February 2011 Coffee House

Great Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe! As the final stop on the Spirit Arts Festival tour the ranks of our audience were swelled by some wonderful, arts lovin’ people and we were also pleased to have a new face front and centre with Lana Sloane and her very entertaining cowboy poetry. We hope she will come back and read again soon!

Karen McGowan
Karen McGowan, featured performer at Feb coffeehouse

Our featured performer was Karen McGowan, who performed both cover songs and her own original music. Karen’s sense of humour is a treat; she really knows how to entertain an audience! An interesting note for those of you who may not know: Faking Sanity Cafe used to be called Under the Willow and was started by Karen. It passed from Karen on to Jennifer Singer, Karen’s daughter , and then to Angele and Cindy, the present owners, who changed the name to “Faking Sanity”.  
At last month’s coffee house, we created a pantoum poem from suggestions from the audience. This month we had our audience participate in creating a Da Da Poem (or as I like to call them, ‘ransom note poems’!) We cut out words and phrases from discarded books/magazines, threw them into a bag, then the audience drew out the ones we’d use for the poem. It’s always quite amazing, and often a little odd, what you can make out of these snippets. I’m getting the original poem scanned and I’ll include it in my next post.

Bill Studley
Bill Studley

 Bill Studley held the audience spellbound with his incredibly fast rendition of ‘I’ve been everywhere’.
Wayne Ezeard not only played and sang but also regaled us with some poetry from his book ‘Where Eagles Soar’.  Rebekah Rempel-Chorney and Marilyn Belak read several selections from their exceptionally fine original poetry.

Dave McGowan
Dave McGowan

Dave McGowan, the man whose voice I’ve often referred to as “sounding like melted chocolate”, delighted us with some old favourites. 

As MC I spent a lot of time trying not to place my foot squarely in my mouth but I also had time to play a few songs. I’ve included a video of my redition of Siúil a Rúin, an old Irish traditional.

Goddess in the Garden Rewrite.

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.

Oh, Child of Perfection

Child of Perfection 2
Child of Perfection 2 - Digital Photographic Art by L Studley

Oh, Child of Perfection
‘Growing up poor is not the same
as growing up deprived.’

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a babe in arms?
Of the large cardboard box,
rescued from the grocery store, carried home
covered inside and out with pretty mactac
Flannelette covered foam,
yellow giraffes and green bears, bought at the Sally.
Your little nest till we could afford a second hand crib. 

What can I tell you, oh, child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a tot in the stroller
I pushed along the gravel drive.
The drunken couple shoving and cursing
three feet from the back door.
Her with her shirt off, brandishing it at him,
Whipping him with it
“I don’t want this shirt you bought me” she slurs.
He hiccoughs a sheepish grin.
Neither notices as I roll your stroller
around them and into the house.
Lock the door behind us.
We eat lunch and play and laugh in the sunbeam in the living room.

Child of Perfection 1
Child of Perfection 1 - Digital Photographic Art by L Studley

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you left my side to study.
Of watching, from a distance, as you stepped into the world
Of biting my lip, holding my tongue.
Closing my eyes so yours could open.
And when you came home; reading together, laughing and playing still.

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the day you stood apart from me.
So strong and stubborn,
Eyes wise in wonder and dreams.
Of the battle I fought between loss and pride.
Of the battle I fight between loss and pride.
Oh, what can I tell you?

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection
that you won’t soon find out for yourself?

Bamboo Soul

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.

Silent Legacy

wild white violets
wild white violets

Perhaps, despite all our plans, schemes, and best intentions, all we really leave behind is silence. But perhaps we can at least, during our lives, define the type of silence we will leave.

Silent Legacy
If all I leave behind is silence
Let it be the silence of my eyes opening
To violets on my pillow.
Let it be the silence of the first pussy willow of spring
brave in the snow
Let it be the silence of sunlight
melting across our bed
Let it be the silence of the last line drawn
The last word written
The ringing eternity between final note and first applause.

Shelide’s Gift – The Poem

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

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

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

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

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.