poet tongues

A Poem by David Solway

2007-09-05T16:58:00.000-04:00

AEGEAN

In certain lakes an inch is twenty feet.
The fish beneath their camouflage of scum
confirm their Darwin undistractedly;
snailshells sink into a fathomless abyss
though crunching underfoot, and pebbles fall
and fall into that murky shallowness
there's no getting to the bottom of.

The sea is no less clear for being deep,
twenty feet's an inch. The studded urchin
zooms it bony colors to the eye and
every pebble slingshots into prominence;
the distant fish so near they make the sea
intelligible, or flash like metaphors
discretely intimate, endlessly approaching.

~from his book, Mephistopheles and the Astronaut

Future of Librarians - an article by Will Sherman

2007-08-30T12:09:00.000-04:00

as some people may know, i am applying to do a masters of information and library science at western in january. whenever i bring this news up in conversation i am fronted by questions on the importance/necessity/value of librarians and libraries amidst such a rapidy growing digital information age, and i'm not sure i've been responding so well to them.

i love libraries - always have, always will kind of thing - i love going there, searching for a book, getting it off the shelf and holding it in my hands as i sit to read. however, my love for libraries (as beautiful as i think it is) does not address the issue of their continuing relevance, which is something i need to look into as i consider a career as a librarian. as a result, i have made time this morning to read about this issue and have learned a lot about both sides; librarians as a lost profession and librarians as more important than ever.

here is a segment from an article that i found most interesting (you can click on the title of this post for the whole thing) and that highlights interviews with twenty-seven librarians and thinkers in its exploration of the future of both librarian and libraries.

"One must remember that the cultural changes brought about by the Gutenberg press were extraordinary, and fueled not only by a sudden surplus of content, but also by a new way of interacting with that content. What seems unique about our age, however, is that social interaction is a form of content itself, and it’s up to librarians to take an active role in the creation and collaboration within this ethereal “user generated content.” It's more than just guiding patrons, but making this guidance contribute to the new substance of interaction." (Will Sherman)

[i drew myself]

2007-08-25T15:57:00.000-04:00

i drew myself
into your bath, with a blue
crayon. let my hair
stick to your soap,
sipped ginger tea
from the mug with
its eyes
closed

your cat
tightropes the tub's
ledge, whiskers me
while Jill's silk tongue
spins in the kitchen.

i save your
spices under my
nails, soak in the dark
with your rice. i
roll your image
until it's green, then light it
between my lips
when you're not
here.

Poetry London

2007-08-24T13:20:00.000-04:00

as some people may know, i am part of poetry london - which is a group that offers a reading series and poetry workshops from september to april each year in london at the landon branch library.

as we are preparing for the new season, i thought i would create a post and direct anyone interested to our new webpage (if you have any comments/suggestions about it, please share).

there are some exciting poets coming to read and we are having a poetry contest. so, if you are at all interested in checking it out just follow the link (by clicking on the title of this post or going to the links section of my blog and clicking on Poetry London).

thanks for staying tunned, and here's to the remainder of the summer!

pass it on

2007-07-21T19:23:00.000-04:00

"The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.

Impossible, of course.

I pay out my line, I pay out my line, this black thread I'm spinning across the page."

- spoken by Iris from Margaret Atwood's "The Blind Assassin"

(passed on to me from Caleb)

The Invisible Truth

2007-07-19T17:31:00.000-04:00

here is a message from a friend who emailed me the other day

Are you a writer or photographer who needs more exposure to an international audience? Or do you just appreciate the finest examples of literature in English? Either way, come visit this blog to peruse the finest in new Canadian poetry, flash fiction, and photography. The Invisible Truth is now accepting submissions (.doc for word files, .jpegs for images)! Get your work out there!

so, here's the link - check it out! (ie. click on the title of this post)

both sides, now - by joni mitchell

2007-04-09T14:27:00.000-04:00

both sides, now

rows and floes of angel hair
and ice cream castles in the air
and feather canyons ev'rywhere
i've looked at clouds that way

but now they only block the sun
they rain and snow on ev'ryone
so many things i would have done
but clouds got in my way

i've looked at clouds from both sides now
from up and down, and still somehow
it's cloud illusions i recall
i really don't know clouds at all

moons and junes and ferris wheels
the dizzy dancing way you feel
as ev'ry fairy tale comes real
i've looked at love that way

but now it's just another show
you leave 'em laughing when you go
and if you care, don't let them know
don't give yourself away

i've looked at love from both sides now
from give and take, and still somehow
it's love's illusions i recall
i really don't know love at all

tears and fears and feeling proud
to say "i love you" right and loud
dreams and schemes and circus crowds
i've looked at life that way

but now old friends are acting strange
they shake their heads, they say i've changed
well something's lost, but something's gained
in living ev'ry day

i've looked at life from both sides now
from win and lose and still somehow
it's life's illusions i recall
i really don't know life at all

í've looked at life from both sides now
from win and lose and still somehow
it's life's illusions i recall
i really don't know life at all

~(from Joni Mitchell: The Complete Poems And Lyrics, 1998)

FREEDOM TO READ

2007-02-22T10:32:00.000-05:00

Should not be taken for granted.

this year, Freedom to Read Week runs from February 25-March 3.

