7 poems - 7 days - Day 7 REDUX

Remember when I wrote poems? That was fun.

Well my pal Meghan H. (a published poet I'll have you know) was kind enough to go over a few of my bon mots and give me some feedback. She did this a long time ago and I am finally getting to it now. I feel the tying of loose ends is part of my growing up process that today also included finding a dentist!

BUT enough of me being smug about my teeth. Here's a second attempt with a new title. Original here. No promises on when others might get another look.

---Illiterate---

Growing up not Catholic

is the biggest tragedy of my life

I'm not Jewish either

another damnable attack

Lacking the benefits of a Classical education

all I had was a periodic United Church

bereft of pageantry and

rife with white bread sandwiches

There were stories there

and they trace back the same

but I forget, if I ever listened.

So now I write poetry and can't find the archetype

the creation myth

or patchwork of wonder

No raven or turtle to guide me

No shorthand for history

King David's just some king

so are Henry and George and Louis and

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck.

Science can't help

with its stories told from a lab

book of hard truths and fact

A space clean, fluoresced and sharp

whose lights shine too self

confident and important

Words that might be explaining the universe

but fucked if I understand.

So I stare at the brightly lit and obvious

An opiate's stories

chanting electric prayer into the living

room

Burn and hide to dim the light

and the obvious becomes less and more

an archetype.

What I have is pro wrestling

and last I checked

the Pope's not holding the belt.

writing

Blog posts: easy. They flow off the keys to be released unto the internet, without a care in the world. What's the internet, but a place of noise, regardless of quality.

Also, I've assured myself this blog is an exercise in writing. More a matter of getting something done than doing it to perfection. Of course I edit and try to ensure some clarity but I don't hoard. Instead, writing gets released to the world and I get over my sense that it's too precious to be shown. Hold everything close, bide your time, and eventually sell it all for millions. I think that's how the logic went. (Past tense used in the most hopeful manner.)

Possible reasons for the dearth of posts of late:

-Shouting into the void was starting to wear.

-I simply wanted to escape my digital shackles. As a rule I'm in front of computers far more than I want to be.

-There's also the possibility that any benefit the blog as a writing exercise gave was being usurped by the less healthy blog as place to attempt expression of my personal value, self-worth and existence in the world. In short: self-worth defined via blogged experience and thoughts, where doing it counts for nothing until it has been shared.

(Note: I'm not commenting on blogging generally, just personal tendencies)

Forest for the trees kids! I never considered it consciously but maybe taking a step back from relating individual instances of being might allow the whole self to be revealed. Or something.

Maybe.

(Note: and after writing this post and re-reading it and editing it, maybe the effort I put into these doesn't match the reward, which I'm sure is directly tied in to what I consider the value of a blog post. Maybe because I dismiss my blog posts of holding any "real" value even before starting to write means the results will inevitably be dashed off and of lower quality? Heh, I'm going to stop thinking about the value of blog posts right now.)

Short stories: of late they're alright provided I sit down to do them. The ideas come and I write, but this is a recent phenomenon and it's pretty exhilarating. Instead of having to contemplate where everything is going before I start, I've started to just write. If the story takes a page, great. If it starts to grow, also great. Now that I have mostly removed the expectation of immensity these are more relaxing and fun. I can play around with words, narrative and narrator and lose nothing if it's a disaster.

I'm not churning them out every day, but I'm not a professional writer so whatever.

Poetry: I don't do this much and it's not a huge concern at the moment. I guess the odd tweet could still be considered poetic but I've certainly not made a concerted effort. There are a few I did write during the week of poems that I quite like. I've even had some feedback. What I haven't done is take that feedback and look at it alongside the poems in an attempt to improve and solidify my poetic chops. Eventually? Hope so, because poems are fun.

Non-fiction/essays: Eeeeeeeeee. As a recovering grad student there should be something more here. I guess this is what I was doing with some of my blog posts. Once or twice, not recently, I have tried to start a paper based on my thesis research. There has been no success on this front. Part of my dilemma is that I like to be right. If you put out an opinion, people might tell you that you're wrong. If you don't put out an opinion, there's no way to be wrong. Right?

I also like to take everything into account...read: EVERYTHING. If I start a position piece I often find myself wandering hither and yon, laying out opinions on too much. I also start to consider possible counter-arguments. Sometimes they make me doubt the entire premise I'm working from and other times I'm left with so many dragons to beat to death that any concision in what I was writing is lost. I guess my main problem with this type of writing is when I do do it I'm too scatty and unfocused, but that's indicative of my brain as a whole.

Personal essays from life are something I haven't done much of (certain blog posts, maybe?). Although I did write a piece while in France about a lady on plane. I talked to her in the most casual fashion and mulled over all sorts of tactics to further engage said lady in conversation. I didn't and in frustration wrote up the incident, with humourous asides and commentary, instead. That piece has subsequently been fictionalized and incorporated in the latest attempted novel.

Real life essays are something I'd like to try more of. The narrative and character(s) are already in place, so I'd get to invest all my energy into crafting words. That can only be good.

Scripts: I'm working on a short film. Not much to say about this. Periodically I find a story I think would be suited for such treatment but I haven't tried it enough to know where I'm at from a skillZ perspective.

Novels: SO BIG. I started writing this post because I had yesterday off. It was a good day. Arose at a reasonable hour, made breakfast and ate it while making soup (gingery butternut squash from Simply in Season for those interested). After lunch I proceeded to set up shop in U of T's Robarts Library to write the afternoon away. NOTHING HAPPENED. I wrote a little, but more importantly I sat a lot. I stared. I mulled. And slowly, over the course of the afternoon my mood became foul. There was also a nerd crush on a map librarian, but that was so clearly going to happen it barely warrants mention.

The day was still a good one. I'm always interested when I note a change in myself when it happens (mood, behaviour, etc.) because so often the changes pass me by. If I notice though, next time a similar situation yields similar results I'll know to avoid or enhance as required.

The personal personality puzzle, solvable one piece at a time.

And after the library some walking and talking with Daydream in the glorious night air cleansed my head and left me pleased again. Also, I rediscovered jumping over park benches. Hurdling is fine, but a two-footed leap, that is how we SOAR!!! The best is when the launch spot is slightly higher than the bench and the landing pad. When I do this at work over the rail fence while wearing my Inverness I feel like Batman.

But this is about writing, right? Novels!

