Go to the Bookends tab for JC’s most recent review of Rupinder Gill’s 2011 memoire, “On the Outside Looking Indian.” She gives it a 6.5/10 rating.
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A. Garnett Weiss featured in Silver Birch Press’s Nancy Drew Anthology
For kids of many generations, Nancy Drew mysteries by Carolyn Keene hooked them on reading. Whenever a new book came out, the local bookstore (and there were several independent! bookstores in my neighbourhood!) would sell out very quickly, as young readers couldn’t wait to follow their favourite sleuth as she unravelled threads of the next puzzle.
Garnett is pleased that Silver Birch Press of California chose her erasure poem “With original mystery” for the anthology, published on October 1. This poem extracts words from titles of Nancy Drew books in the order they appeared on the the page preceding the inside title page of “The Hidden Staircase,” published in 1930 and reprinted in 1995. The poem and the page showing the erasures both appear in the collection.
Copies of the anthology will be available through the publisher and from Amazon.com. The publisher’s price per volume is $15. Here’s the link to Silver Birch Press’s release:
https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/10/02/new-release-nancy-drew-anthology/
Garnett’s second poem arising from Nancy Drew sources has been posted under the A. Garnett Weiss tab. “Siren” uses non-contiguous phrases, taken unaltered from”Nancy Drew: The Secret of Mirror Bay,” published in 1972.
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“What My Grandma Means to Say” — lynchpin for the Alzheimer Society of Prince Edward Island’s outreach program in PEI Elementary Schools
JC is thrilled that the Alzheimer Society of Prince Edward Island (ASPEI) chose to anchor its 2016-2017 education program in schools with “What My Grandma Means to Say,” JC’s play and storybook for children and families about Alzheimer’s disease.
With the province’s Department of Education and input from JC, ASPEI developed a resource kit for teachers which puts a copy of the book, plus JC’s Discussion Guide, into every elementary school in the Province. Here’s a link to the CBC’s report:
http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/prince-edward-island/pei-alzheimer-students-education-book-1.3773649
“As I wrote in my op. ed. piece published by papers across Canada (go to the Archive table to read the article), I feel it’s essential for kids to be part of the discussion when Alzheimer’s affects someone they know and about whom they care. Understanding what they can and cannot hope for is one way to get at the fears this disease raises,” JC believes.
A number of Alzheimer Societies in Ontario incorporated “What My Grandma Means to Say” into their programming. With the new program launched on September 21, World Alzheimer’s Day, PEI’s Alzheimer Society is the first to take “What My Grandma Means to Say” province-wide.
“I look very forward to whatever feedback comes my way from the use of this story and play in schools. I know that having an open and safe environment to talk about Alzheimer’s can really build awareness and dispel myths, without sugarcoating what people living with the disease face.”
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Globe and Mail prints JC’s letter to the Editor: “Dead Birds Cannot Sing,” 17/09/2106
JC responded to the Partners in Flight report in the Globe on the large decline in bird populations with a scathing indictment of governments that site industrial wind turbines in environmentally sensitive areas on bird migration routes and in habitats of endangered species, such as the Blandings turtle. The Editor included a verse from “Spectacle,” for which is she is grateful. The verses first appeared on this site. Here it is:
Dead birds cannot sing,
their melodies lost to winds
that rouse high towers
to our great hades of steel
that churn songs and soft feathers.
Here’s the link to the edition:
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/letters/sept-17-whats-policy-got-to-do-with-the-us-election-plus-other-letters-to-the-editor/article31930945/
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New Bookends Review: The County Murders J.D. Carpenter, 2016
Again, it gives JC a kick to keep her reviews within the same number of words as twitter allows characters per tweet. Focuses the mind. Adds discipline. Makes her not yak on and on with thoughts about a book.
Go to Bookends to read JC’s review of J.D. Carpenter’s 2016 mystery, “The County Murders.” She gave it 8/10!
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Bookends Review: “Little Bee” Chris Cleave, 2008
Go to “Bookends” to read JC Sulzenko’s mini-review of Chris Cleave’s 2008 novel, “Little Bee.” Why does she give this best-seller only a 7/10 rating? See for yourself.
