Author: mannixk

November PAD – Day 2

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I totally cheated today. The Poetic Asides prompt asked for a “disguise” poem, and I thought of something I wrote this past weekend while at an amazing JustWrite workshop in the Rockies. It was from a prompt given to us by one of the instructors, the awesome novelist and poet Thomas Trofimuk. Normally I really do try to create something brand new that grows from the prompt, but I felt this one was fitting (and recent enough) to give myself a pass. It’s still a meandering prose poem, or kind of “prosetry” as one of the other workshop attendees said. Maybe writing in that style is cheating too. Or maybe it’s just poetry wearing prose clothes. A delightful disguise.

2.

Imagine this: you’re standing at the edge of a mountain lake. All your clothes are at the shore and you step one foot into the water. You’re surprised to feel warmth. Not the shock of cold you were expecting. The water feels like perfect bathwater, a comfort, and it reminds you of something from your childhood you can’t name or explain, but feel tickling at the edge of memory. You  wiggle your toes and take another step in, then another, until the water is up to your waist. You feel the smooth rocks beneath your feet and look down to see your legs, your toes, slightly shimmering. You hear a small splash and watch to see what has made the sound. But there is nothing, or nothing that wants to be seen. You crouch down, water to your neck, your long hair begins to float and spread around your head. You continue down, warm water to your lips, your eyes, until your whole self is submerged. Submerged, you think, what a beautiful word — below and with the water. You keep your eyes closed and imagine your skin, translucent. For what is it really except a lifelong disguise? Your whole body becomes clear liquid, until there is no body at all. And as long as you remain still, you do not need to think or breathe. You do not need anything.

 

 

November PAD – Day 1

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I thought about trying NaNoWriMo this year. I even have an idea for a novel that I’m rolling around in my brain, but it’s sort of at the marble in an empty bucket stage. I can’t imagine what the full bucket looks like just yet.

But, I remembered that the Poetic Asides blog on the Writer’s Digest site does a Poem-A-Day prompt in November, with the goal of producing a chapbook by the end of the month. What would this be called…NaChaWriMo? NaPoWriMoCha? I’ve decided to write prose poems, so maybe NaProPoChaWriMo? What ever the abbreviation, the challenge seems more do-able for me this year. And also keeps me writing. Even if it’s just stream of consciousness that I can trim and polish later.

The prompt today was to compose a “New Day” poem.  Here’s what grew:

1.

C’est un nouveau jour. It always is, but today I stretch my tongue with unfamiliar words. Grind fresh coffee beans. Press my finger along the crease of a new notebook, the possibility of one blank page after the next. We woke up to snow, wet and conscious of its own arrival. A confident declaration, je suis là. Our daughter pulled on her new winter boots, still a little too big, but everything needs space to grow. I used to think the winter stopped that — flourishing. The season of pause. But that was before I forgot to kiss you goodbye. Missed the tickle of one day’s growth on your stubbly chin.

Gratitude for public poetry – especially now

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Something quite wonderful happened to me this summer. I was lucky enough to be one of four poets to have a poem featured on Edmonton transit as part of the Edmonton Poetry Festival’s Poetry Moves initiative. Knowing how many creative and talented writers there are in our community, I was surprised and flattered to be picked. Of course it’s great to have your work recognized, but the real reason I am excited to be part of Poetry Moves is because I believe so strongly in the value and need for poetry to be displayed in public places.

People are often skeptical of poetry because it can seem mysterious, elitist and even scary. How it scares and who it scares can differ.  Someone may dislike poetry because he or she has been made to feel, for a variety of reasons, that poetry is too intellectual or elusive. And then there are those who fear what poetry — and what all art — is capable of doing: inspiring hope. Public poetry is necessary both to welcome those who might not otherwise have access to poems, and to stick it to those who would rather not have poetry at all.