Because a novel is substantial and has a long way to go, the characters' actions now will have repercussions down the line, everything I write feels weighted with meaning. Decisions on direction and scene crush my being and what ends up on page suffers as a result. I get too tired and frustrated before I get to the actual scene, then write something that skims and skips over what I'm trying to say as a result. The world I create is shallow and blah, not immersive and YAH!

I want to be able to write novels with the freedom I have when sending an email. Stream of consciousness wonder that is practically barfed from my fingertips. It's important to have goals, and mine happen to include fingers that puke.

But, at the same time, one must remain positive lest the darkness swallow you whole. A novel is a big thing and I'm learning to write the form while learning to write the write. Or learning to write as a writer more advanced than I might say. Slowly, creepily, things will get done and then I get to type it all up and commence the editing process. And that ladies and gentlemen is gravy, because even if you need to rewrite a whole scene, it's a whole scene in context of everything else, rather than the current case of scenes in a swirling void that contains only hints and intuitions of the universe I'm trying to create.

I've started novels before, but never finished. If I look back I probably stopped writing them around this stage of the process. The opening is there, the characters are fleshy, but the real guts of what needs to happen hasn't been dealt with yet. I'm at this wall again but pushing forward instead of wandering off.

I've been thinking of my thesis writing experience recently and how it compares to the novel process. That was a big thing. There were lots of ideas that I needed to pull together to lend coherence to a whole, and I got there. Eventually. When the writing was done I remember days of editing from printed sheets, rewriting sentences and whole paragraphs, rearranging the puzzle pieces until it all fit and made sense. To a degree of course.

A MASTER'S DEGREE. See what I did there? Without editing the world would have been worse for lacking that joke.

Writing, huzzah!

I could have written all this in a book and never revealed it, but if I did that chances are it never would have been finished.

Full circle: blog.

Skip-Skip-Skip to my letterpress and poetry

So remember back when I made this?

Good times, right? Well, check this out.

Imagine all the pebbles and battle beasts I could store in those jobbies. Too many!

The photo is courtesy of The Sweetie Pie Press, and is taken in the workshops of the Trip Print Press. Self described "Practitioners of the black art, letterpress."

Scary!

And fantastic.

Mostly fantastic, because those are not just wondrous wall decorations, no sir. Solely a great place to store toys? NAY! (Although they could do that.) We are of course looking at a lovely set of type trays.

You know how you scroll through your word processor options and can make words look however you want? Well, in real world publishing each of those choices would mean an entirely different tray with a pile of each letter in a particular, coherent style (a font if you will) so you can say whatever it is you want to say and make it look nice too. And of course there are different sizes, so there's that to consider as well.

I may be mis-placing certain terms in the description but I'm hopeful the people that are wiser about these things will lodge their corrections in the comments section.

It's all pretty straightforward, but I'm still excited because this reminds me of the time I spent standing and staring at all the toys in the Black Creek Pioneer Village printing office prior to Christmas, fantasizing. And I'm pleased that such things still exist as viable entities in the real world. There's no reason they shouldn't but like a lot of stuff, until a functioning letterpress is shoved in my face, I don't think about it.

It all makes me want to get married, just for the invitations, or successful enough that I need business cards.

Hell, I'm just really jealous of their drafting table and gigantic rules. Everything is relative of course, and I'm calling them gigantic because I've just spent the last 30 minutes scratching and re-scratching the same, almost 3 mm twinned lines into my next drawing. 3 mm is too small, the margin for error on length and angles too big.

Mercy. I need a drafting table, or a bigger pieces of paper and a regular table would work too.

One day I might put words to paper, rather than just screen, but in the meantime here we are. So why not tack on a poem a poem to the post? It's my blog, so sure!

Here's one that's part of my spit it out while the spitting's good and call it poetry because you're still not totally sure what poetry is or what constitutes good poetry so you may as well show the world what you wrote and maybe the world will tell you it's all right or maybe the world will tell you it's complete crap but it'll be good either way because then you'll know someone read it poetry project.

This particular poem was belched upon the paper in a furious scramble of penmanship, followed by minimal editing. Hopefully said belching is something more than white noise.

-----

Backpack full of groceries

My arms are buzzing

below, above

everything there is to think of

a mash of tortured

black & white

in a world that's the grey clarity

of a nuclear powered mud storm

Malleable is an intention

but to

fight & struggle

against the brain

seems,

feels,

is

wrong & tiring

So much effort except when

walking & walking

and all the problems are there

but fine,

far off at the

destination & nothing

until it's reached.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 7

If you're going to cheat, you might as well cheat right at the end.

That's what I've always been raised to believe.

Cheating at the end, when done properly, only happens when doing it guarantees a win. No sense in cheating and then losing.

I still haven't sorted out sleep and after waking then errands it was already the middle of the afternoon. Instead of coming home to write I instead spent a chunk of what afternoon remained talking with LAWYER and one of his lawyer friends on the bench outside Ella's. I tried briefly to write a poem about the experience but quickly gave up. The first line was 2 lawyers sit on a bench and the rest was going to be puns and insinuations about terms like motion, bench, brief, firm, etc.

In fact now that I've revealed all that I'm sure you can all sort out the poem for yourself.

I even tried to incorporate the game of streetcar tag in, but...too groggy. Stupid sleeping patterns.

Last night I was at Bad Dog Theatre for a show and decided walking home (they're on the Danforth) was a good idea. It was. It took about 2 hours with all my detours, but it was a great walk. I found an exposed subway tunnel just east of Castle Frank station that arcs gracefully across one of the Don's offshoot valleys. I'm sure lots of others have noticed it over the years but it was my first time. Fantastic! I hope no one thought my leaning over the bridge, inspecting it, was a sign of darker plans.

I suppose if I had just gone straight to bed after getting home things might have worked out better today. But they didn't okay!!! So instead of a brand new poem, written today, you get the last poem I wrote before the week that was began. That's the thing about poets, even when the rules are self-imposed we just need our freedom and individuality.

So I am breaking the rules of my own...thing.

Are you excited? The following was written as a result of reading a lot of Leonard Cohen's stuff in a short amount of time.

Story (title subject to change)

Growing up not Catholic

is the biggest tragedy of my life

I'm not Jewish either

another of fate's damnable attacks

Lacking the benefits of a Classical education

all I have is a periodic United Church

bereft of pageantry

and razzle dazzle

There were stories there

and they trace back the same, I'm sure

but I forget, if I ever listened.