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New Bookends Review: A God in Ruins Kate Atkinson, 2015
Go to bookends to read JC’s mini review of A God in Ruins by Kate Atkinson. Her rating? 6.5/10
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Brick Books Celebration of Canadian Poetry Series features JC’s introduction of A. Garnett Weiss who celebrates Al Purdy and Friends
The day before Canada Day, Brick Book’s website featured JC’s article on A. Garnett Weiss’s use of the cento form to celebrate the writing of poets such as Al Purdy, Lorna Crozier, E. J Pratt, Monty Read, Molly Peacock and Leonard Cohen.
Here’s the link to the article: http://www.brickbooks.ca/category/news/celebrate-canadian-poetry/
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New Bookends Review: The Education of Augie Merasty, A residential school memoire
Go to Bookends to read JC’s latest review: 7/10 for Mr. Merasty; 2/10 for his ‘editor,’ David Carpenter.
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“Ekphrasis at BLIZZMAX” show, co-curated by JC Sulzenko, closes
This ekphrasis show at BLIZZMAX Gallery in Prince Edward County that JC co-curated with Alice Menacer closes on July 24. Featuring works of art inspired by poetry and poetry inspired by works of art, the show paired nine local artists with nine local poets.
“I am thrilled with the feedback received about the show from gallery visitors and the artists and poets who participated. A good number of the works of art sold which is also a measure of the quality of the exhibition. My thanks to Alice and Peter Mennacher for embracing the concept, ” JC noted.
Ekphrasis at BLIZZMAX included sculpture, multimedia and visual art. A copy of the poem that either gave rise to each artwork or responded to a work of art was sold with each work of art.
A chapbook with high quality, full-colour reproductions of each work of art and the text of each poem has virtually sold out.
Here’s the link to the story about the show: http://wellingtontimes.ca/developmentApril16/nine-poets-nine-artists/
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New Bookends Reviews: Bryson, Boyden, and Scofield
Finally returning to review some of the readings from the spring. I begin today with the posts under “Bookends” tab of three books in two reviews: See my thoughts on Bill Bryson’s “*A Short History of Everything.” I’m a huge fan of Bryson’s books, and this huge volume didn’t disappoint.
And then look at how I contrast Joseph Boyden’s book “Extraordinary Canadians Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont” with Gregory Scofield’s “Louis: The Heretic Poems.” Both worth a read.
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Irresistible prompt to write online erasure poem (April 27, Greg Santos in FPR)
I will return to April 28’s fine prompt from Jenni B. Baker in FPR which warrants far more time than one day provides.
Instead, I chose one of Greg Santos’s from yesterday to: “Go to Wave Books’ Erasures website to find online source texts…The cool website lets you click on any word or punctuation mark to make it disappear. You can save, print, or email the newly sculpted text when you’re done.”
Well, I went to the site, which, indeed, worked as he suggested. In fact, I felt a ‘frisson’ of power as I erased parts of the source text “Pointed Roofs,” by Dorothy Miller Richardson.
I failed dismally, though, when I attempted to save and email the poem, though I could print it.
So you see, above how “Home Schooled” appears, to which I added punctuation by hand, though I seem to have mislaid the period at the end. Sigh.
Here is how it reads:
Home schooled
Bright faces collected misery.
Dreadful experiences at home had swollen
until she worked her trembling wrists and hands,
elbowed the bottle of green Chartreuse on the tiles.
Full of angry discomfiture, she had poked fear,
and burning nervousness twice
had astonished her day.
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April 27 Impromptu from Greg Santos in Found Poetry Review to write a reversal poem
Though it proved hard to select which of Greg Santos’ April 27 prompts to follow, I chose this one: “Find a draft of a poem you’ve already written. Rewrite your new poem backwards, writing the last stanza first and so on. The new order might reveal something new and exciting.” I began with a piece I had posted in response to the day 6 FPR prompt to create a poem comprised of a single sentence, spread across at least seven lines of no fewer than five words each, in which I had to repeat one of the lines three times, but not in succession, and include specific vocabulary.
Here is my April 6 original.
Uncle
You make me do what I don’t want to
but I can’t pretend I don’t understand —
you: Self-satisfied, self-pleasured, self-absorbed, self-ish Sam—
you speak to me in dialects I wish were foreign
or that I’d need a cochlear implant to hear
but I can’t pretend I don’t understand
which is to say I’m like helianthus facing south and west
as when the sun goes down toward Ecuador
and I turn, too, because you make me do what I don’t want to
but I can’t pretend I don’t understand.
