In chapter 15 of Diana Gabaldon’s Written in My Own Heart’s Blood, Jenny says of Jamie,
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This line made me chuckle. My husband is just like this, though he also very frequently explains himself. 😉 Kind of scary how observant he is.
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Here’s a little break from ranting poems or pugilistic poetry! In honour of the upcoming Outlander TV show, here’s an ‘arrangement in progress’ I’ve made of The Skye Boat Song, which I’m betting is incorporated into the TV show theme.
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For the technically curious:
I am playing a double strung harp. (This was definitely easier before I had bifocals, though it was challenging enough then). There are three octaves on each side of the harp, tuned to the same notes. 44 strings in all. This is a low-head Celtic harp, in the style of the famous Irish Brian Boru harp or the Scottish Queen Mary harp. It is also known as a Scottish clarsach. Specifically, mine is a Brittany harp, built for me by Stoney End 15 years ago or so. (When I bought it the Canadian dollar was around 70c US, so it was pricey!) It still has its original strings! This says it’s a tough little harp, and that I’m a lazy harpist (some people change strings a couple of times a year, to keep the sound bright). It is made from a lovely, shimmery grained cherry and has a Baltic birch soundboard with a pretty inlay strip at the base of the strings. It keeps its tuning brilliantly- rarely needing more than a titch of adjustment here and there. This is a rare blessing in a harp!
Here are The Skye Boat Song lyrics as I say them to myself while I’m playing (which does not in any way imply they are the correct lyrics!)
Speed bonny boat like a bird on the wing
Onward the sailors cry
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye!
Loud the winds blow
Loud the waves crash
Ocean’s a weary bed
La la la la
la la la la (< < < < pretty sure those aren’t the right lyrics)
Watch o’er your weary head
oh (That’s the soft D sounded to start back into the chorus)
Speed bonny boat… (etc)
I always thought somehow Flora McDonald was on this boat with him, but I think that’s just me.
I promise OJ the standard poodle is only sleeping, though he certainly does look dead. He is snoring now, in the exact same position.
Now
I remember
what I wanted to ask.
I wonder if…
this
that
the other.
Right.
I had meant to ask
about that, hadn’t I?
But in the excitement
all the good questions
fell out of my head
leaving a joyful
explosion of
now.
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This could mean anything, because of course it happens all the time, but specifically today, I had 3 questions wander through my brain that I’d meant to ask author Diana Gabaldon in the 90 minutes we were driving from the airport in Kelowna to Salmon Arm for Word on the Lake Writers’ Festival. Yesterday another one floated through. I suspect many more will show up in the weeks to come. Oh well. We’ll just have to have her back! 🙂
I woke this morning
pleasantly foggy and
imagined my day.
What workshops will I attend?
Yes. That one. This one.
Then I stretched my mind
into clarity and realized
conference is over;
everyone has gone home.
It was a melancholy moment,
before the smile,
savouring memories.
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A memory like this one. My dear husband, grinning broadly with Diana Gabaldon beside him outside the conference banquet. This is the first time he’s met an author whose work he admires. I’m laughing because I just had to sprint down the hall to get into the photo. Despite being with Diana all weekend and snapping many photos of her with/for other people, this moment was the only one I had taken with her myself this year.
P.S. The counter says that this is my 1400th blog post. Nice to celebrate with two of my favourite people! 😉
I’ll be referencing this in one of my introductions of Diana Gabaldon this weekend. Workshop? Key note? Banquet? Come to Word on the Lake Writers’ Festival in the Shuswap this weekend and find out which!
Listen
to whispers,
stories in the wall.
Poems found,
Titles titillate,
tease, and
tantalize.
Writing on the wall
whispers
through the room.
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Last weekend I started wallpapering my dining room with pages from a book. I was given a copy of Diana Gabaldon’s Drums of Autumn last fall. I already have a copy, and the gift had a broken binding, so I pondered ways to use it for practical purpose. Today I’m putting the finishing touches on. Most of the wall layout is fairly straight-forward, but I had 9 extra inches that I centred, and there I’ve been playing. I’ve included copies of autographs we have in other Diana Gabaldon books (copied onto a blank page of the book to match perfectly). I’ve cut graphic bits from Part divisions and used them decoratively. I’ve taken chapter titles and made them into little poems. I’m really liking my very unique wall!