So now I write poetry and can't find the archetype

the creation myth

or patchwork of wonder

No raven or turtle to guide me

or build upon

No shorthand of history

King David's just some king

so are Henry and George and Louis and

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck.

Drab truths of science don't make poems

of universal truth

Their lights shine too self; confident and important

A lab is clean, fluoresced and sharp

and its stories likewise

without

shifting edges to bend and hug

close when cold without meaning.

Hide the world behind incense

chanting drugs or prayer and

find the truth because

it's all you'll remember

The broad strokes

A story on the edge of shadows

behind swirling light, in smoky space.

All I have is pro wrestling

and last I checked

the Pope's not holding the belt.

----

So there. Thanks for reading, and keep reading...I might post my short story Fire Drill on here in the near future. I had submitted it to this but received a nice form letter earlier today explaining that I hadn't made the cut. Probably better that I fail (for the time being), but I still wish I had known about the extension before rushing to submit on New Year's Eve.

Alas, alas it's in the past.

See I'm a poet.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 6

I should start off by welcoming my readers from around the world!

Guten Tag my dear German reader.

привет to my friend in Russia.

Anyong to my 4 (yes 4!) Republic of Korea Koreans. (I would have used your alphabet but don't have the font package, friends.)

Hey to the 5 Americans.

The 2 of you who reside in other, &*ndjher*!!!!

Bonjour to Canadians. I'm not numbering you because I think a lot of you might be me.

"But Camel Attack!, you're not the United Nations. What's up?" you might be saying.

Explanation: when I finish a post, I use a link shortener before pasting the shortened URL in Facebook and Twitter messages. The link shortener gives me statistics on who has clicked on said link, and what geographic area they (or at least their servers) are located in. The past week I have had a steady increase in the number of people clicking on the link, but mostly from Canada and the US. Until yesterday, when the 'cousins' arrived.

I investigated and found another Twitter account, with 2500 plus followers had tweeted my post, mentioning the blog name and a random line from the post, rather than a straight-up retweet. Based on the account's posts I don't think it's a bot, but who knows. I'll just be grateful for the extra (periodic) readers rather than wondering too much.

Also, I am now an international sensation. Hey South America, Australia and Africa, who's going to be the last populated continent to get with the hottest thing going (ie me)?

Preamble over. It's poetry from here on out and today a villanelle.

Like a sonnet, the villanelle has all sorts of fun structures to consider.

A'aA'' abA' abA'' abA' abA'' abA'A''

That means the same rhyme is used a lot, and where the letters are upper case it means the exact line is repeated verbatim.

Here's a nifty little Dylan Thomas number to give you an idea.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

----

And now you've read that bit of lovely, it's time to be disappointed! Like with the sonnet I feel my content really suffers because of the structure. Instead of writing a poem by looking for the right words I find myself writing to fit the structure. The structure gives me a sense that finishing itself is an accomplishment regardless of the lameness of imagery that is used. Now, I assume if I stuck with it I might improve, and writing a really good villanelle or sonnet would undoubtedly leave me with satisfaction oozing from my ears so I'm sure I'll come back to them at some point.

They'll be there when I want to challenge myself, searching for a magical collusion of meaning, words, rhyme and structure.

Blunt

Hold the creative maelstrom close,

Beneath an ever-aching pride,

To guard from providential blows.

Don't walk where everyone else goes,

Stand fast against strange pipers pied,

Hold the creative Maelstrom close.

Better to take advice from crows,

Or when the world seems trued and tried

To guard from providential blows.

Just another one amongst Joes?

A speck to be chopped up and fried?

Hold the creative maelstrom close.

Don't, though, miss your own show of shows.

Creative's a peach, ten miles wide

To guard from providential blows.

No one knows a thing, even those

voted to office must elide.

Hold the creative maelstrom close

To guard from providential blows.

----

Immediate comparisons: Thomas does a way better job of making each stanza a unit, as opposed to my choppy, three sentence structure. Working towards larger, cohesive thoughts is definitely a goal. Also, apparently the meter is not a big deal as long as it's consistent so maybe I will experiment with a few once I have learned what they are exactly.

Heh, and finding words that rhyme - rather than trying to shoehorn in close, pretending it's cloze - might be a good idea too.

One more to go! I've had a game of streetcar tag on my mind all week but it hasn't yet made an appearance. Maybe tomorrow's the day?

And finally, if you're reading this in some RSS feed make sure you go over to the blog proper. My poems read better in orange on grey.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 5

First things first people. Fancy done good! The man took a poetry course last term and after some concerted rummaging was able to extract Poetic Designs (more here) from wherever it was hiding in his room.

And those cookies? Those are some cookies I baked. Peanut butter for those not allergic.

I'm sure some of you are thinking That's a mighty purdy photo you have there. I agree and if you want to print off the photo, blow it up poster size perhaps, you'll be happy to know clicking on the photo will reveal its true proportions. With a file size that large there'll be no stopping your graphic pursuits. Also, I think Fascinator (new roomy has a nickname now - it's a hat thing) was more than pleased to witness this photo shoot. It's always good to see a true professional at work.

Bah, poetry. I'm not totally convinced by yesterday's sonnet. Like I said, it might be an okay first try but I feel like a lot of it was a might choppy. I'm hoping the lent book will lay some solid meter on me. Let me know what the deal is.

Also, there's a reason people like to write sonnets about big notions like love. If you're writing a structured poem, having a topic that can draw from all sorts of places within the language can only make said poem easier. Discussing the business of essay writing on university campuses, however, leaves the vocabulary at hand a bit more limiting. Then to try explain a business scam wherein individual wealth is achieved while minimal labour is expended and all this is further tied to contemporary notions of capitalism and investment that both pervade and possibly cripple our economy and society...well, writing that sonnet can be tough.

Today was meant to be a villanelle. I did not, however write a villanelle. That might come tomorrow.

One of the reasons I wanted to do this poetry exercise was to add some structure to my life. Given my current employment situation I wanted to make sure I wasn't losing days to mindless pursuits. So far, on the structure front, it's a great big failure. Sure I'm doing a poem everyday, but I'm also lying in bed, awake until 4 in the morning. I'm not lying there writing poetry, I'm just lying there letting my brain spin down and that takes a while.

Last night I eventually decided to turn on some TV instead of waiting for sleep and watched some infomercials. That's where today's work comes from! Sometimes if you just open your ears, the world writes poems for you. Sort of, I mean it's from more than one commercial.