Freedom to Read Week is an annual event that encourages Canadians to think about and reaffirm their commitment to intellectual freedom, which is guaranteed them under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

"Even in Canada, a free country by world standards, books and magazines are banned at the border, books are removed from the shelves in Canadian libraries, schools and bookstores every day, and free speech on the Internet is under attack. few of these stories make headlines, but they affect the right of Canadians to decide for themselves what they choose to read."

what does this mean? how does it affect you?

Playing with Poetry

2007-02-08T15:35:00.000-05:00

here is a great poem that addresses how to approach poetry and read a poem

Introduction to Poetry

By: Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

(from The Apple that Astonished Paris, 1996University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, Ark.)

the will to love

2007-02-01T10:07:00.000-05:00

it's amazing to think we're already one month into 2007.

i was making groundhogs with the kids the other day and wondering about whether or not a shadow will be seen - i am very much enjoying the snow and winter right now, with people skating on the pond across the street and cross-country skiing conditions so good i wouldn't mind if it stuck around.

anyway, i just finished reading all about love: new visions by bell hooks, and wanted to post some of what she shares with the reader. i really feel as if i have gone on a journey reading this book - a journey that has enriched my soul.

here are some selections from the book.

"it is possible to speak with our heart directly. most ancient cultures know this. we can actually converse with our heart as if it were a good friend. in modern life we have become so busy with our daily affairs and thoughts that we have lost this essential art of taking time to converse with our heart." (from Jack Kornfield's A Path with Heart)

hooks writes of moving from silence about love to voicing our love - of being ever conscious about how we share love - of being able to surrender and trust love - of working towards a commonly accepted definition of love and why this is so important...

she quotes from M. Scott Peck's book The Road Less Traveled, a definition of love as "the will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth...love is as love does. love is an act of will-namely, both an intention and an action. will also implies choice. we do not have to love. we chose to love."

this is simply a starting point - i am moving towards sharing this book with my loved ones and will likely have more to say - so if this awakens your curiosity in any way i highly recommend borrowing it from the library and opening to its gifts.

...LOS CARPINTEROS...

2007-01-28T20:07:00.000-05:00

Los Carpinteros are a group of cuban artists who take things from reality - drawers, footwear, pilons, measuring tapes - and give them fresh meanings by infusing them with new ideas. extremely playful and very connected tp havana, this group is fascinated with metaphors (who isn't really) - these imaginative leaps that allow them to draw new and curious connections between things that the mind may not be familiar with but absolutely delight in!

first they draw a picture of their idea and then they come together to discuss whether or not they will build it (if it is possible). one of the artists said that working in a group this way is organic - "it is not possible to be an artist alone. this is no true" - a siginificant statement for us to receive.

they have an exhibit at Museum London right now (until june) called "inventing the world" that is brilliant! i definitely urge you to check it out if you're in town, visit their website (follow the link here) and keep your eye out for them if ever they visit you. i love their art and feel many others will as well.

please enjoy these few pieces i've pasted below

this work is called The Creative Hand

this work is called Sandalia

this work is called Horno de Carbon

"I smoked a pack of cigarettes"

2007-01-24T16:52:00.000-05:00

one of my birthday presents this year was
the following fantastic song
from two of the hippest hipsters i know

I smoked a pack of cigarettes before singing this song,
So you know I aint gonna last too long.

I heard it's your birthday today or yesterday,
So I got a little something to say.

With each passing year, getting older and older,
The weather this week has gotten quite a bit colder.

Your brain is getting senile and you stink like dirty underwear,
Yet still that guy Ben won't get outta your hair.

I know one day you'll write stories for the King of France,
But don't forget to tell him you also love to dance.

On our way over we saw a lion in the zoo
So happy birthday Laura, happy birthday to you.

By: Liz and Caleb

Trip to the UK (Take 3)

2007-01-09T16:14:00.000-05:00

the final set of pics, thanks for bearing with me and my technological impairments

a shot in downtown cambridge of one of the colleges - whatever you do, don't walk on the grass !

me, ben, melissa and jeff at a pub in glasgow - not that we ever frequented the pubs

walking down the millenium bridge from the tate modern museum to st. paul's cathedral

a street in downtown oxford

timed shot down the dinner table with both of ben's brother's families together on our last night - out for some dim sum

Trip to the UK (Take 2)

2007-01-09T15:46:00.000-05:00

i can't seem to put all the pictures into one post, so here is part two of three for your viewing pleasure.

a church in glasgow

an example of a true scot - can you see him back there?

ben's brother john, his wife katy, me, ben and dave by the thames river

feeling locked in by the price of long-distance calls

edinburgh castle - ben in awe

Trip to the UK (Take 1)

2007-01-08T16:41:00.000-05:00

ben and i were in the uk over the holidays, and were using a digital camera so i thought i would post some of our pictures here.

here's ben and i - ben getting a little fresh, obviously

this is george square in glasgow all done up for christmas

this is one of the many busy shopping streets in glasgow

this is a shot of watlington, where ben's brother john lives

this is me ben and dave at the train station

here's ben and i in london catching our reflection

this is at the top of st. paul's cathedral - it's very windy

we have come to be danced

2006-12-07T10:41:00.000-05:00

~here is a poem by Jewel (08/2003)

We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hand and feet dance.
We have come to be danced
not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance.
We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, tow dance like you
one, two, three dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance.
We have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self-conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance.
We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity; the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take ten giant leaps dance
the ollie ollie oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance.
We have come to be danced
where the kingdoms collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in the skin sanctuary
we have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME

Blossoming Between Our Hands

2006-12-05T09:06:00.000-05:00

Libraries are forests: chirping with words, freckled with the light of ideas, full of the spicy smell of leaves, seeded with streams of voice and teeming with paths where bones finger forth like tree roots – here the dead artists live on. Libraries are a natural niche for books, blooming between our hands, and are part of the beginning of reading.

