I am excited to be reading some of my poetry at the Writers Take Wing event at the main library on Thursday evening! I was invited to take part by Margaret Macpherson — an utterly cool woman and outstanding writer. She, and another fantastic local writer, Jason Lee Norman, will be reading some of their own work, which will be a treat. This event is a sort of pass-the-torch shindig for the city’s next writers in residence and a great way to show support for the writer in residence program. If your up for some warm words on a wintery night, come on out to the Stanley A. Milner Library, Thursday, December 11 at 7 p.m.
Fears
Lately I’ve been feeling the pull of dark things. Not in reality, but dark fiction. ‘Tis the season of horror, and I have been reading a lot, writing a little myself and thinking about what exactly it is that makes for good horror or thriller fiction. Of course, to be effective, horror writing has to conjure and communicate a sense of fear. I presume that when most writers go for the scary, they start with things that are personally terrifying. A bit of a twist on the old adage “write what you know” — write what you know scares the crap out of you. So I decided to do a little brainstorming about my own fears (the logical and probably universal, to some of the weirder ones that might make people say “Wha?! That scares you?”). I’ve posted 10 below, in no particular order. I am sure there are others I am not ready to face yet.
1) Drowning, asphyxiation, choking, being buried alive and any other horrifying scenario where I cannot breathe.
2) Car accidents (I saw the after effects of a deadly one on the highway last year and now the image is embedded in my brain).
3) Blindness, especially the sudden and unexpected kind. Where you just wake up one morning but everything is and always will be black.
4) Parrots (and other talking birds…actually any talking animal. Monkeys and apes that do sign language are fine.)
5) Lice, ticks, tapeworms and any other human parasite.
6) Any friend or family member getting lost or suddenly going missing.
7) Me, getting lost in the woods. Alone. I could cope if there was someone else there to help fight off the wolves, or cougars,or sasquatches or whatever. Especially if I could run faster than that companion.
8) Terminal disease or debilitating illness (I am a hypochondriac. Knowing that I am doesn’t stop me from having the thoughts).
9) Making other people sick — either by carrying some germ, or unintentionally poisoning them with some bacteria or allergen in my cooking.
10) Zombies. I am well aware this is a completely irrational and stupid fear, because I don’t actually believe zombies could ever exist. But I’ve watched too many episodes of Walking Dead, and now I’ve actually convinced myself I could encounter a snarling walker when I go to take out the garbage. And I will have, stupidly, left my katana in the house.
What scares you? Be warned though, if you tell me, there’s a good chance I might work it into a story.
poem: I’ll know it when I go
I had the pleasure of reading at Culture Days last weekend, alongside a talented group of poets and storytellers. The theme of the weekend was “Where We Come From” and I started thinking about what that meant to me. Turns out, it means many things. But a little bit of my Irish identity bled to the surface, and this is what came out. So I read it then, and decided to post it here too.
I’ll know it when I go
She laughed at the way I said Ireland.
A big-mouthed, belly deep laugh.
Showed all her teeth and the pink at the back of her throat.
Warm though. Kind, when she put her hand on my arm and said,
It’s Oir-land. Not so much hard I and ire.
She lived in Dublin. Dreamed of Spain.
I named my second daughter after her.
We were fast friends for only two weeks
yet she’s as much Oir-land to me as my surname.
Stories embellished by my grandpa.
Tales of those fierce cattle rustlers west of Cork.
A castle still owned by some link in our lineage.
Two decades later, and I want to tell her
I’ll know it when I go, the tongue of a mother country.
I’ll know it when my cheeks shriek against the cold ocean mist.
When my boots stick and slurp along the muddy shore.
I’ll get it down in my blood,
that twenty per cent pure Celt I cling to.
I’ll understand why I dream past the
primary coloured landscape
yellow field, red barn, blue, blue sky.
I’ll feel why I look beyond
four generations of prairie patriots,
to something greener. More romantic.
A fairy tale start to who I am.
I’ll know why I favour that silver claddagh ring
bought from a booth at the mall,
more than the petite ruby in gold,
passed straight from my Austrian grandmother’s hand.