Waking Dreams

I can't hear you John. My obliques are screaming too loud

is a strange thing to shout in a room full of people.

I'm not pregnant folks, I'm juicing!

should clear up all that confusion.

That's the great thing about the Flavorwave Mr. T

is a closing line no matter where it falls in the conversation.

My digital emulsification system uses

centrifugal friction to heat foods naturally.

easy payments of is the new morpheme

4 and $29.95 nothing but a couple of affixes.

x ePo y = x x y ∴ ePo = x

and we all know the x stands for multiplication.

If I decimate these chunks of solid concrete

does the unprecedented 100 year warranty still apply?

Jack Lallane is threatening to divulge celebrity juicing tips

and has a lifetime motor guarantee we need to take seriously.

It sounds like a miracle, but it's science.

-----

Self commentary: I like this one.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 4

Before I even begin, how about that blue? The one on the left. Has it changed recently? I dunno. It's been so long since I've bought 2% (and I didn't buy this, just found it in the fridge) but when I saw it the blue felt darker and richer than I remember it. I need to get some 1% and homo milk. I'm pretty sure 1% is stripy and homo is a nice red. Oh! And maybe some chocolate brown too. I need to get them, not to drink or anything, just for a photo shoot.

If I have any extra "milk" money (HAHAHAHA!) lying around, that's what I'll do.

But you are here for the poetry, right?

A thought on yesterday's haiku. Here's a brief one I wrote today:

Spring in the air,

on the ground my feet

fly.

It has something to do with nature! But I am still not clear on a lot of what's going on. By dropping the more strict 5-7-5 structure are there any really big defining characteristics that separate an English haiku from a three line bit of free verse about nature? I don't know. And I guess it doesn't really matter. If I want a structured haiku about nature that I want to call a haiku, I can do that. If I have a less structured poem about a plastic hat I found on a bus and I want to call it a haiku, well I guess I can do that too. Until poetocracy emerges as a form of government I should be reasonably safe.

On the bus of dis-

contented fury

the plastic hat screams.

Haiku! See...no one has touched me.

Okay. Today we have a sonnet.

The model I followed was the Shakespearean one, which has a rhyming structure that is meant to go: a-b-a-b c-d-c-d e-f-e-f g-g.

So far so good.

It is also, however, meant to include an iambic pentameter. Now, for the uninitiated, as I kinda was until yesterday, this is an unemphasized syllable followed by an emphasized one, then that unit is repeated five times per line. Ten syllables with an undulating cadence, one (me) might say.

I'm still not totally clear on what that means though. I read the example Shakespearean sonnet provided and when I listen intently for those emphases as I read, everything sounds kind of batty. And when I look for them in my poem, well then stuff really starts falling off walls. But I am fairly close to ten syllables per line, so I have that (to my understanding a little variance from ten isn't the end of the world).

One last thing before the big show; there is a reason people like free verse. It is soooooo much easier. Not that it is easy, mind you, but without structure to concern you it's basically all about the words.

Working on the haiku et al. yesterday was fun. Making lines work based on the light and easy structure of 5-7-5, or whatever, is basically a word puzzle. Once you get your meaning across in the allowable pattern you feel clever. Today's work, while having similar puzzling moments, added more difficultly through the increased complexity of rhyming and structure. And now that I am wondering whether or not my pentameter succeeded, the notion of sonnet writing (or being a sonneteer!) seems a much more daunting proposition.

Free verse is great and provides some fabulous poetry, but much props are to be given to the structured poets of yore (and today).

In the meantime, I won't be too hard on myself over iambic anything until someone who really knows their poetry can tell me what it's meant to look and sound like. Maybe (MAYBE!) I got it perfect on my first try?

The essay writing business

My dear tattered sheet of paper and tape

Cling fast upon your cold, grey campus pole.

Offer essays of ease, experts who shape

Words onto paper and then honour roll.

I'm not in school and don't need 'ssistance,

Instead there's a thought of skulduggerous work:

The assignment 'rrives, a thesis on France

I don't know Gaul, therefore search out some jerk.

Play person off person, shift papers 'round,

It's all 'bout shuffling the trail out of sight,

Write not a thing, while your bosses, astound!

And remember to pay less cash than you swipe.

A nice tidy plan to make some money.

Drops in the bucket, what's one more Ponzi?

-----

Okay! I guess that's okay for a first try. The first quatrain is the best I feel. The example on Wikipedia also seems to have each quatrain as a more thorough whole without distinct sentences, so that might have helped make for a smoother read.

The need for dual rhyming in each quatrain makes the writing experience interesting. You write the first line constrained only by what overall message the poem is meant to have, then the second, third and fourth lines are a bit up in the air. You have to consider rhyming possibilities for all three lines simultaneously as well as the message arc. It's all about jotting and crossing out (at least it was for me).

Sonnet, out!

bonus poems!!!!!!!!

Here is another sedōka. Can you tell the word 'articulate' was obsessing me today? Also, I don't actually know anyone named Lori these days. And if some Lori I've forgotten or don't know is reading this, we need to hang out more.

Drop me a line!

I used to think that

it would be a real pleasure

to articulate Lori.

One day, though, the sun

whispered a reminder. She's

not articulatable.

---

And this is a poem/transcription of how I heard the dialogue between two ladies outside the beer store. One was getting into her car and the other likely did not have a car. Also, dialogue spelled like 'dialog' looks gross.

Guess which speaker owns the car

See no evil.

...

Hear no evil.

...

Speak no evil.

...

I'm just kidding, Happy New Year!

7 days - 7 poems - Day 3

So I figured why not get the haiku stuff out of the way today. I might have saved them for an emergency later in the week, but what's poetry about if not living on the edge?

Below I have some haiku and various forms of waka. Waka just means 'Japanese poetry'. I'll label the different forms and if anyone is interested the above links can give more details.

I wrote all these in the laundromat just now and by the end all my thoughts were being divided into syllable compartments. That has now stopped.

Also, although I vaguely recalled nature needs some role in a proper haiku I assumed the 5-7-5 pattern was pretty standard and mandatory. It is not. Just like so much else in poetry there has been a lot of changes in the past few decades. Syllables, structure, etc. Read about it to your heart's content here.

I didn't realize that though, so I've followed the 5-7-5 form and whatever other structures seemed standard. Also, I've said whatever the heck I want below. Nature be damned!

