drawing by L Studley
"Emergence in Indigo" - Pen and Ink-Indigo variation. By L Studley

As always, I received some very insightful feedback from my writing group on Saturday! I submitted ‘Goddess in the Garden’ for them to critique and was inspired to do a rewrite. Rebekah mentioned that, although I include references to ‘singing to’ the ‘sun’, ‘stars’, and ‘ocean’ as well as to the ‘earth’,  most of the poem seems to talk about the earth only. She suggested that I expand the poem, and I think she was right.
I am including the rewrite here but the first draft is still in its original post if you want to compare them. The rewrite is obviously longer, but it also explores the Goddess in her relationships with these other elements.

Goddess in the Garden
Goddess-Spirit-Essence-Kernel-Seed-Sow-Propagate-Grow-Garden

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of snakes.
She strides barefoot, browned by sun, washed by rain.
Nakedly unashamed of the miracle, she lies
upon the open ground and leaches her essence
into the greedy earth, renewed, reborn through a million petals unfurled.
Burgeoning in tempting fruit and wanton weed alike
she sings the earth a song of plenty

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of the light.
She sways, heliotropic, eyes wide to the sky.
She steams from Earth to arc in apogee
to turn, prisms tangled in her hair.
Becoming the light and flooding back to Earth
she sings the sun a song of power.

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of the dark.
She dances to the rhythm of the moon, lambent steps
through dusky depths undaunted.
Limned with icy fire she spins the long night
into blessed dreams.
And smiling sweet abandon
she sings the stars a song of wonder.

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of water.
Dissolute she melts into the tidal swell.
Cradled in creation she floats in seaweed,
Hair streaming out behind.
A perfect balance of blood and brine and breath,
she sings the ocean a song of life; deep, immortal, ancestral home.

It is no sin to sing.

Bamboo Soul

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pen and ink drawing "Bamboo Soul" by L. Studley
pen and ink drawing "Bamboo Soul" by L. Studley

Bamboo Soul was originally a poem, then it became a song, and now it resides, apparently quite happily, in both worlds. Sometimes I speak it, sometimes I sing it.

Bamboo Soul

I’d rather have a bamboo soul
Singing in the dark
Than one of oak, hard and hid
Beneath an inch of bark.
 
You tell me time is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong
But I’d rather live deep and now and here
Than never live at all.
 
I’d rather have a duck down heart
Floating free and soft
Than one of stone; dead and cold
Beneath an inch of moss.
 
You tell me love is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong
But I’d rather be crushed and start again
Than never start at all.
 
I’d rather have a water will
Trickling stone to dust
Than one of iron that tears have left
Beneath an inch of rust
 
You tell me life is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong.
But I’d rather be flesh and blood – and bruise
Than never feel at all.
 
With my water will
My duck down heart
And my bamboo soul
Singing in the dark.

Shelide’s Gift – The Back Story

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Geoff Ford's excerpt of 'Shelide's Gift'
Geoff Ford's calligraphic artwork of an excerpt of "Shelide's Gift"

I don’t usually play favourites with my songs or my poems, but I have to admit to a soft spot for “Shelide’s Gift”. Shelide is (or at least I am told so by the translator) Gaelic for ‘snail’, and my Shelide is a mythical winged snail who brings light to Earth. I’d like to point to some high and noble origins for this poem but it actually sprang from a spirited evening of laughter and conversation with friends; a bottle or two of wine figured fairly prominently into the mix as well.
Another of the things I enjoy doing is drawing fantasy scenes. letting all those bizarre things out of my head and afixing them to the paper. I was challenged to draw a winged snail. I accepted. The hours spent over the detail of the drawing ‘Shelide’s Gift’, allowed me to muse over her story. The story turned into a poem. I don’t usually sell my original drawings, but my friend was so pleased with the drawing I couldn’t refuse her. The original now resides in a private collection in Chetwynd.
But Shelide’s notoriety didn’t end there. I am a memeber of a website for artists and photographers www.wetcanvas.com and I posted my drawing of Shelide there and, because I thought it might be of interest to the viewers, I posted the poem too. I was contacted by someone over in the calligraphy forum who asked if I would let them use “Shelide’s Gift” as a calligraphy challenge. The upshot of that is that I met Geoff Ford, an amazing artist and calligrapher in Australia, who created a gorgeous calligraphic painting of an excerpt of “Shelide’s Gift”. He even sent me the original with permission to reproduce it. Thanks Geoff.
So in the next post I’ll include the poem “Shelide’s Gift” and the drawing ‘Shelide’s Gift’. But the image you see here today is Geoff Ford’s creation.

Reading at the Alaska Cafe

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Jeannie Lindgren and I at Alaska Cafe "Grab the Spirit" Poetry Reading
Me with my friend and poet, Jeannie Lindgren at Alaska Cafe poetry reading-Feb 12, 2011. Photo by M Belak

Last Friday I attended, and read at, an event at the Alaska Hotel in Dawson Creek. The little restaurant was packed. It was a joy to see so many familiar faces and to hear so much outstanding poetry. I have to admit to some trepidation as I stood up last. These were some pretty hard acts to follow.
I read three poems that I thought were different enough, either in form or content, to provide an entertaining five minutes. I started with Shelide’s Gift; a mythic ballad about a winged snail who brings light to the world. That was followed by “Cross the Existential Track” a bit of humourous science-fiction musing. My final poem was “Silent Legacy”, a short, free verse poem that was inspired by an internal revolt against the human desire to leave material legacies that so often degrade into something sad and less than inspiring. What could be a more inviolate legacy than silence and what could that silence symbolize?

Click here to see me reading these poems at the Alaska Cafe.