Here is the first reversal I tried, where I simply began with the last line and worked back to the first (with one minor word change, some line break adjustments and the addition of punctuation.)
I can’t pretend I don’t understand,
but I turn, too, because you make me do what I don’t want to,
as when the sun goes down toward Ecuador,
which is to say I’m like helianthus facing south and west.
But I can’t pretend I don’t understand,
or that I’d need a cochlear implant to hear
you speak to me in dialects I wish were foreign,
you self-satisfied, self-pleasured, self-absorbed, selfish Sam.
But I can’t pretend I don’t understand
you make me do what I don’t want to, uncle.
Here is a variation on the first reversal,with line breaks all changed and a surprise reversal of victims in the last line. Who would have expected that?
But I can’t.
Pretend I don’t understand.
But I turn, too, because you make me.
Do what I don’t want to,
as when the sun goes down toward Ecuador,
which is to say
I’m like helianthus, facing south and west.
But I can’t pretend.
I don’t understand.
I’d need a cochlear implant to hear you, uncle.
Speak to me in dialects I wish were
foreign, you self-satisfied, self-pleasured,
self-absorbed, selfish Sam.
But I can’t pretend.
I don’t understand.
You make me do what I don’t want
to uncle.
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April 26 prompt: Write a call-and-response poem
This prompt from NaPoWriMo.net resonated with me. Here’s what was suggested:“Calls-and-responses are used in many sermons and hymns, in which the preacher or singer asks a question or makes an exclamation, and the audience responds with a specific, pre-determined response….as a sort of refrain or chorus that comes up repeatedly, while the call can vary slightly each time it is used….Think of your poem as an interactive exchange between one main speaker and an audience.”
For once, I allowed myself to have a good time trying something new without setting expectations that were too high. I wrote two poems as a result.
Psalm for Hestia
Let him persuade you, let him cajole you!
I’ll not listen, I’ll not heed.
He has love to offer, let him show you!
I’ll not listen, I’ll not heed.
He will want you always, let him please you!
I’ll not listen, I’ll not heed.
He will hope and hope, let him win you!
I’ll not listen, I’ll not heed.
Let him persuade you he has love to offer.
He will want you always. He will hope and hope.
I’ll not listen, I’ll not heed.
Let him cajole you. Let him show you.
Let him please you. Let him win you.
I’ll not listen. I’ll not heed.
Imaginary numbers: A song
How many rings on the tree, on the tree?
How many rings will there be, will there be?
Too many, too many, too many to count.
Too many, too many for me.
How many birds on the wing, on the wing?
How many birds will there be, will there be?
Too many, too many, too many to count.
Too many, too many for me.
How many drops in the rain, in the rain?
How many drops will there be, will there be?
Too many, too many, too many to count.
Too many, too many for me.
How many moments in a life, in a life?
How many will there be, will there be?
Too many, too many, too many to count.
Too many, too many for me.
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April 24 Craig Dworkin’s Impromptu challenge (FPR) to recreate a text from an erasure poem
Craig Dworkin’s prompt through Found Poetry Review: Take an erasure poem and then add “words to fill in the empty spaces in order to create a new text that flows naturally and coherently. Words should fit exactly — to the letter — so that the result appears to be perfectly justified prose.” He added: “Don’t cheat by kerning.” ‘Kerning: ” a printing term, which means “setting of two letters closer together than usual by removing the space between them.”
I may not have followed the instructions to the letter in filling in the blanks when I based my frivolous prose poem below on Austin Kleon’s erasure poem, “The light of the universe” (available on the FPR site.)
If the gods wanted telescopes in heaven, would it be to see past and through evil, immorality, depravity to where the light of goodness, morality, civility shines brightly? Such a tool would let the deities close in on stories and lives of the true believers who follow their teachings through the universe toward whatever heaven awaits them. Using this trick, we might think the gods would feel sympathy for the fates they had meted out. This would not be so.
They would recognize the poor specimens, to them known as glass, because of the way fate had chipped or broken them. The creators could take pity on these victims, though it is far more likely they would spurn them. Instead, they would favour the strong, to them known as crystal, because it is easier to love where beauty and triumph dwell.
Therein lies the sad truth about the gods: It is not mercy that guides them. When we come into their view, and we appear lowly in their sight, our faith in them will not bring rewards or good fortune. To understand our place in their universe is our job, whereas to them they have only to turn toward what they wish to see, because they know where to look for the strong among us.