Although...I might take advantage of that loophole, research haiku more closely and come back later in the week with some gang-buster, nature stuff.

Haiku

I wanted to use

'articulated lorry'

in a haiku. Done!

---

Tanka ('short poem')

I could have gotten

away with one of these poems

for today, but that

seems to go against, if not

the letter, then the spirit.

---

Chōka ('long poem')

The danger with these

forms of poetry is that

the syllable game

takes precedence and I miss

opportunities

for creative bull-kaka.

(Note the lack of swears here mum.)

---

Sedōka ('whirling head poem')

In space, no one can

hear you scream. In Hawaii,

the word aloha means both

hello and goodbye.

The former from a poster.

The latter from Inessa.

---

Katauta ('poem fragment')

You think this is half

a sedōka? Speak to the

Japanese man with the sword.

---

Bussokusekika (something to do with the silhouette of the Buddha's feet)

I want to find the

best five syllable first line,

secret it away,

then reveal its existence

once I am Prime Minister.

That'll surprise everyone.

---

And more haiku...

Hey you! Sean Chambers.

This is me declaring a

haiku war. Go time!

If a t-shirt makes

friends with jeans in the dryer

it stays wet longer.

(p.s. - I'm going to post two more poems in a bonus post, but I'm saying this here in case people only visit this page and don't go to the main blog)

7 days - 7 poems - Day 2

Do I need to preface these? This poem rhymes!

Preface complete.

------

Flying by Train

It's just another train ride

From point A to point B

People sit. Look straight ahead

'Til a child's glee

Breaks the staid and silent glide

And reworks space as she

Finds the conversation

'Tween mom and dad too dull

What with a pole of shiny silver

To draw attention from the crawl

It holds her nose and bright brown eyes

In its smooth, curved face

But as the train bursts from the tunnel

She senses another place

Light pouring through the sudden window

says, Struggle from your chair!

To see the girding black steel and rivets

That hold us in the air

Deep into the valley

She stares with amused intent

Considering the gap

Don River and train have rent

The squealing silver worm we ride

A dual-environment creature

Not just below but high above

The Flying Subway Show's main feature

Upon travelling Viaduct

From one end to another

Re-entering a dark soil hole

Ends the mood of hover

And with the ink the window stops

A mirror now instead

But from the cherub, now seen as two

Nary a sense of dread

Ignoring for the moment

The world's changed disguise

She chooses instead to smile

Into her own all-knowing eyes

-----

Tell me your thoughts (I like all kinds). Also, feel free to throw out requests or suggestions. This can be a subject (tomorrow's ideas include a game of streetcar tag and...a three line cop out) or a style of poetry. Challenge me, but also make sure you explain the style's structure or point me towards something that can. Keen!

7 days - 7 poems - Day 1

This was a stupid idea. I'm tired and just want to go to bed. Blah.

Anyway.

I had this great idea the other day, or last night while lying in bed and contemplating my inability to wake up pre 10am (see, I miss work for some things). My great idea is to write a poem every day this week. I guess I'm starting right now.

I could push it back to tomorrow but that defeats the purpose of doing one every day. And although this will emerge after midnight on Sunday (ie it is now Monday) it still counts as Sunday's poem. And for those who like rules...I can't use something I started writing before today but any ideas or lines I have from today on are good for the week.

I hope and WANT any and all who read this to comment on it. This exercise is tripartite (it has three parts)

1 - get me writing

2 - get me publishing (to whatever degree) so I'm not so wishy washy about getting things perfect and precious before they appear

3 - improve my writing.

For the third part I need constructive criticism. So tell me what you think, in any venue you feel comfortable (comments email, phone, face etc.). And for those who feel they know nothing about poetry, me neither! Except I know I like some things and I think some other things are dumb. Focus on that and you can't go wrong.

This first poem is about what we see in this blurry, cell-phone taken, picture.

Looks like blood to me!

------

Dear Pigeon

Dear pigeon,

It's been cold the last few days

and left to your own devices

you flew indoors and underground

and down

and down

to tunnel town.

Good plan.

Poor execution.

Now you're just a smear.

or

You were a criminal,

from society less genteel than mine.

Convicted by a jury of his peers

he will fly west

into the east-

bound

to Kennedy and deserved damnation.

Good execution, or

at least a success.

Now you're just a smear.

but

Dear pigeons,

How do you decide

which crimes

deserve a train's reward?

Which blurs of grey

are wiped away?

We pigeons convene here today

tasked with a sacred duty.

Capital punishment is tough.

or

Do you just let the cold decide

who lives and who died?

mercy

There's not much going on, so there's not much to write about.

The new roomy has arrived for the month of January whilst D-Hammer and Annie are in Hawaii. She (Katie) seems to be settling in, or at least hasn't complained yet.

Last night I made my first giant batch of curry (red lentil coconut variety from Simply in Season) of the season and had a some peeps over for noshing. I hadn't had the most productive day, trapped reading too many too long articles from Vanity Fair and Harper's...oh shit. I just opened a bunch more articles. Heh. Unemployment!

Err, where was I. Oh yes. Because I had spent too much time reading interesting articles I hadn't gone to the grocery store for the ingredients to what I had intended to be some personal curry, which in turn meant I wasn't going to be able to make The Hurt Locker showing at 4:15. You can see what kinds of dilemmas I find myself in. Anyway, in a bit of a grump I decided to skip the film and on my way to groceries I realized I like people, so I sent out a casual word to a few (sorry if you weren't one of them) inviting them to dinner. After scurrying to the store and back, and cook-cook-cooking up a storm everything was ready for people to arrive. Which they did, a few minutes later than anticipated.

Perfect? They yeahs have it.

Long story short, lots of curry (enjoyed by all and sundry) with lots left over for later dates and times.

So I did have a few things to say.

What else? (I like to pretend this is a blog blog blog, where there are strangers reading it. People who I don't talk to on a regular basis who actually need all the minutiae of my life lest they feel lost.)

I'm working on some stuff. A short story has been submitted to Broken Pencil's Indie Writers' Deathmatch. Unfortunately, after frantically typing and editing New Year's Eve to get it in before the deadline the sons of guns extended said deadline for more than a week. Maybe that means there aren't many entrants and I'll win for sure! It's happened before.

Hopefully more to follow on that front.