Where we come from is not always the place we are
or even the place we started.
It’s sometimes a place made of
flicked fiddle bows
lilting voices
cheerful demeanours that smile right through the stereotype.
I know where my body’s grown.
The cities I’ve welcomed as home. For awhile.
But a seed of self roots
in a place my voice hasn’t met yet.
Culture Days Weekend!
Today marks the start of Culture Days in communities all across Canada. I am always pleased about this particular weekend, because any chance to bring free arts, entertainment and culture events to the forefront is pretty awesome in my books. But this year is especially exciting because I will get to be a spectator and a performer. Earlier this fall I was excited to learn that a poem I entered into the Edmonton Poetry Festival’s The Poetry Route competition was selected as part of the winning four. It’s not rolling on buses just yet, but the festival has kindly invited the winning poets to take part in a special weekend of poetry and storytelling with the theme of “Where We Come From.” First time I’ve read a poem publicly in, oh, about 20 years! So I am nervous and excited. And the other writers taking part are spectacular. If you’re around Edmonton on Sunday, come check it out:
Where We Come From – Sunday, September 28, Government House
There are a ton of other great things going on in this city, and probably in yours too. The opportunities to create, participate in and appreciate the varied and amazing spectrum of arts and culture in Canada are limitless. Here is the link to the national site, to find out what’s happening where YOU come from: www.culturedays.ca
Second place feels pretty great
I am excited to learn that my poem, “Afterwards” was awarded second place in the Passion: Poetry contributor contest!
Thank you to anyone who voted for me during the facebook voting round. I appreciate the support, and the chance to spread the poetic word.
The announcement, and link to the winning poems, is here: https://www.facebook.com/passionpoetrymag
Girl Songs
The new, self-titled Ryan Adams album came out this week. I got a chance to hear the song “Kim”, that I hoped would be good. I like it. It’s probably silly to be excited about a song with my name. I mean, it’s obviously NOT about me. But I think it’s cool to have my name included in the long list of songs with lady-names in the title. I don’t think my name in a title will ever be as catchy as Toto’s “Rosanna” or as recognizable as Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May”. Hopefully it’s not as annoying as Sarah McLachlan’s “Adia” (Sorry Sarah. I think you’re cool…just hate that song). It got me thinking about how many girl-inspired songs I love. I brainstormed some and the list was bigger than I expected…and included songs from way before my time, up to ones just recorded in the last year or two. I narrowed it down to 15. Here they are, and the reasons why I think they’re pretty neat.
15) “Rosealia,” Better Than Ezra (1995): I had a huge thing for Better Than Ezra during my first few years of university. I especially liked this song, which was fun to sing along to. It’s not particularly deep, but it brings back good memories for me. And I think the name Rosealia is just so pretty.
14) “I Wish I Knew Natalie Portman,” k-os (2009): My favourite thing about this song is that it pretty much has nothing to do with Natalie Portman, and k-os apparently just came up with that title on the spot. It’s a great song, by a fantastic Canadian rapper and I dig the sampling of the Phantom Planet song “California.” Better to associate that tune with this song than with the old TV show “The O.C.” Plus, doesn’t EVERYONE wish they knew Natalie Portman? (A complete aside: this song title also brings to mind the hilariously titled “I’ve Got A Crush On Wendy Mesley” by Canadian indie band Showbusiness Giants…but I don’t actually like the sound of that song very much, which is why it isn’t officially on my list).
13) “Angie,” The Rolling Stones (1973): This is one of my favourite Stones song. I am not always a fan of the acoustic ballads, but this one is heartfelt. I used to think it was such a nice love song for someone either Mick or Keith really dug, but I’ve since read that it’s actually about Keith’s love-hate relationship with heroin. I’m sad that rock stars struggle with addiction, but damn if it doesn’t make for some good music.
12) “Natalie,” Bruno Mars (2012): When Bruno’s not making sweet love songs declaring his devotion, admiration and lustiness for the ladies in his life, he apparently likes to sing about killing them. Normally not something I would be down with, but I don’t actually think this is a misogynistic song. Guy’s got a right to be mad at a lady who steals his money and bolts, no? It’s a funky little story of a song, complete with handclaps and background “oooos”.