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Day 23: Daniel Levin Becker’s prompt in The Found Poetry Review
Daniel Levin Becker suggested writing a truncated version of the récapitul ” a fixed poetic form created by Jacques Jouet in 2010.” For this “petit récapitul portatif:
- The poem consists of 10 lines total, in a 3-3-3-1 stanza distribution.
- Each line is 9 syllables long. No meter is required.
- The lines do not rhyme.
- After each three-line stanza comes a list, in parentheses, of three words taken from one of each of the lines in the preceding stanza.
- The poem is dated and addressed to a specific person (someone you know or someone you don’t).
Since I do not enjoy such formulaic exercises, I developed my own approach, based on DLB’s prompt to use random articles from Wikipedia, in which each line comes from a different article used in the order they were found. I kept to the language of the article rather than paraphrasing or /interpreting improvising from it and cited the title of the article in italics at the end of each line.
BTW: I admit I am no math genius, but I do not understand the 3-3-3-1 when ten articles actually would produce an even number of lines, given the formula. So, WTH, I offer instead a 3-1, 3-1, 3-1 = 12 lines. Plus a day late, again. Sigh.
April 23, 2016 Choreography for Albert Einstein
One can see the continuity. Nikilaos Lavdas
Stop in the borough of Media, Olive St., SEPTA Route
deprived of maintenance, and again Autodrome de Linas-Montlhery
(see media again)
there would be no consolation to Mukesh Kapila
a player who specializes, Lineman (Gridiron football)
does not want to believe the earth is The Kid from Hell
(no player does)
associated with tango music, Orquesta tipica
an interactive environment Katonah Museum of Art
to absorb or adsorb molecules. Sorbent
(tango interactive molecules)
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Day 22: Earth Day poem challenge
Once again a day late. Since I found the challenge in the Found Poetry Review forced me to admit how poorly I understand that kind of ‘computerspeak,’ I turned again to NaPoWriMo.Net. Here’s the prompt from Gloria Gonsalves: Write a poem in honor of Earth Day, which led to two poems. The one below and on the page “For Readers”, click on “Read this to a child,” you will find a ditty for my grandson.
I wish I could save her, single-handed.
She’s so lovely, so delicate, at least what I perceive.
What lies beneath her skin, that’s more mystery
than I can master on a given day.
But give me this Earth day, not my daily bread,
just the guts to do something for her.
She’s aging; too many potions poison her,
scrape at her beauty in the name of booty.
Promises to honour what she alone provides forgotten,
now everything’s for profit, her nature forsaken, too.
She deserves better, but I don’t know what to do.
So shame-faced little me does gutless nothing.
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Day 21 prompt: Fairy tale skew
The April 21 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net appealed more than what was on offer at The Found Poetry Review, which has suggested a number of prompts that would require a week’s efforts. Here’s the prompt: “Write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth.”
Of course, always blame the woman
with hair growing out of her mole,
which is as old as I am, which is…
pointless for me to quantify. I’m forever.
Can’t help it that I’m always dressed in rags.
When you’ve lived as long as I have
you outlast the threads.
And the hair, well, how would your hair look
after centuries of dust and lice? Exactly!
Ah, my hair: Long, to my waist,
blond almost to silver
it caught sunlight and moonglow
once upon a time.
.Well, no point dwelling in the past.
What’s done is done.
That ancient troll’s curse made me
what I am and will stay.
No wonder I spike apples with
my special brand of wormwood
and slick it on needles in haystacks,
thorns, spindles, whatever sharp will
pierce the soft, white skin
of anything young, anything happy.
Wouldn’t everything lovely
make you angry, too?
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Day 20 Challenge: to write a Kenning or two
Today’s prompt through NaPoWriMo.net comes from Vince Gotera, who suggests a “Kenning” poem. “Kennings were riddle-like metaphors used in the Norse sagas.” Definitions: “A Kenning is a two-word phrase describing an object often using a metaphor. A Kennings poem is a riddle made up of several lines of kennings to describe something or someone.” The structure: Several stanzas of two describing words. It can be made up of any number of Kennings.
Amusing and surprisingly difficult. Here is a poem made up of Kennings that relate to two different subjects. Can you guess what they are? Let me know.
Cellar-dweller.
Flag-maple.
Dwarfs’ girl.
Top-stopped.
Transparent-apparent.
Emotion, commotion.