And I'm writing some other stuff. The poem I'm working on now partly inspired by all the L. Cohen I'm reading.

Here's another bit of his genius. Believe it or not this post was only going to be this poem but then it grew and grew.

Believe it!

The Flood

The flood it is gathering

Soon it will move

Across every valley

Against every roof

The body will drown

And the soul will break loose

I write all this down

But I don't have the proof

As true now as when it was written, apparently in the Sinai in 1973. I really wish I'd spent more time writing poetry when I was travelling. Oh well, next time!

oh yeah, and my own stuff

my bedroom floor just after 8 on a Wednesday evening (Sweat as Communication)

I have seen
a bear bark white honey
and lost
in a fit of giggles
sage advice granted.

I've been told
I flop. Too
submerged to know, me
carrying on without me.

I remember
dowelling fanning out the fabric of existence
rotating from my fulcrum
ceaselessly, holding
colours of toys,
retro and for a wall
in my head.
Yellow? brown? orange? Blue?
Ceaseless
I roll and chase the real I want.
Just pushing it away
just panicking.

Then
a friend, down, now up,
or at least at the stairs' other end,
watching from the fan.
And I know everyone will be
slowly
all right.

Pillow
Bed
Sweat as communication
returns to my brain
first, and mouth
slowly.

I am searching
for sight in everything
even as revelation drifts away
and fades out.
Lost, but for a poem,
so something.

musings from the slightly north

Here I sit in Owen Sound, the land of milk and honey and cold freaking basements where the computer lives.

Sheesh. I'd better type fast.

Away from Toronto for a day and my brain starts to function on a different level, as the quiet of my house and its slower pace of life leaves me with time to contemplate the world in a different way. Thoughts that bubble just below the surface in Toronto, shunted aside by the distractions that accompany big city livin', here are allowed time to surface and percolate. Owen Sound, at least for me, gives time and space.

Time and space for doubt to re-emerge, in this instance.

Said doubt, however, is not a bad thing. Let me explain, won't you? It's the holidays, you have lots of time.

As mentioned previously I tend to get ahead of myself and a wee bit self-congratulatory for producing the tiniest something. On a mission to buy moustaches the other day Annie even noted my tendency to play fast and loose with the word genius...when describing my own work.

Uh-huh.

She's great for "calling it as she sees it" and forcing me to think about what I'm saying or doing.

Is the poem I wrote this week the best thing ever? No.
Do I have the right to be pleased by a clever turn of phrase and take joy from it? Yes.

Even if I think I'm using genius ironically, on some level there's a whole lot of ego rumbling, telling me I don't need to work hard. That no matter how long it takes me to make one thing, when that one thing is done my inborn brilliance will be revealed and lauded by one and all.

That's dumb. And a dangerous trap to fall into.

So! A harder working me, rife with humility is what is needed from here on out (until the end of time). Confidence is fine, but thinking everything I do is a paragon of awesome risks stopping me before I start. Why work more, try harder, and push onto bigger and better if I'm already sainted? Reminding myself, even if it's forcibly, that there is always much to be done can only help me in the long run.
(This isn't a new year's resolution, just a resolution that happens to have come at this time of year. Sometimes having a fixed date in mind for a change can help, but I figure why wait if you already know what needs to happen?)

Hurray for self doubt!

Good doubt can also emerge when you're reading an entire book of poems by someone who's quite good. There's this guy, Leonard Cohen, maybe you've heard of him. Anyway, I've been reading Book of Longing, his latest, and it's reinforcing how important consistent work truly is. I mean, you don't get 200 plus pages of poetry with an hour's writing, every once in a while when you're in the mood.

Beyond that, the poems are pretty neat too.

With so many poems in a book there's bound to be a lot of variety (not all of them are equally fun or golden), but the ones I'm enjoying the most are what I would call spare. Simple, clear writing, without need for overt cleverness, provides more than enough for an enjoyable poem. You could end the interaction there and walk away happy, but the truly great thing is that such simple writing can leave you thinking that there's something more. I feel a hidden depth of meaning that such simple words shouldn't be able to hold, but they do.

Super!

Here's one, the last poem I read before shutting off the lights last night.

The Moon

The moon is outside.
I saw the great uncomplicated thing
when I went to take a leak just now.
I should have looked at it longer.
I am a poor lover of the moon.
I see it all at once and that's it
for me and the moon.

Pretty good, huh? Can you tell where his writing ended and mine began? Probably.

Oh Leonard. He really is interested in the mundane and essential acts of humanity. Eating, sex, poo and pee. He sees a lot of beauty there and those themes emerge again and again throughout his work. Also, he apparently really likes to go down on ladies. Good for him!

what's the deal with publishing poetry?

I know I tend to get ahead of myself sometimes, cart before horse and all that jazz.

This is definitely one of those times.

BUT.

What are the rules around publishing poetry and prose on a blog? Sometimes, when you enter a contest or submit a piece to a magazine the regulations state it must be unpublished material. Does my blog count as a something?

According to the CBC Literary Awards it does.

Uggh. So that means that I can't post my poems on here if I want to submit them to something like the CBC LAs. Of course that's just one contest, but such regulations are of concern to me.

Why? Let's introspect, shall we.

Reason 1 - Up until now my creative output has been an inconsequential, unenviable mess, so when I actually do finish something it takes on far more significance than it should. Each finished piece is a symbol, something to signify ALL the potential I'm convinced rattles around in my brain.

Reason 2 - Stemming from 1, if I consider each finished piece a master-work I'm instantly convinced of its dearness and value. Something of great worth of course needs to be cherished and only launched into the world at an appropriate moment, an instant where all eyes are watching and all mouths are ready to shout its praises.

Those moments don't come around too often. In fact, if one thought for about three seconds they would realize that such convoluted logic sound more like excuse making. A way to avoid ever finding out if what I'm doing is actually good, and so...

Reason 3 - This reason is a bit of a mess, bear with me, but we can generally say the third reason I am writing this inane post is confidence.

a - As mentioned above, if I talk about publishing something or submitting something it takes attention away from the act of publishing or submitting (or the lack of action) and my untalented deceit is never revealed!

b - Stemming from 2 is another facet of confidence; FEAR! On some level I'm afraid that I won't be able to rally my creative forces ever again. This one can be overcome, simply by doing something. Then doing something new. Then following that second something with another, and a fourth, and a thirty-second (after a 29th) and so on.