11) “Edie (Ciao Baby),” The Cult (1989): This song is here because it rocks. It was one of my favourite “hard” songs when I was young, and I still like it. Ian Astbury is a great singer. It’s an art inspiring art song. A tribute to actress and model Edie Sedgwick who became famous for her work in Andy Warhol’s short films.
10) “Suzie Q,” Creedence Clearwater Revival (1968): This is actually a cover of a song by Dale Hawkins, but it took John Fogerty’s gritty growl to make it big. Their version is a sprawling jam that goes on for eight-plus minutes. It was shortened for radio play, understandably. To me it’s the kind of song that demonstrates how great simplicity can be. The vocals and lyrics are sparse but powerful. The guitar just shines on top of the uncomplicated percussion.
9) “Cecilia,” Simon & Garfunkel (1970): I had a best of Simon & Garfunkel tape (yes, tape) when I was a kid. I played it repeatedly on my treasured Sony ghetto blaster. This song was my favourite. It just makes me feel like dancing. Lyrically, it’s not-so-happy, lamenting the easy way a love moves on, but it sounds upbeat. I sing it to my daughters at bedtime. Or at least I did, until my older one asked about the meaning of the line “When I come back to bed someone’s taken my place.” I didn’t really have an appropriate answer, and it’s now been removed from bedtime melody rotation.
8) “Darling Nikki,” Prince (1983): So I have to give props to Prince for this raw little song about the title sex-fiend, but I actually prefer the 2003 cover version by Foo Fighters. Prince’s version is more smooth and seductive (or maybe sleazy), but the Foo’s is rocky and fun. Either way, Nikki is a bad-ass, liberated chick.
7)”Meg White,” Ray LaMontagne (2008): This is a song I like more for the lyrics than the sound. It’s a tribute to the drummer of The White Stripes, and I am partial to it because I, too, champion Meg and defend the fact that she did more than play second drumstick to frontman and musical wonderboy Jack White. When I first heard it, I assumed LaMontagne knew her, but I’ve since read that he never met her before recording this. He was just a big fan. Kind of stalker-ish and cool at the same time. I love the simple, banging drums in this song, and think they’re reminiscent of her own style in the White Stripes.
6) “Jolene,” The White Stripes (2000): Of course this is a classic by living legend Dolly Parton, but I had never heard it until I heard the White Stripes’ version. It’s a bit strange for Jack to beg the beautiful seductress, Jolene, not to steal his “man.” But even still, with his weirdly awesome voice and the pared down vibe of many White Stripes song, it just so earnest.
5) “Ruby,” The Kaiser Chiefs (2007): This is a catchy, sing-able song from The Brit rockers, and that is the main reason I like it. It’s fun. They’ve said it’s not about anyone in particular, but “if you know someone called Ruby, it’s about them.” The only Ruby I know is my friend’s very sweet and beautiful dog, so I guess I can think about her, and her waggy little nub of a tail, when I sing this song.
4) “Rhiannon,” Fleetwood Mac (1975): Back in July I wrote a whole big post about this song, because I lurve it. Not much more to be said, except I had to think long and hard about where to place it on this list. It’s near and dear to my heart. But so are a few others, as it turns out.
3) “Layla,” Derek and the Dominoes (1970): Everyone knows the guitar riff to this song, and everyone attributes it to Eric Clapton. He’s a rock legend of course, but not solely responsible for this song. It was a co-write between him and Jim Gordon, and the original recording showcases the musical talents of the whole band, including Duane Allman. It wasn’t particularly well-received on first release, and had its biggest day decades later when Clapton recorded a slowed down acoustic version for his Unplugged album. I like both, but the original goes from that fantastic blues-rock vibe, and Clapton screaming his love for Layla, to the pretty, quiet piano interlude. It’s rich and layered. It’s supposedly written about Clapton’s love for George Harrison’s wife, Pattie Boyd. Juicy.