Life sign.
Paper greeting.
Dead end.
Rhythm section.
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Day 19: Lost in translation in response to Michael Leong’s prompt in the Found Poetry Review
Here is Michael’s prompt. “When we speak of “translation,” we usually refer to the process of turning a text that is written in one language into another language. But if think about translation more broadly, we can imagine a diverse range of experimental processes that can spark new writing. All you need is to find a source text and invent a method of transforming, altering, or changing it.”
This is an interesting challenge, which I only tackled in part. First I provide the text from which I removed articles and nouns, plus a few other words, to come up with a short ‘translation’ of sorts. I will bank this approach for future consideration when the pressures of time are less.
“But much more importantly, even if there had been such a contract, what would it prove? We could hardly maintain that it explains the political obligations of exiting citizens. After all, no reasonable legal system allows one generation to make a contract which binds succeeding generations. Yet this is exactly what the doctrine of the original contract seems to presume. “p. 44 Justifying the state, An introduction to Political Philosophy, Jonathan Wolff 1996 Oxford University Press
Lost, in translation
But much more importantly,
even if there had been such,
we could hardly maintain that
explains existing after all.
‘No’ allows, binds, succeeding
exactly what seems.
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Day 18: To incorporate in a poem the “sound of home” (from NaPoWriMo.net)
NaPoWriMo optional prompt for April 18: To write a poem that incorporates the ‘sound of home,’ figures of speech, ways of talking people around you may have used and you may not hear anymore. “Coax ear and voice backwards.” Which is what I did, though I deliberately didn’t seek to abandon adult words as had been suggested. What surprised me? That the sound that came to my ear was my Austrian’s mother’s voice speaking in German when I was a child. I was bilingual until I was about eight. but now there is no one in my life now who speaks the way she did. (I apologize for the crude attempts at phonetic rendering of what I remember.)
Liebe kind remembers
The black Bakelite phone rings, once, twice.
My mother always answers on the third brrrring!
“Ya, vie gehtes; ya, alles ist in ordnung.
Was ist passiert? So etvas? Das kannicht sein….”
My head cupped in my hands,
I’m glum at six years-old, because I know
that’s how a l—–o—–n—–g conversation begins.
My mother talks with her best friend
for at least one hour every afternoon
just when I come in from Grade 1,
which makes me feel as though I’m not there.
Ich kann alles verstehen.
At least from my mother’s end of the conversation,
I understand what’s going on.
Though I couldn’t write the language then
and cannot now, I could speak it well.
Aber ich vill night is what I would say.
Whenever and however sweetly my mother asks,
I refuse to talk German on command.
Except when I lose patience
with my mother’s telephone chitchat/chitchat/chitchat:
That’s when I pick up the extension down the hall.
“Kann ich mit meine mutti sprechen, bitte”—
I muster as polite a demand as I can.
After which my mother usually sighs and signs off
with auf wiedersehn, as though she and her friend
had been speaking face-to-face,
and then she turns to me.
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Day 17 Prompt from Jeff Griffin through the Found Poetry Review
The prompt from Jeff Griffin took me to the 2015 Griffin Poetry Prize Anthology. As suggested, I read it through and transcribed chronologically and without punctuation what words or phrases I found “remarkable.” I then copied the text into Google Translate through a cycle of 5 different languages and then back to English. I’m afraid the chronology and substance of what I first noted remained more or less in tact in spite of Jeff’s prediction of translations going awry. Perhaps I was inept at the process. Would not be the first time. The poem below uses unaltered words and phrases which keep faith with the order in which I noted them originally.
Misspent
How the feminine gains strength
smelling of silence, prayers wearing out,
old thoughts—unbroken, never corralled.
To keep us from home, now I expose
the ironed life in ‘glorious’ childhood
which did not heal with time.
Nothing passed between us
but, under this wing, hard love,
possibility, memorable patience.
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Day 16 Prompt from NaPoWriMo.net — choosing words from a specialized dictionary
Instead of the April 16 prompt from The Found Poetry Review, which may have provided a constellation of possibilities to others but left me cold, I followed, instead, the optional prompt for April 17 from NaPoWriMo.net, which both intrigued and amused.
Here’s the prompt: “Use ten words from a specialized dictionary in a poem.” The source I consulted: “Foyles Philavery,” by Christopher Foyle, 2007. (The 10 words appear in bold.)