If you call yourself a poet, you’ve surely had the opportunity — I’d even say the pleasure — to defend poetry. Devoted as they may be to words, the poetry lover is still a  bit of a rare beast. So questions like, “What is the point of poetry?” or “Who really needs poetry?” or “Does poetry matter anymore?” do come up, even from fans of other forms of art and literature. A quick “poet quote” search provides countless examples of famous poets of the past, and not-so-famous-poets of the present, providing answers to these questions. Some of my favourites include:

“A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.” – Salman Rushdie

“Poetry is the lifeblood of rebellion, revolution, and the raising of consciousness” – Alice Walker

and perhaps my very favourite:

“Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.” – Pablo Neruda

These quotes have been especially resonant for me lately. Never before in my lifetime has the world seemed more in need of awakening, activism and awe. I do believe, as I always have, that exposure to poetry — and all forms of art — is one of the surest ways to spark the brain, open the heart and move the soul. It’s the reason art is so often hated and feared by those who possess, or strive to achieve, absolute power. Art promotes understanding and connects us, and for those seeking to divide and conquer, nothing is more dangerous than empathy and unity.

Though I am Canadian, a recent news story has caused me to spend a lot of time thinking bout that gigantic American symbol, the Statue of Liberty. During a White House briefing, one of Trump’s senior advisers,  Stephen Miller, got into a heated exchange with a CNN reporter about the meaning and importance of the Emma Lazarus poem “The New Colossus” which is inscribed on Lady Liberty. Many of us are familiar with the poems famous lines welcoming the world’s “tired … poor … huddled masses yearning to breathe free” to American soil. It’s easy to see why such a poem would be so threatening to the current US administration. And I was thrilled to see The Guardian newspaper publish smart, heartfelt and sometimes funny responses from 21 current poets.

As I began to read more about this story, and the origin of the poem, it was unsurprising to learn that self-described “alt-right” members have been calling for the poem’s removal for years. And I couldn’t have been more tickled to know that one sonnet — one public poem — was so very threatening to white supremacists. This is an example of a very famous poem inscribed on a very prominent symbol, but the potential exists for any public poem — even the seemingly non-political — to move people to action, understanding and hope.

This is why I am so grateful for programs like the one the Edmonton Poetry Festival continues to support. For many people riding the buses or the LRT this summer, the Poetry Moves picks might be the only contemporary poem they read this year. It might even be the only poem by a local writer that they ever read. There might be a line or a word that sparks a memory, an emotion, a bit of imagination in a reader that then ignites a desire to consume or create more art. That is how a poem can keep us all from going to sleep. That is how poetry can be an act of peace.

PAD 2017 – Day 30

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The last day! Unfortunately, also a day when I am feeling quite under the weather, so didn’t have as much time and energy to devote to the final poem as I would’ve liked. Today’s Writer’s Digest prompt was the very wide open suggestion to write a  “The ____” poem. I decided to narrow it down a bit with the NaPoWriMo prompt to write about something that happens again and again.

 

The Sun & You

 

the sunrise

missed

when you’re in my bed

 

hot on my neck

the midday sun

your breath

 

the sunset

always better

next to you

 

My last Alberta poet of the month is Edmonton writer and artist Laurie MacFayden.  In keeping with the “The ___ ” theme, I thought of Laurie’s stunning poem “The Last Night,”  from her book Kissing Keeps Us Afloat. It resonates with me especially well, as it reminds me of things I’ve written (or tried to write, perhaps less successfully) about dealing with my Mom’s death. Listen and watch Laurie give a wonderful reading of it here.

PAD 2017 – Day 29

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The penultimate day of the poem-a-day challenge! I liked today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, which asked writers to take a noun from a favourite poem, do some word association with it, then use it in a new poem. I went with a classic, T.S. Eliot’s “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Fun fact: it also happens to be the poem that inspired the name of this blog! Many interesting nouns in that one, but “sawdust” stuck out for me. It also combined well with today’s Writer’s Digest prompt to write a poem that uses the language, or a theme from,  the metric system.

Sawdust

 

Watching you from the open window that summer,

grind and whine of the electric saw a soundtrack

as you worked to build our girls a play fort

drawn purely from your own imagination.