I remember trips with my mother to the library when I was little, but big enough to read: the wonder of being surrounded by pictures and words that I could touch, open, listen to and then close; signing my name on my first library card that allowed me to take home almost anything there that I wanted to go into again and again. I remember sneaking into the sex section and being confronted by the human body, naked of clothes and skin, I remember looking up information, finding it and then reaching for it on the shelf, and I remember first seeing poetry. The library and this library card were perhaps my first real sense of responsibility – I promised to return what I had taken (and in the same condition) so that other people could enjoy the materials as well.

Libraries are still a free space, an open space, where all people can come to warm their mind or heal their heart. As a writer, the library is my refuge. Inside the library I can come together with people and chew on thoughts. Inside the library I can wander between rows of trees, sit in their shade and listen to that same story told in so many voices – I can hear my own.

~this is a story i submitted for a contest that i thought i would post here. let me know what you think, or, what your story about the library might be...

The Cocoon Eaters - Chapter 4 (Babysitters)

2006-11-22T18:00:00.000-05:00

*here is a chapter from a children's story i recently wrote. it is still much in the works and therefore any and all feedback is open! hope it makes your lips turn!

Chapter 4 – Babysitters

As any kid who has had a babysitter knows, babysitters can be nuisance. They’re kind of like teachers because sometimes you get a good one and other times you get a not so good one. Or, they’ll start off one way and then turn another way later on. It’s all luck really, and your parents are entirely clueless about the true character of a babysitter because babysitters do a thing I call The Parent Act. Let me give you an example.

When your parents come to the door to greet a new babysitter and introduce ‘you kids’ to them, the babysitter will usually crouch down so that they’re face-to-face with you, throw a big stinky smile in your face and ask, “so what’s your name?” All you can really do is pretend to be shy and hide behind your parents to avoid the fake stench of their brutal bubblegum breath.

Now let me tell you a thing about babysitters and bubblegum. First off, did you know that pretty much all babysitters chew bubblegum? Maybe it’s genetic. Anyway, the flavour of bubblegum that they chew can tell you a lot about what the babysitter is going to be like. I’ve learned that grape, watermelon and cotton candy flavours are usually safe, but strawberry or sour apple are sure signs of a bad babysitter. But back to The Act.

So then your parents take the babysitter on a tour of your house to show them where everything is: food for dinner and snacks, the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and a list by the phone of emergency numbers. All that terribly boring stuff. Meanwhile, the babysitter keeps saying they “simply love” everything. This is the phrase to look out for.

They “simply love the house,” they “simply love children,” they “simply love babysitting,” and so on. All lies. But parents take the bait, and as soon as your parents leave the house, your babysitter takes off their plastic Parent Act babysitter face.

I should say that I once had a perfectly sweet babysitter whose name was Rose, and Rose was an exception. Rose never chewed bubblegum, she brought her favourite stories over to read to me and she even came up with exciting games for us to play together. But then Rose moved away, and I got Lorraine.

Lorraine had perfected The Parent Act so well that even I fell for it. My parents still believe that she is a wonderful babysitter to this day, even though she doesn’t clean up after herself and she watches pay per view movies without asking. But truly, she’s really, really bad.

Not only does she chew sour apple bubblegum, which by the way she wasn’t chewing when I first met her, but she also does this thing where she blows a small bubble, brings it back inside her mouth and then pops it with her tongue. At first I thought it was kind of a neat trick, but she does it every minute and that sharp clicking sound it makes when the bubble pops in her mouth is so irritating I can’t even sit in the same room as her.

To make it worse, when she’s finished chewing one piece she swallows it and then she pulls another one out from her back pocket, which is all squished and warm and gooey from being back there for who knows how long, and immediately starts chewing and popping. It’s absolutely disgusting.

When my parents go out, which they do almost every Thursday and Friday night, Lorraine comes over and does this: she turns on the T.V., and then she grabs the portable phone, the potato chips, my mom’s magazines and my mom’s nail polish. She waddles into the family room, plops herself on the couch, takes off her ratty socks, and begins multi-tasking. Usually she just watches T.V. and talks on the phone while painting her toenails, but sometimes she also eats potato chips. When she’s eating the chips she gets crumbs all over her chest, and then guess what? She just pulls the piece of bubblegum she’s chewing out of her mouth and uses it to pick up the crumbs. And then when she’d got them all, she puts it back into her mouth and gets right back to chewing. See what I mean? She’s really sick.

The only time I ever hear her voice, which sounds like a toad’s, is when she yells, “hey kid, go to bed will ya.” But I don’t really have to because there’s no way she would actually get up off the couch to check. So I keep reading or whatever I’m doing until eventually I fall asleep.

With Lorraine I can pretty much do whatever I want as long as I stay out of her way, which suits me. I used to think about telling my parents exactly what she does when they’re away, but then I wondered if they would believe me. So I came up with a plan instead.