Our Little Group

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Rebekah and I reading at Coffee House
Rebekah and I reading at the January Coffee House

I belong to a group that meets, approximately, every two weeks to talk writing. There’s only 4 of us (and a member who can occasionally attend), but we generally fill a very enjoyable hour and a half to two hours on a Saturday morning.
We meet in a local tea house, drink tea and usually avail ourselves of their delicious tea biscuits, and take turns reading our original writing (generally poems, but sometimes short stories) and offering input to each other. We all have copies of each other’s work prior to the meeting so we can take our time and make comments and mark up the pages. We take our writing seriously however we don’t take ourselves too seriously. It’s a fun morning spent with friends, including some social chit chat, good food, and a wonderful sense of commradery.
I have learned many, many things from these writing friends. I believe my writing has improved because of their influence. I think having that regular meeting to look forward to has pushed me to write more often and more thoughtfully. Most of these people I rarely see except at meetings of “Our Little Group”, but when we do meet, we have a special bond that only comes from creative kinship and the knowledge that we share something special – this love of the language – this desire to write.

The next poem – Goddess in the Garden – was written a few days ago and will be the next piece of my writing to be critiqued by the group. I thought I’d put it here today and then, if it turns out that I make any changes, I’d post it again and talk about why and how the changes were made. Feel free to jump in any time with your feedback or comments on any of my writing, I’d love to hear them!

My Dad and the Angels, Bowling

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my dad
George Fredrick Connell 1917 - 1987

A few days ago was the 24th anniversary of my father’s passing. It takes a long time to come to terms with the loss of a cherished parent but slowly and surely the sweetest memories surface to cushion the pain and our lost one becomes part of us in a way that has nothing to do with DNA or geneology. We begin to realize that little quirk we have, that turn of phrase, that expression we get when pensive, are all a legacy of that cherished parent. And it is comforting.  Several years ago I wrote a poem about something my dad used to tell me. I don’t know if someone special in his life told it to him, or if he just made it up. But I liked it enough to remember it for decades so I’ve placed it in a poem called “Angels Bowling” and perhaps it will make someone else smile. Dad was good at making people smile. 

Does anyone care about the magic anymore?

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rainbowThat was the question a friend of mine asked on Facebook the other day and it got me thinking “what about the magic?” I believe that magic surrounds us and permeates much of what we do, see, feel, and think. Magic goes by many names: talent, science, faith, love, beauty, innocence, patience, compassion, and more.  Forgetting about the magic doesn’t make it disappear any more than forgetting that we breathe oxygen makes the oxygen disappear from our environment. Deliberately ignoring the magic is a pointless gesture, ignore the rainbow and you’re the only one who misses out.  I believe that having an explanation for something doesn’t make it less magical. The magic is found in how it affects us and how that, in turn, affects others.
I’ve seen people who have forgotten the magic. They are cynical, tired, depressed, and mean-spirited; sometimes they are me! Magic makes me smile, it makes me believe there is a reason to get out of bed in the morning, I am never as inspired to write, draw, or sing as I am when I have been touched by the magic.

Does anyone care about the magic anymore? Maybe it’s not a matter of caring, maybe it’s just a matter of acceptance.

I search for the magic and it hides. I forget about the magic and it waits. I breathe deeply, relax, and open my heart and the magic is sitting beside me, holding my hand.

May you have a magical life.

Two Apparently Unrelated Things and a Poem

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Unrelated thing #1
I wear glasses. I hate wearing glasses but since I’m up to 3.00 magnification, reading etc… just doesn’t happen without them. I have about a dozen pair lying around at any given time in various stages of deterioration.  Some have scratches right in the middle of the left lens (the only one I use since my right eye has been on strike all my life); some have only one arm; some have both arms but have joints of jello, wobbling in a palsy of pre-collapse. Can I FIND any of these denizens of the home for challenged optical appliances? No, not usually.

Unrelated thing #2
I love Science Fiction by Issac Asimov. Short stories and novels. Mr. Asimov was my first science fiction read and he spoiled me for the rest. He was my introduction to grand themes like the multiverse.

Unrelated Things… that turn into poems.

‘Cross the Existential Track

There is, I think, a universe
That’s parallel to mine.
Where someone else who looks like me
Lives in a different time.

She looks and thinks a lot like me
Her eyes are hazel green
But she has witnessed many things
My eyes have never seen 

For one small thing is different
I’m not sure what or why
And that conspires to alter how
Her life goes flashing by.

Consider now the other ones
Who cross her path each day.
Each of them with their small thing
That’s altered in some way

It all adds up to make a world
That’s quite unlike my own
Where alternate realities
Have taken root and grown. 

I wonder what she thinks about
And does she think of me?
Does she wear glasses when she writes,
Or draws, or paints, or reads?
 
I’d like to send a message ‘cross
That existential track
“If you have seen my glasses could
You kindly send them back?”

Winter: A Cold Muse

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snow man acci-crash
even when I enjoy winter it's a slightly morbid enjoyment, sigh...

You know winter’s starting to get on your nerves when a lot of your poems deal with dark and vengeful images of the white stuff. I’m not a winter person at the best of times. The snow in the Peace Country (where I live, in northern British Columbia) is usually dry and won’t even make a good snowman. But we do get Chinooks (warm winds, look it up) that occasionally soften the snow a bit and artistic expression happens, generally with snowmen posed in ‘Calvin-esque’ positions of expiration, complete with twig ‘x’es for eyes.
I can’t say I recall ever writing an upbeat winter poem. Perhaps I should have  go at that one day, or maybe just move somewhere warmer, sigh.

Anyway, I’m going to post a poem called “Winter Comes”. It evolved with ‘crime scene’ imagery quite unintentionally. I guess I sometimes feel it’s a crime how long winter drags on so perhaps that was at the back of my mind.