This is a close up on a ‘poem section’ made with section and chapter titles:
Je t’aime
beaucoup
passionnément
pas de tout.
Blame
Forgiveness
The toss of a coin.
Here are the dedications (John’s is actually in the copy of The Scottish Prisoner and says “For John- No one looks better than a man in a kilt!” Mine is in The Exile and says, “To Shawn, Wonderful to meet you in person!”):
Here’s a step back at the wall. The diamond medallions spaced across the top were from dividing pages:
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On Twitter yesterday, a young fan asked Diana if she had any advice for aspiring writers who felt completely inadequate. This was Diana’s response. I plan to frame it and post it all over my class room. You don’t get better at ANYTHING unless you practise. Dedication will pay off in the long run, as long as you work at it, and endeavour to keep improving. Diana was brilliantly concise. (Being a ballerina drop out, I can vouch for the accuracy, too! I never got on my toes.) 😉
Diana Gabaldon just posted the Chapter 82 to 94 titles for her next book in the Outlander series, entitled Written in My Own Heart’s Blood (aka MOH-B, aka MOBY) Those chapter titles were mixed to create this ‘found poem.’ Words in bold are Diana’s titles. Regular print and punctuation are mine. The fun with found poetry, is that one often senses something profound hovering just below understanding. Can you find a message here?
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Keeping Score:
One Day Cock of the Walk—Next Day, A Feather Duster
but
I Will Not Have Thee Be Alone
on the
Long Road Home
Through
Sundown
Nightfall
Moonrise or
The Sense of the Meeting
In Which Rosy-Fingered Dawn Shows Up Mob-Handed.
A Whiff of Roquefort
in
The House on Chestnut Street
reveals that
It’s a Wise Child Who Knows His Father
Oh yes, for
Even People Who Want to Go to Heaven Don’t Want to Die to Get There.
I haven’t had time to do another video poem in months, but here is a re-visit of my first one. lol This poem was written after a fantastically amusing night on Twitter with Diana and Outlander fans around the world. Hearing it still makes me giggle. Outlander the mini-series is filming! Next summer we’ll get to Sam being Jamie. The promo photos released are awesome!
It took a whole lot longer than I expected, but I managed to record a video, despite the objections of the dogs, the fact that apparently there is not enough light in my house to film a video at midnight for some reason, and the fact that YouTube no longer believes I am who I am, so I had to make a new channel!
I’ve been meaning to do this for ages, so I’m feeling quite accomplished! Today we were at a wedding, and I’m still a gilded lily, so what better time, right?
Since the most popular poem on my blog (by a LONG shot) is Dear Sam Heughan that is where I began. (If you haven’t read it you may want to. The Twitter debate at the end is entertaining). Anyway, here I am, in all my animated splendour!
Oh- sorry about the hair flipping. I didn’t…
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Diana Gabaldon just released the next set of chapter titles (68-81) for her next novel, “My Own Heart’s Blood.” They looked like they were asking to be a poem, so now they are. I have taken the liberty of re-ordering them for my own purposes. She assures readers there are no spoilers, but I make no such promises. (ha!) I usually use phrases exactly as found, but in this case, the bold words are the titles, and anything not bolded is added for sense or transition (or my own entertainment).
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The Cider Orchard
High Noon
A Single Louse
In the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time
ponders the
Peculiar Behavior of a Tent, full of
Morasses and Imbroglios,
a Folie à Trois,
The Dangers of Surrendering to passion are,
The Sort of Thing That Will Make a Man Sweat and Tremble,
(and a louse, too) when it must
Go Out in Darkness.
Consider,
The Price of Burnt Sienna:
is a Sparrow-Fart
Among the Tombstones
Pater Noster
Holy louse,
wrong place, wrong time, indeed.
Shawn L. Bird 