Category: Writings

Shelide’s Gift – The Poem

lindastudley2 Comments
Shelide's Gift
"Shelide's Gift" pen and ink by L. Studley

Long ago when time still slept
And night was dark, too dark to breathe
Nameless terrors slunk and crept
And noxious vapours seethed.

Man stayed home to tend the fire
And wholesome creatures shunned the night
Shelide shook her wings and vowed
She would not rest till there was light.

Light enough to banish fear
And bathe the night in joy and wonder.
Light to dazzle eyes and hearts
To tear night’s veil asunder.

“How shall I do?” She asked her kin.
“With gossamer trails” they cried.
“How shall I do?” She asked the sea.
“With waves of shimmering light.”
 
“How shall I do?” She asked the sun.
“Like me, but not the same.”
“How shall I do?” She asked of man.
“Like sparks that leap from flame.”
 
Shelide spread her wings and flew.
She flew into the dark.
Weaving light from drops of hope
And the pulsing of her heart.
 
A thousand years and a thousand more
She spilled the Milky Way.
She wove the glittering curtains
The Northern Lights let play.
 
A thousand years and a thousand more
And she forged the silvery moon.
And sparked the stars from the flinty hearts
Of the creatures of the gloom.
 
And when the night was set ablaze
And darkness set to rout
Shelide fell to earth again
To watch the stars come out.
 
She rested in the coolness
By a misty, moisty pond
Looked back across her shoulders
And saw her wings were gone.
 
“You took so long” the creatures cried.
“You took so long” said man.
“You must be the slowest thing
Since e’re the world began!”
 
And Shelide cried and crept away
Tears sparkling on the leaves
Remembering her lovely wings
She bows her head and grieves.

Shelide’s Gift – The Back Story

lindastudleyLeave a comment
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

lindastudleyLeave a comment
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.

Whatifs and Whynots

lindastudley4 Comments

whynotWhynots were wondering loudly one day
“Who thought up this language I wonder?
There, their, and they’re in our personal view
Are etymological blunders”

Clarity suffers we really believe
One spelling would do very nicely.
Why not just spell it as ‘thayr’ and have done
T’would do the job much more precisely.” 

Whatifs were list’ning and shaking thayr heads
As Whynots continued thayr mewling
“Why do we use double leters at all
This language could use some retoling.”

Whatifs said “What if the word’s incorrect?
The last word you said was confusing”
“Fine” said the Whynots it’s easy to fix
We’l just start to spel it ‘retewling’ 

While we’re on doubles, why have duble vowels
When one wud work as wel or beter?
Why not cut down on the time riting takes
By leving out al silent leters? 

Whatifs just side and sed “What if yor plan
Becomes more confusing than ever”
“Nonsense, now let’s drop that dum leter ‘c’
Wel thayr, don’t yu think that sownds klever? 

Drop the apostrofe, lews p h to
Its sily when ‘f’s what yor after”
Whatifs kryd “Stop now, yor making a mes.
But Whynots just burst owt in lafter. 

 “Why not fonetiks? wel rite wat we here
I no that yull no wat Im thinking.”
“But if I dont?” “wel it isnt mi falt
Thayrs no nede for yu tu start drinking” 

“What if” sed Whatifs “its sumthing rel big?
And what if I cant understand yu?
What if the klarity yu thot yu had
Duz not go just kwite as yu pland tu?

whatif“Wat now?” sed Whynots “now wat did yu sey?
A kwite yu kan fli? or a pland pot?
How kan I tel wat yor trying tu say
If yu kant speke klerely, I kan not” 

“What if” ses Whatifs “I giv yu a slap?
Yu think it wud help komprehenshun?”
“Why not” size Whynots “mi hed hurts so bad
Its stuffed full of misaprehenshun 

“What if” said Whatifs, we left it alone
This language, so full of confusion,
Doesn’t take kindly to radical change
I’ve come to a perfect conclusion;

Learn it correctly and learn it with pride
This language that gives us such trouble,
Reading and writing till we understand
Which letters are single or double.

 Where do the silent ones live in a word?
Apostrophes, how do we use them?
‘C’, I embrace you, your ‘sss’ and your ‘k’
I’ll study so I won’t confuse them.

This is my language, it’s my Mother Tongue,
I love her in spite of her foibles.
Why not delight in the shading and tints
That make her so deep and enjoyable 

“Why not” sighed Whynot.

Goddess in the Garden

lindastudley1 Comment

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

Immortal warmth that cradled Eve, 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 springs.
Burgeons in tempting fruit and wanton weed alike.

She sings the sun a song of power
She sings the stars a song of wonder
She sings the earth a song of plenty
She sings the ocean a song of life; deep, immortal, ancestral home.

It is no sin to sing.

Our Little Group

lindastudleyLeave a comment
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!

Angels Bowling

lindastudley2 Comments

 “What makes the thunder, Daddy?” I asked.
“Angels bowling,” my father replied.
“Then what is the rain?” I persevered.
“Angels crying,” he sweetly lied.

 And then I asked him “What about lightning
That jumps through the darkness so sudden and frightening?”
“That’s when the angels bowl in the dark,
When the ball hits the pins it makes a big spark.”

Many long years have passed since that day.
My father has long since passed away.
But I wonder, at times, when a storm comes rolling,
Is he up there now with the angels bowling?

My Dad and the Angels, Bowling

lindastudley1 Comment
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?

lindastudley2 Comments

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

lindastudley2 Comments

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?”