My plan is to invent something that will make Lorraine never want to come back. I got the idea for it one night when I heard her say on the phone that, “the bloody noises in this house at night totally give me the creeps.” After hearing that I started working on something that would scare her while she’s alone in the family room after I’ve ‘gone to bed.’ It’s not finished yet, but I can tell you what it’s called: The Sitter Spooker.

smalL PreSS faIrs

2006-11-13T21:40:00.000-05:00

are winter clotheslines of underware and socks - we come in and unload our minds on these tiny table tops and watch as people pass, stop, consider, refuse, purchase, converse, are intregued, reject our writing and thus ourselves....WAIT a minute.

okay, no. it's not exactly like that, but the atmosphere at both fairs was a heavy shade of grey for sure. the venues changed (for both) and maybe that had something to do with it. the weather outside was sunny and sweet (for both) and maybe that had something to do about it. either way, i found myself sitting beside some synical people who packed up early - conviced that the better tactic would have been to sing up (get your name in the anthology and on display)but not show up - $advertising$.

for me, i learned a lot. i want to make my writing more accessible to people at these things - more interactive in some way - so that they can engage themselves to get a feel for where i'm coming from and then be able to decide whether or not they'd enjoy my book. something to zap the pressure. also, it's sharing, connecting and feedback that i really want from these things, so i should be giving people free poems with contact info. for getting back to me. HELLo!

sometimes i want to hollar in the streets - like howard beal in "network"; "i'm getting crazy and i'm not going to take it anymore!" - write poetry on the walls! wear poetry! tatoo myself in words! rant in pubs!

ahhh, tip of the tongue press will be unleashing all sorts of tongues before this trip is through!

Halloween Poem (yes, even though it's past)

2006-11-10T13:05:00.000-05:00

Have you been out Halloween? It’s quite Obscene, the things I’ve Seen.

Childrens’ faces painted Mean, with clown smiles black Or goblin green; a Zombie baseball team if Teens; the queen of Hearts; a young James Dean; even a walking time Machine; many a Grimm Reaper (that killing fiend) and Jack, still lean, Holds tight his Magic bean.

All come to Hallow upon my Door, I will not Answer. I am No more!!!

Art, Art Everywhere. On The Ground And In Your Hair!

2006-11-03T12:37:00.000-05:00

i've been stuck to my portfolio like a sucker to a shoe, thus have been absent from this space.

but, i've also been soaking up inspiration as if my eyes and ears were insatiable sponges.

so, i'm here to turn the mic over to tom robbins as post one of november, from his book skinny legs and all.

"in the haunted house of life, art is the only stair that doesn't creak."

“Mockingbirds are the true artists of the bird kingdom. Which is to say, although they're born with a song of their own, an innate riff that happens to be one of the most versatile of all ornithological expressions, mockingbirds aren't content to merely play the hand that is dealt them. Like all artists, they are out to rearrange reality. Innovative, willful, daring, not bound by the rules to which others may blindly adhere, the mockingbird collects snatches of birdsong from this tree and that field, appropriates them, places them in new and unexpected contexts, recreates the world from the world.”

“...she recreated the mountains not as she had originally seen them but as she eventually chose to see them, for a person has not only perceptions but a will to perceive, not only a capacity to observe the world but a capacity to alter the world itself. Those people who recognize that imagination is reality's master, we call 'sages,' and those who act upon it, we call 'artists.'”

"Both money and art, powdered as they are with the romance and poetry of the age, are magic. Rather, money is magic, art is magik. Money is stagecraft, sleight of hand, a bag of clever tricks. Art is a plexus of forces and influences that act upon senses by means of practical yet permanently inexplicable secret links. Admittedly, the line between the two can be as thin as a dime. What's more, the magicians of capitalism strengthen their hold on their audience through the manipulation of artistic images.”

“'Originality is a myth perpetuated by the naïve, the romantic, and the unscrupulous. There has been no truly original art since prehistoric times. Every artist has simply reworked the art of his or her predecessors. My artists are unique in that they've owned up to the practice. They've taken it a step further by refusing to participate in the ruse. By simply appropriating the work of artists they admire, copying it and exhibiting it as their own, they are courageously honest – and tragically sad. Their admission of defeat is part and parcel of the melancholia that epitomizes our time.'”

Turn Around Norman's street performances – people usually didn't even notice him, or that he was even performing, but when they did they would laugh or poke fun - “maybe they wanted his place on the street, maybe they simple didn't know how else to respond to an exhibition that pure, that unmotivated by an ambition that they could share or comprehend. One tended to lose one's bearings in the presence of willful and persistent acts of craziness, and the more gentle the act, the crazier it seemed, as if rage and violence, being closer to the norm, were easier to accommodate.”

if you dig it so far and you're hungry for more, pick it up. it's absolutely delicious

Tip of the Tongue Press

2006-10-16T13:36:00.000-04:00

hey,

i wanted to post a message saying that i am starting a small press, called Tip of the Tongue, and i am going to be adjusting this blog a bit to include it here.

i am going to be participating in The Hamilton Small Press Fair, happening Saturday November 4 from 12-5 as well as The Toronto Small Press Fair, on Sunday November 12 from 12-5. i have both these groups on my links list if you want more information. they are wonderful events - inspiring in their extreme creativity and bold ventures - i highly reccomend you come if you can.