2) “Mustang Sally,” Wilson Pickett (1966): I am sure I heard this song when I was little. I wasn’t born in the ’60s, but it was part of my Dad’s musical youth, and he liked to educate me about the oldies but goodies. I can pinpoint the time I fell in love with the song though: when I watched the 1991 movie The Commitments. I was obsessed with that movie. And I played the soundtrack into destruction. I love how the band covers it, but I’ve come to appreciate the less flashy, slightly slower Pickett version more. I believe it more when he shrieks “whoa!” and “Oh Lawd!” It’s not even the original, as it happens. Pickett re-recorded it after The Rascals, and the original recording by R & B performer Mack Rice. It was originally called “Mustang Mama” until Aretha Franklin suggested “Mustang Sally.” If I could sing without embarrassing myself, I would totally cover this song. Or at least bring it out at some drunken karaoke extravaganza.
1) “Jane Says,” Jane’s Addiction (1988): This song was an easy number one “girl-name” song for me. Jane’s Addiction reminds me of my youth, so it’s got that nostalgic factor. Musically, it’s quite unlike many punk/rock/alternative (whatever you want to label it) songs of that era. It has a distinctive steel drum beat in the background. It has a repetitive chord structure. It has lead singer Perry Farrell’s completely bonko vocals — screechy and bizarre, yet somehow so great. It feels like the band members are all just sitting around a fire or something, someone starts up on the steel drum, joins in with a guitar, and then the sing-along starts. But what makes this song so amazing for me is the story. The character “Jane” is a real friend and former roommate of Perry Farrell. She’s the namesake for the band, too. And her drug addiction, and attempts to kick it, are what this song is about. From a writing perspective, the lyrics tell such a great narrative. You get a complete sense of character in just a few lines. It’s like a short, short story set to music. Every time I heard the song when I was young, before I knew it was about a real person, I always wondered what happened to Jane. The real-life Jane kicked the drugs, and her relationship with the dealer, Sergio. Apparently this Jane partly inspired the “Jane” character on Breaking Bad too, which is cool.
Anyone on board with my choices? Have I overlooked some obvious and iconic song? Do you have songs with your name in the title? My picks are totally personal and subjective (as any preference in art really is). But I LOVE debating rock ‘n roll!! So feel free to disagree.
Hey, wanna vote for my poem?
Exciting! I’ve made the finalists for the Passion:Poetry contributor competition. The first round was judged by the journal….the next is by voting on facebook. And then the top five make it to the final round for blind judging. Sort of a weird way to do it, but any excuse to get poetry out there is good enough for me.
If you are so inclined to vote for me, or include the link on your own facebook page, that would be super awesome. The page is sort of confusing, and the poems are anonymous, but the first link below is mine. The poem is titled “Afterwards”.
https://www.facebook.com/passionpoetrymag/photos/a.324868571007546.1073741830.163648643796207/324868587674211/?type=3&theaterIf you look at the bottom of my poem page there’s a link to the voting poll. But the direct link to the voting page is here:
https://epoll.me/vote/ACRAv16zCBA/what-is-your-favourite-poem-from-our-top-eleven-finalists
I think this only goes on for a week or so. They were delayed getting it up there, so I am not sure how long they plan to keep it up before going to the next round.
Beyoncé and the F-Word
I suppose I’m going to be the bizillionth person to add my two cents to the discussion of Beyoncé’s brightly-lit feminist declaration at this year’s MTV Video Music Awards. But the fact that so many people are talking about it, griping about it, debating about it, loving her or hating on her for making the big ol’ f-word a part of her performance is —in my books —an excellent thing.
A short re-cap: Beyoncé does a sixteen-plus minute performance sampler of all the songs from her recent self-titled album before she accepts the Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award from her husband, Jay Z. Strutting, gyrating, singing, and smiling while at the same time seeming to own the world, she and an entourage of male and female dancers give the crowd a show. In truth, it wasn’t that dynamic, but it did seem sincere. About mid-way through, before her song “Flawless”, there’s a sampling of lines from Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Her definition of feminist, a person who believes in the social, political and economic equality of the sexes, is heard and the word FEMINIST lights up the stage, with Bey’s curvy silhouette in front. Then it’s over, and on to more hot dancing, flashing lights and by the end, a heartfelt acceptance from a singer who was clearly honoured to be there.