I saw the way your brow furrowed,

as you measured twice to cut once,

sometimes still ending up a centimetre off.

I saw the way your spine straightened, small smile

on your face when you made one piece

fit so perfectly into the next.

I knew when I married you that there were

depths I would get to discover years later, or maybe never.

Surprises that might reveal themselves gradually

in stories you told, or the way your eyes looked

when I told you mine. But I never expected that new tingle

on my lips, a whole seventeen years in, when you came

inside for a glass of water, and leaned over to kiss me,

the scent of fresh sawdust all over your skin.

 

My Alberta poem today is by Calgary writer Nikki Reimer. With a title like “I suppose the ideal basement tenant would be a quiet retiree in good health, partially deaf, with reclusive but not unpleasant habits. Maybe tenants like that are already all taken,” you have to know the rest of the poem will be filled with wonderful wordplay and wit. Some worldly wisdom in  it too. Watch Ms. Reimer read it here.

 

PAD 2017 – Day 28

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Writing that evokes or describes the senses can be difficult, and I think this is especially true of “smell” writing. Strange, since it’s often the sense that most evokes memory. Today’s Writer’s Digest prompt called for a “scent” poem, and I was reminded of my love-hate relationship with the smell that probably most sums up my Mom.

 

Phantom Smell

 

Sometimes,

walking into a room

no one’s been in, I’ll catch

a sudden, pungent whiff

of cigarette smoke. The complicated

stink I hated when you were alive,

now makes me ache

for your hug.

For the sound of your raspy voice

saying, Don’t worry, kiddo.

It’ll all work out in the end.

 

Today’s Alberta poem comes from Calgary-based writer Joan Crate. Hear Ms. Crate reading “Boarding School” from her book Pale as Real Ladies: Poems for Pauline Johnson.
I’ve always loved the line: “reading poetry that floats and sinks to our polished shoes in pools of ash.”

PAD 2017 – Day 27

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Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt asked for poems that incorporated the sense of taste. I decided to mix that with the Writer’s Digest prompt to use the words pest, crack, ramble, hiccup, wince & festoon in a poem. I had a small hiccup in that I couldn’t find a way to include “hiccup” at all, but I did use the others — or versions of them.

Picking Saskatoons

 

We leave as soon as there’s a crack in the cloud cover.

I don’t have a rain jacket, but Auntie’s offered me

an old windbreaker, bright orange and smeared with

mud on the front. It hangs loose on my ten-year-old

frame, and I push the baggy sleeves up past my elbows,

exposing summer tanned skin to the ravenous pest

mosquitoes. We ramble up the hill behind the house,

Auntie and Mom walking side-by-side through

ankle-high grass and scrubby weeds. I watch

small splashes of mud dot the backs of their bare

calves with each step. Oh! A deer! Mom says, voice

excited but quiet, as she points to a doe, munching

clover by a barbed wire fence.  Every lean muscle

on the animal goes stiff and Auntie says, Better not tell

the boys or they’ll run right out here with the rifle.

I wince, thinking of this reticent creature, turned into

the red, meaty cubes I’ve seen Uncle press into

the sausage grinder. The doe jolts across the field,

into a thicket of trees, and I exhale loudly.

Just a half a click more, Kimmy, Auntie says and smiles,

because she knows I don’t mind when she calls me that.

I knock the empty ice cream pail against my thigh

as we walk, and think of how the thin metal handle

will cut into my palm on the way back, when the pail’s

heavy with berries. The grass is a little taller here.