so, i won't have time to change this blog until the end of November, so if anyone has any ideas about what might lok nice, and also how to put on a picture of myself (if the .jpg is very large), i would gladly accept any advice.

thanks, and talk to you soon

laura

In Good Company - gala poetry reading

2006-09-29T15:33:00.000-04:00

i had my reading, to open the poetry section of this festival, last night and it went amazingly well. the women who read with me were beautiful, talented, bright, and each brought a brave and musical voice - it was totally inspiring. ah, and to those of you who showed up to support me - THANKS. you keep me burning.

it's so powerful to read in a room, surrounded by pictures and poetry by women from the past and present, and also by the voices of women ... to hear the audience sigh, laugh, or grunt - moved to sound a reaction ... to look up into an audience that is closing their eyes to invision the spoken images - letting them work like in dreams ... what an evening.

to the fagans who have played such a major role sponsoring this festival so that women artists may be seen and heard, specifically in london - cheers!

p.s. i thought wonderwoman would fit well with the theme of woman pursuing their artistic aspirations!

a poem by margaret atwood

2006-09-13T10:59:00.000-04:00

ASPARAGUS

This afternoon a man leans over
the hard rolls and the curled
butter, and tells me everything: two
women love him, he loves them, what
should he do?

The sun
sifts down through the imperceptibly
brownish urban air. I'm going to
suffer for this: turn red, get
blisters or else cancer. I eat
asparagus with my fingers, he
plunges into description.
He's at his wit's end, sewed
up in his own frenzy. He has
breadcrumbs in his beard.
I wonder
if I should let my hair go grey
so my advice will be better.
I could wrinkle up my eyelids,
look wise. I could get a pet lizard.
You're not crazy, I tell him.
Others have done this. Me, too.
Messy love is better than none,
I guess. I'm no authority
on sane living.

Which is all true
and no hep at all, because
this form of love is like the pain
of childbirth: so intense
it's hard to remember afterwards,
or what kind of screams and grimaces
it pushed you into.

The shrimp arrive on their skewers,
the courtyard trees unroll
their yellow caterpillars,
pollen powders our shoulders.
He wants them both, he relates
tortures, the coffee
arrives and altogether I am amazed
at his stupidities.

I sit looking at him
with a sort of wonder;
or is it envy?
Listen, I say to him,
you're very lucky.

~ i came upon this poem in Molly Peacock's book, How to Read a Poem...and Start a Poetry Circle. the more i read it, the more i get out of it (ahh atwood), but the third stanza is the most vibrant to me, especially the last lines.

frag-ments

2006-09-11T15:43:00.000-04:00

one.

apart is a
two part
word.

two.

hip hop
is a quilt, of
sound patches and
poet's thread.

three.

on
the core.
encore.

inspired by bp Nichol

2006-08-30T10:25:00.000-04:00

[grey]

some red mixed with yellow
makes orange.

green comes from yellow and
a little bit of blue.

purple, also, needs some
blue. but lots of red.

overlap: the space where
primary colours, unbutton their
pants.

In Good Company

2006-08-23T21:18:00.000-04:00

this is the name of an upcoming festival celebrating local women (from past and present) who have lived and contributed their work in the arts to the london community. i have been invited to read at this event on thursday sept. 28 at 7:30, at the landon public library (167 Wortley Road, London), which will open the poetry side of things.

i know that this entire festival will be wonderful, and i encourage you to check it out, and i would love to see anyone in the audience for my reading as well. the only contact information i can pass on is the phone number of landon, 439-6240, so call or just head down there to check things out. maybe ARTscape will have updates in their calendar?

i know it has been a long time since i have posted anything, but that's a reflection of the summer i've had. with an upcoming three weeks off, i know this will change.

so, signing off for now - hope to see anyone on the 28th.

love, laura

London Indie Media Fair

2006-07-06T09:03:00.000-04:00

i just wanted to let anyone know that this Staurday there is an Indie Media Fair in London that i will be a part of. as the poster says, it's from 1-4PM at the Forest City Gallery - this is their final event at this location as well. i think it will be really interesting to see what people in london are writing and creating (from more of an "underground" perspective), so if you have a chance totally check it out.

~ peace

Tower Poetry Society

2006-06-27T12:16:00.000-04:00

is the name of a journal that has recently published two of my poems. it's a beautiful little book so if you ever see a copy of it, pick it up. or, if you want to order a copy, see the website (www.towerpoetry.ca).

here are my poems:

[an immigrant]

she moves
between

the front window
and the back

then back
again

her eyes fol
low snow flakes

her finger press-es
the glass

~
[the shore]

then, she walks
her black hair
cradled
in her hands
heavy

she leans the weight
over her left
shoulder
her fingers
turn
it loose

and there
fell
the ocean, this
river
whose pool
still
a shadow of
her knee

interestingly, these are both inspired by tales. one from an east indian woman and the other from a stone statue in asia.

if you wanted to let me know what you think, please leave comments (i now know how to work that function, thanks caleb)

[some one]

2006-06-20T11:00:00.000-04:00

someone once said, it’s the small things that
count – sharing garden’s carrots, zucchini and
beets, hanging laundry out
side to dry, planting homes, catching
rain, breathing

someone once said, put yourself in other people’s
shoes – it’s only when you step out of your
own that you can see your
self – it may be uncomfortable ‘cause they
fit, better than you had
thought, or care to
admit

someone once said, poplar trees will
answer your questions – so sit and listen as they
tell with the sun, and the
wind

someone once said, look at
me, are you
listening

~ this poem is being published in the Artists for a Better World Spirit of Humanity anthology, which is coming out at the end of August.