I must first admit that I didn’t watch this until after I heard about the brouhaha. I don’t generally dig the VMAs because the music isn’t really my style, and I feel too old to know or care about most of the celebrities on parade. Not to mention that it’s usually a pretty sexist soirée (and it seems that can actually be said about much of the show this year — even with the big f-word closing it out). I’m not a particular fan of Beyoncé’s music either, but she did earn my respect when she publicly breastfed her baby while out for lunch with her hubby in NYC. A bold move for a celeb, really. She’s labelled herself a feminist several times in interviews, so making it a part of her show isn’t a revelation, but it is intrepid nonetheless.
Why? The f-word is still, to many people — to many women — a bad word. It’s loaded. It’s confusing. It’s got baggage. Most reasonable people would never argue with Adichie’s definition of feminism, but like most “isms” the practice in the real world is rarely simple or clear cut. Like most potentially controversial issues, (though I could write a 2000 word sidebar on why feminism shouldn’t really be controversial at all), celebrities don’t often declare a side. It’s bad for business. Labels pigeon-hole you, and make it easier for haters to hate on you, point out any perceived hypocrisy on your part, and leave you open to even more scrutiny. Lately there’s been lots of probing of young female celebrities, with microphones jammed in their faces, about whether or not they call themselves feminists. Some are wishy-washy, or say no, but then when they go on to explain, it’s clear that they’re either misinformed about what it is to be a feminist. Or they’re meeting all the criteria (whatever that may be) but just don’t jive with the label. I get it. I wish more of them wouldn’t hedge, but I get it. So for Beyoncé to shout it out in such a public forum is actually pretty cool.
Ah, the naysayers cry, how can she call herself a feminist and then dance around all seductively with no pants on? What is this “modern feminism” that has women talking about equality and then prancing around like a stripper? Isn’t this the woman who recorded a song encouraging all the single ladies to get hitched? Isn’t she adding to the objectification of women by reinforcing how important it is to be “beautiful” and “sexy” ? Does she actually “act” like a feminist? They’re reasonable questions. It’s grey territory for sure, with even self-labeling feminists disagreeing on whether strutting your stuff is female empowerment in action or further adding to the objectification. But bringing the conversation back to her backside, as though her body should speak louder than her opinions, is a classic way to shut that feminist voice down. How can you call yourself a feminist when you look so sexy? It’s ridiculous. There is nothing in that definition above that specifies that a woman’s beauty and sex appeal disqualifies her from having a voice.
And as for whether or not she “acts” like a feminist in her daily life, in her family, or out in the world at large? It’s hard for anyone to truly say what happens in her personal life or in her own mind. But again, in the context of this performance and that blazing f-word in capital letters, it doesn’t matter. At least not to me. What does matter is that legions of young women — and men — who idolize, emulate, lust after or respect Beyoncé have been given permission to think about, talk about and hopefully embrace a definition of a word that is so much scarier than it needs to be. There was something more to take away from those 16 minutes, than singing, dancing and a blowing mane of beautiful hair. It gave cool cred to a word that is so not-cool with many people. It opened up a conversation. One that we still really need to be having.
poem: Footpath
Footpath
Inside me she kicked
tiny, newly formed feet
firm against womb wall
and up into my ribs
when she floated
upside down
In bed, between us
she flings her legs in slumber
and doesn’t wake
when her feet hit our backs,
bellies, heads, when she ends up
reversed.
We are too tired to protest.
Maddening at 3 a.m.
and forgivable by dawn
when we roll over and see her
rosebud mouth
suspended in half-smile
of contented sleep.
She kicks at her little sister
when fury hits
and then, later,
a boy on the playground
who threatens her sister.
She connects with soccer balls
easily now. Proud in new sneakers
that light up when she runs
alongside other girls
and boys.
I worry about school.
Will she have it in her to quash
playground taunts?
Stomp out frustration
over answers that don’t come easily?
She is a girl now.
My girl.
And I know there will be
a lot of kicking left to do
before she is a woman.