To be a creative individual you need to create all the time. Do, do, do, do and do. Not think, suggest and maybe next week. Take artistry seriously. As Canadian poet David W. McFadden ( a fella I've mentioned before) said, "From Grade 11 till now I've been writing poems every day, or thinking about it a lot on the occasional day I'd miss. To me an artist had to work every day, it had to be his entire life, or he was a fake."

A fake eh? Sounds familiar. So all I need to do is write a poem a day for the next 40 years? Well, maybe I should just take the meaning of his words and apply them personally.

And reason number...I don't even know. Am I onto italicized sub-sub-headings by this stage? My next point doesn't necessarily follow from the others, I just want to include it somehow, so...

Reason 3bi - I've mentioned this before, but thinking in terms of a best sellers and smash hits is wrong-headed. Chasing the latest trend and not being true to personal creative instincts results in shallow, unformed pieces. Mere shadows of what other original people were doing weeks, months and years before.

Stick with what you love and find hilarious, however, and at the end of the day you get something that you at least find enjoyable. If it finds fans in other like-minded souls that's great, but if it doesn't, who cares?

And so I struggle. Wanting to create something that receives recognition, worrying that personal notions of grandeur might be pin-pricked and deflated (not necessarily a bad thing), and simply wanting to create and push things out there regardless of the venue. Maybe even get to a point where I'm comfortable enough with myself that I know there will be other poems after this one and that I'll have another short story idea.

And I think I'm getting there, becoming more willing to release things into the world. Able to set aside all the above mentioned concerns. And if it does turn out I have created the greatest thing ever I'm sure it will take care of itself.

What set all this off?

I'm working on a poem entitled my bedroom floor on a Wednesday just after 8 in the evening (or sweat as communication). With a name like that how can it NOT be the greatest thing ever?

I was actually thinking about not posting it on here, but after writing everything I've just written I don't think that's possible.

Now you all have something to look forward to!

when you have a question about poetry ask a poet

Or at least read what they say.

Who is David McFadden? A Canadian poet who I had never heard of until today...what's the opposite of an oxymoron...internet research, and...

WOAH, THAT'S A TAUTOLOGY IF I'VE EVER HEARD ONE, AM I RIGHT PEOPLE?

Thanks to Monkey Farm his deets were sent my way.

She's in the midst of a poetry course right now so undoubtedly has all sorts of goodies she can share, but started me off with some great news, just the sort of thing I want to hear...

"Also we had a guest lecture in class last night and there was a brief discussion of clarity in poetry. He told us that there are levels of obscurity in poetry, and that the more you study it the more you can get out it. But he also said that the best poetry - the stuff that will stand the test of time - will have surface clarity, and then underneath that layer upon layer of complexity."

She then mentioned Mr. McFadden and was kind enough to send me a link to his book, recommending Margaret Hollingsworth's Typewriter as an excellent place to start.

-----

I was eating scrambled eggs in the Shamrock Restaurant

and the eggs tasted like Chinese food

so I said to the waitress I'm a person

who likes Chinese food but doesn't like

my eggs in the morning to taste like chicken fried rice

and she laughed and said it must have been

the green onions and suggested the next time

I come into the Shamrock for breakfast

I specify that I want Canadian green onions

with my scrambled eggs or I'll get Chinese again

and I said there won't be another time,

this is it, I'm a widely respected blah blah and blah

and well-regarded in the community too

and shouldn't have to subject myself

to such bad food. I'm finished, I said.

This used to be my favourite Irish-Chinese restaurant

in the entire West Kootenay

but this is it, I'm never coming back --

and through the kitchen door I could see

the Chinese chef covering his ears with his hands.

And so I went to pay my bill

and this is the really embarrassing part,

this is why I'm writing this poem

by hand, pencil on paper, because Margaret Hollingsworth's

typewrite has a three-prong plug

and all the outlets in the house are two-prongers

and her adapter is up at the college

and I begged her to let me cut the third prong off

so I could use her typewriter

because I had a simply overwhelming

desire to write this poem, and she refused

and I told...oh, never mind all that.

This is the embarrassing part. After complaining

so vociferously about the eggs I went to pay my bill

and discovered I had no money with me

so I had to go home and get my wallet

and bring it back to the restaurant

making myself a liar for having said

this is it, I'm never coming back.

The waitress was very nice about it all.

Is it hard to write poetry?

Yes, I would say it is. For instance

in this poem I didn't know whether to start

by talking about the scrambled eggs

or the Smith Corona. And I didn't have

a lot of time to think about it

because I simply had to start the poem,

it was that urgent,

and then you have to torture yourself

wondering if it's all right to write about

writing in a poem and you keep resolving

never again to write about writing

and you always break your resolve.

It's as if writing has a will of its own

and wants to be written about

just like Margaret Hollingsworth's

typewriter.

-----

Great stuff, so clear and seemingly simple. And the book was nominated for the 2008 Griffin Poetry Prize.

It's great when you find out you aren't alone. Others are pondering poetry's absurdities as well, and And AND, the introduction to McFadden's book compares him to Frank O'Hara (see the below post if you've already forgotten) in the first line! Oh universe, you are a tricky monkey.

poetry and the TTC (not necessarily in that order)

Where does one rant?

Is it here?

Okay. 2 rants. One price (free). Oh, and there is no connection between the two.

Rant number 1: TTC fare increase

I'm not mad at the TTC, that would be dumb. Why would I be mad at an organization whose job it is to move people from point A to point B. They're not trying to make a shit-ton of money while doing it, just break even. And yet, people are losing their minds that fare prices are going up. Going bananas at the temerity. How dare they charge me more?

Instead, these people should be getting mad at multiple levels of government that claim to support public transit but fail when it comes to anteing up the money. Either giving nothing or attempting some misguided tax write-off silliness.

Public transit is great. Public transit is vital for a connected, thriving city. To say nothing about where greening initiatives would be without it. Public transit needs more respect.

And, as an aside, streetcars make such a great noise when they're zipping along. It's a hum, but with a tenor cadence, throbbing in the underbelly of the sound. I like the word thrum to describe this noise and have been using it a lot lately. Any other suggestions?

Rant number 2: poetry

What's up with that stuff?

I'm trying to read some right now, but I miss a lot. Some of the poems I fall into, I find the cadence, understand the words and get what's going on. Some remain obscure to me, but although I try to parse a meaning from the metaphor and fail I still find pleasure in the flow and lyric of the thing. Then finally, there are the poems I don't get, at all.