ART in the VILLAGE

2006-05-26T10:15:00.000-04:00

i wanted to post an announcement here about the Art in the Village event being held at Wortley Village (South of York and North of Baseline, between Ridout and Wharncliffe) on Saturday June 10th from 10am - 4pm. there will be tables set up in the streets and park for artists selling their wares, and i will be one of those artists - with a table of poetry chapbooks, cards and who knows what else. oh, and of course i am also interested in trading goods if you so desire!

so, if you can come out and show your suppport that would be wonderful.

thanks.

oh, and if it rains it will be held at St James Westminister Church, 115 Askin St.

Found Poem

2006-05-26T10:08:00.000-04:00

the other night at work...

[the janitor passes, pauses]

are you writing
poems? my wife
has them too, i only have
one, was given it
for times when people
leave my life. it’s simple,
small, but it was
given to me to
read at funerals or for
eulogies.

do you wake up with
them in the middle of the night? that
used to happen to my wife, she
wrote some beautiful things
but then it stopped.
it comes from right
here, doesn’t it.
you be sure to keep
it then, it’s a
gift.

and so i was moved to write this, for the both of us.

Roald Dahl ~ Boy

2006-05-02T09:53:00.000-04:00

this book, Boy, is an absolutely fantastic autobiography - filled with all the delightful imaginings Dahl is famous for. i rolled myself out on the grass and laughed and laughed through these pages. so inspiring.

anyway, i want to post here a passage from this book that addresses the process of writing - being a creative writer - a topic i was hoping he would speak about.

[context] he's talking about his first job working for Shell in England and how much he enjoyed being a businessman; "all very serious and dignified gents taking the train to our offices in the City...engaged in high finance and other enormously important matters." He goes on to say,

"I began to realise how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours and a fixed salary and very little original thinking to do. The life of a writer is absolute hell compared with the life of a businessman. The writer has to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn't go to the desk at all there is nobody to scold him. If he is a writer of fiction he lives in a world of fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves a particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he has been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith, hope and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it" (155-6).

why are these words so marvelous, for me? because i can totally relate to it. not that am putting back the whisky like there's no tomorrow, but that it is very difficult to be thinking up, and finding time to write out, the new - that levaing the writer's space (mental imagining ground) is trying and sometimes torturous. i don't want to leave - it's so scary outside where things are out of your hands (literally, where the pen is gone and the characters and action run their course, which is totally unknown) - and, that this fool is not alone. it's funny, writing can be such a solitary process - where you speak with the dead and through the written word, across pages.

i read this and fell in love - hope you can dig it too.

and, his books are wonderous - do read them if you can. my favourites are, the witches, george's marvelous medicine, james and the giant peach, and the BFG!

The Paradise Institute

2006-04-30T18:38:00.000-04:00

The Paradise Institute is the title of a work that was on display at the London Art Gallery (but which, unfortunately, has left) by Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller, that suspends you in a place between illusion and reality - shaking your perceptions and layering your perspectives. i went to see this piece twice (only because i went four days before it left) and i am still thinking about it, so i thought i'd write a little something about it here for you, so bear with me as i go into laura style detail about my experiences experiencing this clever work.

as you walk into the art gallery, this exhibit was in the lower gallery, you can look through a large set of windows onto the work. from here it looks like a big cardboard box - a plywood trailor, no windows - just sitting there in the middle of the room. as you make your way down the stairs, someone is there to introduce the work, and seat you in either the front or back rows. what rows? well, it turns out there are two pretty doors cut into the box, which contain, as you look inside, two rows of red velvet seats and a matching red carpet. this is the first of many surprises - slights of hand.

you walk into your aisle and ahead of you is a model of an old theatre house - balconies to the left and right, small rows of empty seats - all facing a screen. no glass seperates you from this model.

then, you put on a set of headphones, the person who seated you leaves and the lights fade to black.

into your ears vibrate an audience - people making jokes, a woman answering her cell phone, someone farting followed by laughter. i look over my shouder to the left and right, i swore i came in here alone. then a voice calls out, "shhhh, it's starting."

i'll jump from here to the film itself - a mix of genres; film noir, sci-fi, thriller, experimental film. the narrative is disjointed and the film itself seems very cliched - packed with the conventional tropes associated with each film genre included. but, what keep it from being boring is how it - complimented by the "soundtrack" and space itself - keeps you rocking (or swinging) between knowing what is real and what is an illusion.

for me, the piece puts you in limbo - a greyspace - a nowehere space - a neither nor space - between illusion and reality (or, fiction and reality i suppose). you're pulled towards thinking one thing and then, just as those thoughts are starting to take root, they're immideately challenged / pulled. back and forth like this. and, just as if you were to turn around in cirles for a while and then stop, after you leave the exhibit and the art gallery itself, you're head's still spinning.

let me tell you about one of these back-and-forth(ing) moments.

so, you're seated with the headphones on. expecting the sounds coming out of them to be the sounds connected with the movie. they aren't, but then, they are. okay, so you're in the audience and watching a film. ahh, that's more comfortable now. then, someone is shuffling down the aisle. hey, they're getting closer. they sit down beside you and then she whispers right in your ear, "here's your drink, you can share my popcorn" and starts chomping away. should i drop your hand down for a handful? will there be popcorn there?

there isn't. this woman stays with you for a little bit and then leaves because she's worried she's left the oven on - a house burns on the screen after she walks out. spooky. yes, especially when you're the only one there, and constantly second guessing whether you actually are or not.

o, and it gets more spooky when the villian...but i'll stop there. i hope i've aroused your interest as it is simply a phenomenol work. apparently janet does walking tours as well that i want to look into experiencing, so keep your eyes open.

if you ever hear of it in a museum near you - don't hesitate, check it out!