When she is a woman.
Doors to kick.
Habits to kick.
Ideas to kick around
while she figures out
who she wants to be.
There will be kicks to the teeth
that rattle her for years.
And kicks in the ass
that help her move
when she’s stuck.
It’s kick or be kicked
at every stage.
And I want her to remember
as she is kicking the mud from her boots
that it will be a dirty, hard path.
But she has it,
the strong legs, strong heart, strong mind.
To get her through.
Often imitated, probably duplicated
Writing is often confession, and today I feel like disclosing one of my biggest fears: plagiarism. Not the worry that I will be plagiarized, but the panic that I will commit it. Inadvertently. I don’t want someone stealing my stuff, of course. That would suck. But worse, for me is that I would end up snatching someone else’s work.
The root I guess, comes from the fact that I feel people should be honoured for their originality. Growing up, I loathed being copied. I know the old line about it being the sincerest form of flattery and all that jazz, but it truly irked me. I was even averse to compliments sometimes, like “I love that sweater. Where did you get it?” because I worried that meant the flatterer would rush out and buy one too. I should stress that I wasn’t then, and still am not, a trendsetter in anything. But I have always been protective in some ways of my own ideas, thoughts, likes, and dislikes. As I got older, I became much more comfortable with spreading my opinions around (as anyone who knows me will attest, probably with a loud “Uh-huh” and eye roll). I am happy when people share my ideas or thoughts enough that we can find common ground. But there is a difference between having things in common and copying. It’s weak to bite someone’s style. It shows a lack of character. But it can be inspiring when two people have independently come to some conclusion or way of seeing the world, and can relate to one another.
But what about those times when something might seep into your subconscious, and end up oozing back out again, with the attached notion that it originated with you? Some of the best, or most famous, examples of this are in popular music. There was much hubbub last year when Marvin Gaye’s family launched a suit against Robin Thicke for perceived similarities between Gaye’s “Got To Give It Up” and Thicke’s “Blurred Lines.” And a few years before that Coldplay took flack from Joe Satriani’s crew for the similarities between his “If I Could Fly” and Coldplay’s hit “Viva La Vida.” I recently read that Radiohead actually gave a writing credit to Albert Hammond, due to a legal wrangle about the chord progression in Hammond’s 1972 song “The Air That I Breathe” and Radiohead’s “Creep”. Do I think that some of these songs do sound strikingly similar? Yes indeed. Do I think that any of these artists consciously heard a particular guitar riff, or melody and thought “Woot! This rocks. I’m stealing it”? No. I don’t. And what I’ve always wondered is how did the accusations make people like Chris Martin or Thom Yorke feel? If it were me I would feel like crap. Even if it was purely accidental, and I stood by my own “creation”, there would be the nagging feeling that something you thought you created was really just a copy. Even if Plato’s right, and most things are just a copy of a copy, it’s still harsh when your own art is called out for it.
I think most times the art that we’re drawn to is the art that we wish we could make ourselves. It’s a chicken and egg thing where we are both inspired by people, and tend to do the same, and are drawn to those who are the same as us. Certainly my favourite poets and fiction writers are people who I wish, hope, I can write like — in some very distant year or in some other reality. I respect them for their ideas, images, ability with words. I aspire to be. I probably model the same. But are there times when I actually do the same? When a phrase or image is repeated, almost verbatim, and I don’t even realize? It’s a scary thought for me. Will I have some “A-ha!” moment where I think something really works, precisely because it has worked in someone else’s writing? I hope there is some mechanism in my brain that says “Hey, this is good. But tweak for originality, please.” Or as they say on all the singing reality shows, “Really make it your own.”
Or, do I just accept the wisdom of Plato? Art will always be a mere imitation of the objects and events of ordinary life, effectively a copy of a copy of an ideal form. Maybe I should just try to write my best, try to invent, rather than steal. Get inspired, and try to inspire. But drop the worry and remain cognizant of what’s uttered in the lyrics of one of my favourite Nine Inch Nails songs, “Copy of A”: I am just a copy of a copy of a copy/ Everything I say has come before.
makes/me/so/digress 