Moving - a liberating experience!

We recently announced to all of our friends and family that we are moving across the country and several of them have said that a move is one of the top 3 most stressful events in life. But for me it has been an entirely liberating experience. Besides the fact that we are moving from the big city to a small town and a house on a hill with a view of the lake on one side and a mountain on the other, I have packed, cleaned, taken stock and ultimately cleared loads of clutter. I mean literally truckloads of clutter. We've realized that we had too many gadgets, knick knacks, clothing, toys, shoes and personally I have way to much fabric. Yes, I put that into words. As a Fibre Artist I can't purge too much of my precious stash, but I did donate a box of my least favorites to the local charity. And I released loads of old magazines. So throughout the packing and unpacking process we have been giving every item a critical eye and deciding whether to pitch it, sell it, donate it, or give it to a friend. Initially we were worried going to a smaller kitchen space, but getting rid of gadgets we haven't used in years, we've ended up with an entirely empty bank of cupboards. It feels great to have things spaced out and easy to find, each in their own place. Moving across 4 provinces and not being able to take every single item gives you a great perspective on what you really need in life. And life is good!

Punctuated surprises

Looking at the poem "Times Change Cafe" by Gloe Cormie I love the style she uses with a full paragraph of sentences with periods rather than choppy unpunctuated line breaks. Each period denotes a break or end of thought, but the next sentence is always unexpected and changes the meaning of the sentence before. She mentions the world stopping which can be quite scary and fierce, but the next line refers to her getting an autograph which, for a teen, could feel like the world has frozen for that instant. In the 3rd line she talks about the cook crying which, of course, could mean any terrible thing but really, it is just on account of the onions. The description of Big Dave McLean is smashing and the second paragraph, and final sentence, ties in the one getting the autograph with a wild haired woman getting a tattoo. It could be the same person. Classic Winnipeg poem.

Back to Life...

This song comes to mind whenever I have left something too long and need to get back to it.

Back to life
Back to reality
Back to the here and now, yah...

The song is by Soul II Soul and when I sing it, I replace the word "reality" with the words "the poetry." Sounds geeky, I'm sure, but that's me...

Anyways, back to the that first volume of poetry, here's my take on Gloe Cormie's poem "A Free Slice."

It starts of with a fantastic description that firmly plants you in the scene. Upside-down water glasses as jellyfish - so fresh. I envision a plastic seated booth in a cheesy diner, but clean and cool. At first reading, I got the impression that a tawdry old man was trying to be fresh with a young waitress. But reading through several times, as I often do, I was left with the nostalgic feeling of an old man bringing a girl flowers at work as if he was a stranger and it is something he's been doing for a while. I'm not sure if the Free Slice is all about the pie, or if it is the man trying to get a free slice of the woman's time as pleasant company on the bus ride home.

Either way, it is a lovely poem. I can't wait to read more.

Snowy Blues

I've been thinking how I've often heard the snowy blues from people and how often I've taken that snow day and turned it into something fun. The outdoor family that we are, we were relaxing in front of the TV...I know...but when I walked past the kitchen window and realized we were suddenly encountering a late springtime dump of snow, I called my son to come and check it out. Even though it was minutes before his usual bedtime, it was Friday and his comment hit me in the heart. "We should go play outside, mom." I considered how cozy we both had been in our warm pajamas on the couch, looked at the dog, and said, "OK, let's go for it!"

We donned our snow pants, coats, mitts and boots, gathered up the dog and ventured out just before dark. We walked 15 minutes around the block and onto our usual trail. Crunching along in the snow we realized that it was the perfect consistency for easy, huge snowballs. The games began. We attacked each other, and the dog with huge, soft snow grenades and fits of giggles, the rest of the way home and then started all over again in the front yard.

The poetry tie in you ask...?

There is just something poetic about the exhausted feeling of peeling off your winter gear, tucking in your sleepy child and climbing into bed with that rosy cold feeling still left in your cheeks.

Nite, nite.

Cosmos

Have you ever just stopped to think about how you could possibly exist in this moment in time, at this very location, with this mind, this body, this vision, taste, feeling of the world? Really? How is it possible that there is a person on the other side of the earth living (or dying) a tragedy as I sadly sip my tea watching the news?

Gloe Cormie's poem, In the Foam of the Cosmos gives a glimpse of how many of us ponder at times about our "smaller than small bodies on this lint-sized earth -"

I'll nod off this evening with deep, deep thoughts of humanity. What am I really contributing to this world?

The Havfrue (mermaid)

I love how Gloe Cormie gives us a glimpse of an item and brings to life the far reaches of our imagination. In "The ancient Havfrue the sea washes up," she tore me right out of the first line of the poem with a word I didn't recognize, providing an asterisk with footnote to solve that problem, and drawing me right back in to the wondrous scene. It was a simple statue of a mermaid and she surrounded it with imagery and verse that made me feel like I was right there and continued to stretch my wonder into what the history of the statue was as well. Wonderful poem.

Word Throwdown # 9

In this next word throw down, I want you to speak a poem as if you are an inanimate object that brings voice to something.
In this one stanza poem, the speaker is the blanket cover of a bed sharing an old pup's secret.

I hold the furtive warmth
the soft sweet lingering
scent. The oil, hair,
snoozing drool. Your heart
content to secretly sleep
until the tires roll in
that familiar straining
engine sound
and you are wrapped instead
in the excitement of a full body wag
at the door.

-Brandy Lynn