Word / Picture Mixer

2006-04-27T14:01:00.000-04:00

this poem came from an activity i did with the kids to celebrate poetry month - pasting words and pictures on pages to create silly stories and poems. (sidenote: i have scanned my original work and am in the process of attaching it to this message, so you'll be able to really get a sense for the play of this activity). here is my poem, which i think is part one of a series... (dom dom dom)

[Tales from the Swamp]

THE Griaffe STAR BUBBLES like, if FLAKES (The Original and Best * L'original et le meilleur) JUST Spring on Green sandals. HOW Beautiful Seedless mosquitoes, hunt your fresh Zesty worries. for AWESOME PRIZES! some fish downtown run, learn and laugh all day long. for FREE Red Hot RICE.

Bjork Video

2006-04-11T11:11:00.000-04:00

*thanks kyle, this video is fantastic. meow*

planting trees

2006-04-06T14:17:00.000-04:00

i wrote this poem after my first season tree planting for the conservation authority - it has been gradually changing with time, workshops and submissions - and i have recently been emailing a woman who wants to publish it in Poetry Canada magazine, so exciting.

it has been a while since i have posted - taking a while to settle into this writing on the net and publishing - so i thought it would be nice to post the poem,

[sunken in alfalfa]

vous
breathing beneath seed parachutes
sugar maple keys
handing soil a mouth for green
ash burr oak white pine

roots,
umbilical cords,
reach like octopus

nous
squirreling over moist fields
beaks
plunge, eyes perk

hounds
rolling fossilized mysteries

elles
freely fumbling foals, stretch
long-limbed imagination

dive into triangles to
nose the earth

astronauts,
off a dandelion crown

ils
pluck
the rain
strum
the sun
catch the wind
with a bubble wand

peace to all of you who are still planting this spring, we are all thanksful for this. i'm off for a walk with the waking trees and my little life hounding pup.

an actor

2006-03-22T11:51:00.000-05:00

i assume i am not the only person whom this happens to - this connecting with "information", a "message", at the right time, from someone or some thing (in my case, it very often happens when i am reading), that gives you a charge - like a current of realization and understanding pumping through your body that you can sometimes sit back from and be aware of.

well, this is what happens as i read Michael Ondaatje's book of poetry, Secular Love.

here's the first moment, the introduction, where he quotes from Peter Hanke:

"You're an actor, aren't you?"

The man nodded silently and averted his eyes.

"I've seen you in films. You always seem so embarrassed at the thought of what you have to say next."

The man laughed and again averted his eyes.

"You're trouble, I believe, is that you always hold back something of yourself. You're not shameless enough for an actor. In my opinion you should learn how to run properly and scream properly, with your mouth wide open. I've noticed that even when you yawn you're afraid to open your mouth all the way. In your next film make a sign to show that you're understood me. You haven't even been discovered yet. I'm looking forward to seeing you grow older from film to film."

i love this passage - can relate to the actor - and think about the scene in Cabaret (having recently seen it), and i think this scene has been shown in other movies as well, where Sally runs with Brian to lean against the wall and yells as the train passes by - persuading him to join her hen the next train comes. is letting out a scream sometimes like throwing up? bringing up all that's undigested?

thinking back to the passage, it's funny that perhaps someone would say it's a shame this actor isn't performing to their utmost ability, when the actor might be worried that it would be shameful actually to do so.

anyway, me being silly - playing in the a sandbow of words.

love

2006-03-22T10:16:00.000-05:00

yeah, i'm thinking about it.
and as i sit here to write out the word, i think of jill scott'ing for love, and also Allen Ginsberg's line, "the weight of the world, is love" - from his poem song
*sigh*
isn't this the truth
the "beat" truth, perhaps - "beat" being defined recently to me as the bare essentials, what one basically needs, just to get by - this is the best definition i have heard so far to bring me into this time, movement, writing, people

i have been lying around, sick, for four days
reading
reflecting
musing about love
and thought i would come down here and post a love poem i wrote not so long ago, but have been nervous about posting. as soon as i titled the post, love, i felt it again. how do you write something new about love? how do you get past the cliches and the turned up noses in disgust - ew, a love poem
but, all concealer aside, here is my poem:

you take my
kisses like flakes of
sun

letting your head
ear my neck
waves

and as i
lean
to kiss
again
your eyelids
pulse

like a
hound - nosing for
scent

and there's, a half-naked poem
peace

koh toa, thailand

2006-03-14T01:14:00.000-05:00

this picture was taken on koh tao, an island in thailand, by laura. i am always so nervous getting my picture taken, but she kept snapping away as we (her, ben and i) were eating breakfest at our regular spot on the beach after a cool morning swim and stretch - nothing like being in a routine of getting up and into your bathing suit and sarong, then heading out to start the day - ahhh, the island.