Hunting season
Sophomania sufferer, I hear
your insufferable banter in the name of venery:
Your lust for a fitchew’s fur, mellisonant to your ears,
your craving for inchpin, sweet as the sorbite you seek
to drain from a breathing creature you dissavage
with death by pheon and crossbow.
It’s otiose for me to argue, I know.
As the black vulture circles free above us,
I turn remontado and disappear.
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Day 15 Found Poetry Review Prompt from Joel Katelnikoff: Love what you hate
Joel Katelnikoff’s prompt took me to the reading list my book group set for 2015-2016 over my own objections to a sole focus on fiction and non-fiction related to Canada’s aboriginal or indigenous peoples. I felt the weight of the choices but read the books, on occasion with gritted teeth. What follows, then, is my take from those sources on finding “love within what we hate,” which to be honest surprised me.
In this partially found poem, I’ve used the actual titles of books, exhibits and reports that I’ve experienced. They appear in italics, and I can supply footnotes, as necessary.
Manifesto
The World Until Yesterday before I learned to read
was a child’s playroom filled with toys and possibility
under skies, cloud-free.
The World Until Yesterday before I chose to read
about Riel and Dumont, A life of Revolution,
residential schools, Indigenous Healing,
was a simpler place, where conscience slept
in comfort, largely undisturbed
until the day a little Birdie sang Celia’s Song to me,
to expose the present day’s ugly past,
to show Truth and Reconciliation as necessities.
Walking with our sisters, I inched down
a corridor of moccasins, beaded or plain,
each one for a woman missing or murdered
because she was The Inconvenient Indian,
or from the Métis Nation: Hiding in Plain Sight.
So easy to overlook, to forget till now
failed governance, broken promises,
abuse, and deprivation, which make
The Comeback of indigenous peoples
a triumph of will, talent, patience
over settler greed and duplicity.
Never thought of myself as a colonizer before.
Never assumed my share of the shame for
the suicides, attempted or successful,
of Extraordinary Canadians,
though they might not self-identify as such.
Extraordinary because they were here first.
Time now
to embrace justice,
to listen,
finally to learn
we can’t be white tourists
in an indigenous land.
Now The Reason We Walk
toward An inconvenient truth
is that at long last we begin to see our future
as one to share.
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Day 14: Prompt from Brian Oliu Re: The Found Poetry Review Challenge
Brian Oliu suggested setting aside “about twenty minutes of your day with the intention of “doing research” for a piece. Do not allow yourself to write about anything that you do not experience firsthand….Allow yourself to be immersed in your project & only trust “first hand research” take notes, but don’t let the notes dictate your experience. After you have concluded your “research” begin writing immediately & without prejudice–don’t stop, don’t worry about linebreaks or punctuation, or word choice:capture whatever fleeting magic you have conjured until the feeling is gone.”
Well, it’s not ‘magic’ that characterized the firsthand experience captured in the piece, below. Again, a day late.
Cliché Ritual
Papers come out of my ears. More than I imagined all over the carpet. Raked charge card slips, bills, receipts, form into neat, little heaps just days before the deadline! Still cross- referencing, double-checking, collating, misplacing what I’ve just seen, I have to dig for it. Rather be doing anything else, except visiting the dentist. I pay my accountant through the nose to submit my return. A relief, frankly. Though I wish I could give him the piles as they are, let him work his magic in that high glass palace. Though I’d have to pay double, which would piss me off. Instead, I struggle to hold onto the string from where the story of each category begins before the whole darn shebang unravels, and I have to start from scratch. En route, I slice fingertips on sharp sheets and bleed, and then I mis-staple till I figure out a stack’s too thick and use a clip instead. That’s expensive, too: I use coloured ones, ‘cause ‘silver’ clips stick like rust, make me cringe as if I had chalk on my hands. Only then do I assemble the still-fluttering papers and stuff them into a giant envelope with a blank cheque, dated April, owing.
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Day 13: Prompt from the Found Poetry Review
The April 13 prompt from Senna Yee had a light-hearted side: “Travel websites have always intrigued me with their language– visual, lush and sometimes a bit dramatic and naive. Browse and write down any words/phrases that interest you….Craft a poem using only these words/phrases. You may arrange them in any way you wish.”
Of course, a variation appealed more than the strict letter of the prompt. What follows is a poem drawn from words and phrases found in the winter 2016 magazine of the Canadian Automobile Association. Each found word or phrase is non-contiguous and so appears on separate lines.