We  high-step our way up to the saskatoon bushes,

their short branches festooned with lush,

purple-blue berries. Auntie and Mom chatter about

some cousin’s husband’s accident, He’ll be better in time

for harvest, thankfully as their quick hands pluck-pluck

and plop-plop the berries into their buckets. I pull two

matching clumps off the bush, five-berries on each,

dangling like jewels and hold them up to my ears

when Mom looks over, trying to get a laugh. But she

only smiles and says Get busy, young lady, and don’t

eat more than you keep. I like them better in pie anyway,

or in sweet purple-black jam I can spread on my buttery toast

on cold November mornings. But there’s always something

tempting about the fat, ripe ones, when all the green’s gone

from the skin, and you know if you pull too hard, the juicy berry

will squish between your fingers. Those ones I pop into my

mouth, pressing them between my tongue and the back of

my front teeth. Savouring the tangy taste of right now.

 

 

My Alberta poem today is by Edmonton writer and editor Peter Midgley. His poetry collection, Unquiet Bones, dazzled me when I read it last year, and the cover art is nearly as gorgeous as the writing inside. All Lit Up recently published his poem “nongqawuse (it is tasteless, this meat)” as part of the Poets Resist series, and you can read it here.

PAD 2017 – Day 26

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I regret to say that I didn’t have much time today to thoughtfully consider a poem about “regret”, which is the Writer’s Digest prompt. But, this micro did spring pretty quickly to mind.

Worst Words

Pointless but potent
heart sting of
If only

 

A few nights ago I had the pleasure of attending a Edmonton Poetry Festival reading, and discovering that poet Angela Kublik is a staff member at my own, beloved local library. I have read some of Ms. Kublik’s work in the past, and adore the anthologies she’s co-edited: Home and Away: Alberta’s Finest Poets Muse on the Meaning of Home and Writing the Land: Alberta through its Poets. Being a huge fan of haibun, I particularly enjoyed Ms. Kublik’s “An Unsuspecting Lump of Clay” series which was published on DailyHaiku.org.

 

PAD 2017 – Day 25

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Today’s Writer’s Digest two-for-Tuesday prompt called for writing a love or anti-love poem. Perhaps this snippet I’ve written in response could be interpreted as a bit of both?

That Time Looking at the Moon From the Balcony

I’ve led us here, under the stars,
so when you ask me
to tell you a secret, I can
hide my eyes in shadows and
take a sip of lemon gin.
Liquid courage helps some
say what needs to be said, but
tonight it’s a tonic
to keep the truth
from slipping through my lips.

My Alberta poet today is Edmonton writer Gail Sidone Sobat. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Gail on several occasions, but the first was when she was working as writer-in-residence at my local library. I had recently read her poetry collection How the Light is Spent, which I connected with very much, and hoped she might be able to give me some feedback on my own writing. She not only gave me great advice on how to polish my poems, but also reminded me that it’s ok to create — and succeed — as a writer in many different genres. I must also add that she’s helped to hone the skills and spark the imagination of so many writers, young and old(er) as founder of the amazing YouthWrite and JustWrite camps. Scroll down at this link to read Gail’s wonderful poem “Red Sweater.”

PAD 2017 – Day 24

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Today’s Writer’s Digest prompt asked for a poem about “faith.” The NaPoWriMo site suggested writing an ekphrasis poem about a very specific kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts. Included was a link to a variety of weird, wonderful and interesting images to draw from. Since many of the texts, and some of the references in the drawings, would’ve been religious in nature, and many of the doodles done by students of religion, the two prompts seem like a natural fit. Using the image below, and thinking about “faith” I wrote this short ekphrastic poem:

 

Trust Exercise

If I let my mind wander

into unknown margins

will I find that

which holds me up

will not let me down?

Thinking about poetic interpretations of faith reminded me of one of my favourite Edmonton poets, Stephen T. Berg. Stephen posts thoughtful poems and meditations on faith and the world on his site Grow Mercy. By most definitions I suppose I would personally be classified as an atheist, yet I do see so much of the numinous in nature, and often find myself thinking of — and sometimes writing about — the big spiritual questions. To me these can simultaneously stand inside and outside of any particular religion. Stephen’s poems often lead me to think deeper about the world, and also inspire a sense of hope. I encourage you to browse his blog, but one of my favourite recent poems is this one, “We need a different kind of flesh“.