well, she sent me this picture just as i was thinking about connecting with the internet for writing - with so much help and support from kyle, which is ongoing and deeply appreciated - so i wanted to use it as my profile shot. we are still trying to hook that up so it rests here as a post, but i wanted to take this time to add that kyle has played with the original shot to bring me more into the sun here - so, this picture has become filled with light - and i am thankful.

i know a few of you will understand what i mean when i say,
i see you
je vous vois
-love, laura

Aung San Suu Kyi ~ Persecuted Writers Reading Event

2006-03-05T15:06:00.000-05:00

Aung San Suu Kyi

this saturday i had the opportunity to read, as part of a reading event for persecuted writers from around the world, a passage by Aung San Suu Kyi from her book Freedom From Fear. sitting and listening to the voices of all the readers, seeing pictures of the writers they were reading on behalf of, and learning about these people and their courage was incredible. i felt overwhelmed by all the efforts and voices that i have not heard, but encouraged by their existence and this coming out of silence - or perhaps i should say this coming into voice(s)...

i felt so privilegded to read for this woman, having been conected to her from lyn whom ben and i met in chaing mai, and the energy from the room plus a conscious awareness of her strength halped me still my mind and direct my voice. wow.

here is the passage that i read (and if you want to know more about her i urge you to make efforts to do so);

"In an age when immense technological advances have created lethal weapons which could be, and are, used by the powerful and the unprincipled to dominate the weak and the helpless, there is a compelling need for a closer relationship between politics and ethics at both the national and international levels. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights of the United Nations proclaims that 'every individual and every organ of society' should strive to promote the basic rights and freedoms to which all human beings regardless of race, nationality or religion are entitled. but as long as there are governments whose authority is founded on coercion rather than on the mandate of the people, and interest groups which place short-term profits above long-term peace and prosperity, concerted international action to protect and promote human rights will remain at best a partially realized struggle. There will continue to be arenas of struggle where victims of oppression have to draw on their own inner resources to defend their inalienable rights as members of the human family.

The quintessential revolution is that of the spirit, born of an intellectual conviction of the need for change in those mental attitudes and values which shape the course of a nations development. A revolution which aims merely at changing official policies and institutions with a view to an improvement in material conditions has little chance of genuine success. Without a revolution of the spirit, the forces which produced the iniquities of the old order would continue to be operative, posing a constant threat to the process of reform and regeneration. It is not enough merely to call for freedom, democracy and human rights. There has to be a united determination to persevere in the struggle, to make sacrifices in the name of enduring truths, to resist the corrupting influences of desire, ill will, ignorance and fear.

Saints, it has been said, are the sinners who go on trying. So free men are the oppressed who go on trying and who in the process make themselves fit to bear the responsibility and to uphold the disciplines which will maintain a free society. Among the basic freedoms to which men aspire that their lives might be full and uncramped, freedom from fear stands out as both a means and an end. A people who would build a nation in which strong, democratic institutions are firmly established as a guarantee against state-induced power must first learn to liberate their own minds from apathy and fear." (Aung San Suu Kyi, Freedom From Fear)

((thanks))

bouncing off a dandelion crown ~ chapbook

2006-03-03T14:57:00.000-05:00

bouncing off a dandelion crown

this is the cover for my first chapbook, which has been printed and is for sale – and I am definitely interested in trade just so you know. i will be taking it to small press fairs this spring (in Ottawa and Toronto) and who knows where else (if you have any ideas / suggestions please share them with me) the experience of putting this little book together – holding 31 poems all together – was super challenging but very rewarding and illuminating as well. i was sucked into the hollow shadow of the writer – loving hating. ideas caught in my throat like frogs – taking days to cough up and then when out and hobbling before me, missing legs, an eye, or only a piece of slippery flesh.

anyway, onto the goods - here are three poems from this collection for you to taste. i am still getting familiar with formatting blogs so i have chosen poems that are easy for me to paste here, so perhaps i will change this when i learn more). please tell me what you think about them. a poet i heard speak last week said that poetry, or any art, is all about generating some sort of reaction. so, if you react – re-enact it for me.

~ [untitled]

friend, my heart is this
a match – then
one more

and yet, lets walk tonight
following the fallen
pieces of moon

~ [-blink-]

somewhere backstage
– lens’ costume room –
your image flips

emptying –
your pockets – of
silence

i – pull
elastics – from
your mouth

the curtain –
snaps

~ [in the rearview mirror]

a bird
belly unbuttoned
feathers parted
red
pinned to the road’s
ash fault

except one wing
waving

an-other bird
by its side

hop ping forward

hop ping back
cocking its head

fromside toside

breathe ~ east coast, malaysia

2006-02-19T21:06:00.000-05:00

breathe

laura and i awaken

roll loose of mosquito net

follow our hunger - scent of the waves

sounding into belly buttons - pulling like sprouts

for sun

i shed the salt

allow the body to fall - release into the force of

breaths - gaze into the dazzle of laura -

a hipped silhouette - rolling over the waves

upon themselves

this, and -

this

an opening into ~ a poetic mission statement

2006-02-19T20:10:00.000-05:00

i come into this space to share in the delight of
imagining - how wonder
sprouts,

i am fascinated by
communication - love
writing - poems,

i hope to op en - give ideas
wind –
listening, for
echoes
and
untame a learned –
tongue