Milestone
I had a mission
to feed
the fantasy,
explore
trails that lead to
hard-to-find,
forehead-slapping
experience;
to cross the river,
embrace
hours of daylight,
diamond-quilted
thermal
danger,
caught by sunlight.
Don’t panic!
You’re like me,
driven,
hoping for
biodiverse
quirkiness,
tango lessons,
ruins,
bazaars,
almost any kind of trinket,
cheese and chocolate.
Take the two.
Life happens,
pays tributes to the gods
I’m craving.
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Day 12 Impromptu poem through the Found Poetry Review
Oh dear. Another day late. Well, can’t be helped. Here is the prompt from Robert Fitterman, borrowed from Steve Zuttanski: “Collect found language from individuals who articulate how they feel, specifically, in their bodies…physical symptoms in the body (neck, head, stomach, feet, etc). Use at least 20 different posts from different speakers. Modify, arrange, modify.” Which I modified, as you will see below.
I have no fuse
How do you cope with fear
You get used to it
I don’t get thrown by it
don’t sound like an idiot saying
I was invisible when I was underneath
massive rifts
some minor slippage
Trying to go out every day
hearing voices
troubles
being good to others
just didn’t work out
Honestly
I suffered a lot of nostalgia
People who do not believe
shouldn’t be surprised
it’s a workout
To cry or think of something sad for a while
really takes off and catches
(Phrases or words (and the title) which constitute within a single line are non-contiguous and taken from about 20 different articles or reports from different sources in the April 9 paper edition of The Toronto Star. )
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Day 10: Catch up impromptu poem
Instead of taking the cue from the Found Poetry Review for April 10, turned to NaPoWriMo.net and the lead from Lillian Hallberg’s challenge: ” to write a “book spine” poem. This involves taking a look at your bookshelves, and writing down titles in order (or rearranging the titles) to create a poem…. that is seeded throughout with your own lines, interjections, and thoughts. Here’s what emerged:
Behind the second shelf
After the falls galore
and running with scissors
she broke into the school of essential ingredients
to ‘edit’ the accidental indies,
those festival films
awaiting her cuts, her fearful
symmetry about the big why
for her virgin cure
Key: “After the falls,” Catherine Gildiner
“Galore,” Michael Crummy
“Running with Scissors,” Augusten Burroughs
“The School of Essential Ingredients,” Erica Bauermeister
“The Accidental Indies,” Robert Finley
“Her Fearful Symmetry,” Audrey Niffenegger
“The Big Why,” Michael Winter
“Virgin Cure,” Amy McKay
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In honour of Leonard Cohen–“After ignorance, blessings” by A. Garnett Weiss republished
When Silver Birch Press (SBP) featured Garnet Weiss’s “After ignorance, blessings” in its Same Name Series, it gave her the chance to mark how as an undergrad she ‘bumped’ into Leonard Cohen at university and how she evolved into a devoted fan. Here is the link:https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/01/21/after-ignorance-blessings-poem-by-a-garnett-weiss-same-name-poetry-and-prose-series/
Given his passing yesterday at 82 and having seen a clip from the media conference at the September release of his last CD where he explained he was ready for death but rather would ‘live’ forever (and he will), it feels appropriate to republish that poem in his honour here.
After ignorance, blessings
Without much prompting, I return to that moment fifty years ago,
while we waited together for a book on reserve at college.
The librarian bellowed out my last name.
We both stepped forward, lightly bumping hips.
Shy as a virgin, I felt heat rush to my face
as the man at the desk glared through thick lenses.
“Leonard,” he harrumphed, dismissing me.
Just then, I realized who you were.
So did the other undergrads, the spectator chorus,
who stared as though it was my fault to carry
the same family name.
I bowed my head, rejoined their line.
Even as poems and songs brought you more fame,
I didn’t become a fan, though I recognized
some tunes, knew bits of lyrics from the CDs
my mother listened to every day till she died.
But after you had to come down from the mountain
‘cause someone had stolen away with your wealth,
after you started to tour, that’s when I fell for you.
I saw you perform live a first time, then again, and again,
just to hear you sing of love and loss and longing in that voice,
its low-growl purr seductive as the melodies that play in my mind.
Which is how I’ve come to regret having no kinship with you
either in blood or in the way you make your music turn words
into a benediction.
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