Our words
are legacy.
Our hopes, fears, and
dreams pirouette on pages
They jeté into hearts and minds
even after we’ve returned
Á terre.
.
.
(In memory of poet Patrick Lane who left us one year ago today. A lesson I learned from him, “Use specificity in your poems. Don’t just dance, tango!”).
For some, the pandemic has offered a blessing of time to write that they’ve longed for, and they have taken advantage, holing up at home and writing that novel that’s always been at the back of their minds.
For some, the stress of managing new complications and layers of deadly danger in their workplace or among their family members has shut down all notions of creative expression. They’re in survival mode, and all the stories that were in process have sputtered to a stop.
I’m in both camps. I’ve managed to keep writing poetry, but larger projects eluded me. Added to the pandemic stress, my 90 year old mom broke her hip in April, went through rehab and was released back home, but then she passed away in June. I am executor of her estate, and the magnitude of work required to clean up a life-time of possessions from her house was dramatic.
So here I am, looking at the last four months of 2020. I had a goal to submit 20 times in 2020, and so far, I’ve sent out 9 submissions. The first 8 submissions were in Jan/Feb, to give you an idea of how completely the pandemic froze my world!
The pause.
I just submitted the 9th thing a few days ago. It’s a promise to myself that it’s time to dig out from the pressure. I am pondering ways I can salvage my goal. I aim to spend some time with my unpublished projects and look for potential homes for them. Is it time to try a mass submission drive? Shall I find 11 completed pieces in my computer and send each somewhere? Contests? Journals? Magazines?
Yes.
There are 15 weeks left in 2020. It’s time to find my lists of ‘where to publish’ (Writers Market, here I come!). If I take a week to find projects in the computer, I can submit one thing a week and maybe even beat my goal!
How about you? Have you been struggling to meet your writing goals amid all the stresses of 2020? Will you be making any changes in the final months of the year to achieve your goals?
Do you have any recommendations of good places to submit?
A fantastic resource for poets and book artists to make beautiful chapbooks.
I have a writer-artist friend on Pender Island who posted this book that she got for Christmas. I was so impressed that I bought a copy of my own! With great thanks to Andrea Spalding, I’m delighted to share this book with you.
Hedi Kyle & Ulla Warchol have compiled a variety of techniques in Art of the Fold. This is a GORGEOUS book! It will teach you how to make amazing folded art books that you can use with beautiful papers to create stunning, one of a kind, art books for your poetry and other special words. Here’s a video of me showing some of the little practice books I made, while learning the techniques, with a peak at the book itself.
The beauty of this book is how Kyle and Warchol give you the bones of the books, but the scope of how you can apply the examples to make your own project is unlimited. I am SO excited to buy special paper and make some lovely art books to give to special people in my world. What a great resource for learning techniques of book folding. I am so excited to use these with my English students!
You can buy Art of the Fold on Amazon, and you really should!
(I’m an Amazon Affiliate, so buying from the link gives me a penny or two for the recommendation).
(My dog decided to wrestle his bed all over the living room while I was recording the video , excuse his enthusiastic growls and brief appearances in the background! lol He finally abandoned it against a chair. Silly boy.)
You are twisted in knots
pulled here, there, everywhere,
responsibilities,
avoiding hostilities,
paying utilities,
cleaning facilities.
You are wound tight
tossed left and right
crushed under mighty
feet, but step into this
darkened space
seek solace from the thoughts
that race,
trace peace.
Surcease.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Release.
.
.
for Lorien
The light of you
twinkles on your skin
sends shooting stars crackling from the top of your head.
The light of you
glows blue green like phosphorescence
attracting, inviting.
You are bio-luminescence
shimmering on an ocean,
trails flowing after you like an evening gown.
I reach to dip my hand into the water and watch the light
die in my palm.
I long to live in your light,
bathe in the beauty,
float in the flotilla of the mesmerized, microscopic worshipers
flowing after you.
But you go your way
and I go home.
I gaze after you, and wonder if you’ve shared enough of you,
for me to generate light
of my own.
.
.
.
(for Sheri-D)
It’s always a let down at the end of a conference to leave the like minds of other writers, and return home to quotidian life. This was a particularly good conference for me, with lots of messages from the universe (or rather one that just kept coming up over and over). I am hopeful the words will be off on interesting journeys as a result of the learning.
I see through poet’s eyes
life recorded in metaphor
ideas dancing with possibilities.
I hear through poet’s ears
the humming of memory
the clatter of change
the sibilance of serenity
I touch through poet’s hands
hard thoughts,
rough realities,
soft dreams.
I smell through a poet’s nose
freshly mown hay of a summer day
leaves burning in an autumn evening
I taste through a poet’s tongue
the sourness of betrayals
the sweetness of hope
The poet has an infinity of senses
that reach into history
and unravel mysteries.
Did the Beats start their sets on time?
I waited for the cool jazz, for a dancing upright bass in the dappled green, backed against hill,
cool beats, words playing with rhythm, strings and syllables descrying the human condition.
I waited, wondering why audience here must wait for audience there. Thirty minutes late, dudes!
but when D-man struck a chord and finger-danced on guitar strings
I forgave jazz absence, tardiness, miserable neighbours, and cane wielding attendees being forced
to hobble down uneven lanes (blue bruises today from the straining).
At least this year it wasn’t raining, the splatter was patter of voices being cool in the heat.
The poets read The Beats or the wanna-be Beats or the bed-mates of Beats, and I watched
an ant wrestle a kernel of corn across the ground to their long ago voices.
I do not wrestle railway container cars, but that ant had high hopes, until he abandoned it
to drag off a fallen comrade whether for cannibal feast or sacred burial in Antshillvania, I didn’t care.
A week on campus, rock bed, longing for the man at home,
my heart gave up poetic posing. I admitted tonight my heart wasn’t in this verse game.
After more hobbling down the long, dangerously uneven lane
for someone walking with a cane, cursing parking and cars.
I turned at my old high school, gasping at the glinting copper sun that hung
a molten disk, poetic sky writing the poets under trees were missing,
like that sky was kissing me good-bye while I traced the highway north
with high apple pie in the sky hopes of my own.
I’m not a poet she said
I don’t get poetry.
But
everything she says is poetical
She views the world in deep metaphors.
She embodies poetry.
Giving something a name
gives it power, she said.
Am I a poet
because I accept the name?
.
.
(Write about that abalone, Tina!)
She was told,
“You are a poet.”
She wrote,
“If only words could make it true.”
I laughed,
because of course,
only words
can
make it true.
Is there any other way
to make a poet?
I was pleased to submit this poem to a cool project!
Acton Scott Farm in Shropshire England has a resident poet called Jean Atkin running a fascinating poetry project that she outlines on her blog: http://actonscottfarmpoet.wordpress.com/ Check it out!
Love those beautiful Shire horses!
I’d love a trip to England to visit the farm. If you’re a little closer than Western Canada, you should go! 🙂
Shawn L. Bird 