When I read a poem I adjust my reading style, trying to savour the word and form laid before me, and avoid my normal quick read that hunts for narrative and drops details in the process. Sometimes it even works, as a line's structure pokes me in the eye, a word choice makes me smile or nod. My appreciation for poetry ends up stemming more from self-satisfaction at gaining entry to an imagined poetry in-group than any sense of actual understanding.

It wouldn't concern me, but there are way more poems I have no clue about than ones I get. Makes me worry I'm doing something wrong. Does anyone have expertise in poetry, whether reading or writing? Would they like to start a poetry circle? Or maybe just lend or point me towards a book.

How to Expose Your Soul to A Raging Tempest: The poetry teachings of Franz Léderée

Maybe that book exists?

Heh, who knows. In the meantime I guess I'll just keep reading and experimenting and seeing what results. Poetry is difficult because of its density. It requires and sometimes demands re-reading. Like the rest of my daily existence my adventures in poetry will be better served by living with the moment, re-reading to find additional meaning, having patience with what is before me.

Watched this documentary about Leonard Cohen and he apparently spent (spends?) 5 hours a day writing and editing. I'm sure that's part of the answer to my dilemma as well. He is also described as a "very confident young man" who keeps all his correspondence and makes sure to have many photos taken; the duties of one who considers himself the record keeper of a generation but with very little ego, apparently.

He also claimed to have chosen a path infinitely wide and without direction. Sounds like me, so that's gotta be a plus!

(EDIT: I've taken off the Leonard Cohen video because its automatic play function was getting a bit annoying. You can still watch it here.)

And let's sign off with a little taste of some of the good stuff I'm muddling through, the Frank O'Hara poem Mayakovsky was used in an episode of Mad Men. Or at least the 4th stanza was. Caught my ear. So hear it is in word form.

1

My heart's aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it's throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I'm turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I'll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embraced a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That's funny! there's blood on my chest

oh yes, I've been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

Hopefully I got that all right. Goodnight. Work starts anew demain. Hard run in to Christmas.

Nice sweater

Pardon me for imposing an experimental structure on this post and on my day. Writing in full sentences just wouldn't feel right.

------------------

Walked.

Ended up by the island airport giggling

uncontrollably at the ferry route.

Toot toot and you're there.

My one regret,

not waving at Toronto-businessman-to-a-T,

if only to see how heavy the briefcase was.

-----

Went up the CN Tower for free

-the benefits of working at a pioneer village are beginning to show-

and the lady that took my picture at the bottom said she liked my sweater.

It's a basement find

I told her so

She doesn't know which basement though.

Surveilled the city. It's a lovely city.

Looked every which way

and stood on the glass floor.

No one trying to break through from below

but it holds 14 hippos from above.

Spent a lot of time grinning at myself and others.

CN Tower information displays: casually ignoring recent construction since 2004.

-----

Back on the ground a man outside union station.

I liked his eyes

or what they used to say - today they were confused.

I offered him a hot dog but his stomach was upset,

I asked him what he'd be doing later with the dollar I dropped,

a pop or something,

I suggested ginger ale to settle his tummy

and he liked my sweater too.

I didn't mention the basement,

don't think he'd care.

Should have patted his back when I wished him a good day.

Touch is nice.

-----

Into the banking core,

my suit against their's and mine won!

I was able to stand outside, staring up for as long as I wanted.

Black steel is a good steel

to use

if you're building things skywards.

While they had to scuttle past,

forced inside by cotton and wind.

-----

Trekking home, I was self-stuck on University's median

joined by other people,

light-trapped, 30 seconds at a time.

I considered dancing for my captive audience, but ended up smiling at them all

only

instead.

-----

Funny poutine in my stomach and existential philosophy via text,

a Queen street frame of mind for the last stretch home.

First time I was loathe to walk Dundas

first time a sense of street struck me so powerfully.

Looking in all the clothing stores

but interested in pretties and music,

not clothes.

Hello pretties, I was adventuring today!

Then through the park, instead of directly,

leaping up the stairs,

the knee now feeling better.

And dogs,

And home,

And rest,

And supper,

And so forth.

And my room's cold and I'm putting on my sweater.

poetry

I've been casually casting around, trying to learn something about modern poetry. It shouldn't be difficult and if I decided to focus on it I'm sure I could find what needs to be found - a book, a website or whatever.

It hasn't happened yet.

Part of the problem is I am reading a lot these days and as usual that means a lot of variety and all the reading styles said variety entails. Alongside Calvin and Hobbes beside my bed I have two books on picture framing (not ready for that project yet), a collection of short stories, a 20 year old National Geographic, Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, a stack of readings from BCPV that I don't think anyone else is reading (this is why I'm the best), Noel Castree's Nature (again) for the class I'm TAing and The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology and the Scientific Revolution just because I found a reference to it somewhere.

I'm hoping the last book, by Carolyn Merchant for those who care, will help me develop Gaia more fully. Gaia being (obviously no originality on my part) the Earth personified and the main protagonist in my comic, featuring everyone's favourite conflicted environmental superhero Antaeus Findlay. Right now I feel she's too stereotypical nature-mother-figure. The wild, uncontrolled woman as opposed the structured and rational male scientific society. I suppose there is some strength to be found in that view, but I have to be careful. Right now there's too much jealousy and vanity in why she does what she does and it needs something more to make her a complex being. I want to avoid a male-female binary paean and don't think creating a distinct female character to counteract Gaia will cut it.

Can you tell this story found its genesis when I was in grad school? And it's not even on top of my to do list. That's the novel. So why not throw poetry in there as something else I haven't read enough of, alongside short stories?

Yeesh. I just wanted to tell you about a neat poetry thing I found.

Here it is. Joel Stickley, a member of the Aisle 16 poetry group in Britain. He teaches you How to Write Badly Well and writes a damn fine poem. Complete with pictures!

So I have an entry into poetry. Hurray! Now I just need to learn a new reading style for the medium. One that is slower, more expansive and better able to take in what's on offer. Reading academic stuff lends itself to speed and skimming, as does having a to-read list a million miles long, not to mention only giving yourself a few minutes in bed to read before sleep is undeniable.

Priorities my good man.

Eventually I'll learn that life is life and needn't be completed by the end of the month; there's time to be apportioned. Perhaps I need to sharpen my apportioning sticks as much as anything else.