Poet Laureate

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/
The Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine, is an independent literary organization committed to discovering and celebrating poetry and making it available to a wide audience. The site contain numerous resources including Poem-of-the-Day, a free subscription.

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem-day
Poem-a-Day is a free daily digital poetry series featuring over 200 new, previously unpublished poems each year. On weekdays, poems are accompanied by commentary by the poets with classic poems on weekends. 

The Rhymes They Are A Changing

In its most recent survey, the NEA foundsteep increases in poetry readership across the board, but especially among women, minorities and adults with only some college education. Poetry has also gotten a major boost among rural audiences: almost twice as many people from non-metro areas read poetry in 2017 than in 2012. So if this who is reading poetry, what are they reading?

These days, poetry is far more than words printed on a page, bound into volumes and sold in the poetry section of bookstores or tucked away in obscure corners of libraries.  A major reason for poetry’s growing popularity is that its definition has expanded.

One writer classifies poetry today as “broader, more viral and musical and culturally expansive, and therefore much harder to define and also harder to imagine going extinct.” If you look at Rupi Kaur’s books (milk and honey andThe Sun and Her Flowers), you’ll notice that she has combined words and images both on the printed page and on line, leading to her moniker as an “Instapoet.” Folksinger/songwriter Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize in Literaturefor his “poetry.”In her short story,” English author Zadie Smith makes an oblique reference to Kanye West, saying, “He is one of the newer poets–the musical kind–and so his words tend to go everywhere, floating between our towers, rising above the city.”

And it’s not just how poetry is being written, but how’s its being accessed. Rather than settling into armchairs in stuffy clubs to read the classics with cups of tea, poetry fans today are accessing poetry via a range of social media. I subscribe to two daily poem feeds, one from the Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazineand Poem a Day from the Academy of American Poets (www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem-day) Indolent Books (https://www.facebook.com/indolentbooks/), a publisher of poetry books and online projects has published a few of my poems and I receive regular updates on new submissions.

Various online literary magazines also appear on my email and Facebook feed and friends send me poems, often via social media (now that Facebook “knows” that poetry is one of my interests, all kinds of poems pop up on a regular basis–thanks, algorithm!) In addition, I get what I think of as poetry “bites” on my Instagram feed (to get started, here’s a link to 12 Instagram poets worth looking into: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/12-instagram-poets-to-follow_b_58fbc278e4b0f02c3870eb05. Even Twitter has gotten in on the act; @BestCdnPoetry (https://twitter.com/bestcdnpoetry?lang=en) will take you to a comprehensive list of the Best Canadian Poetry of 2018. Truly an abundance of riches!

Because poetry is meant to be experienced, not just read, there are now ample opportunities to engage other senses as well. Button Poetry (https://www.youtube.com/user/ButtonPoetry) broadcasts poets reading/speaking/performing their poems on YouTube. Live poetry readings/slams/spoken word events are all the rage in settings as varied as classrooms to bars (look for our upcoming Pints & Poems event next month). And poetry is not only being spoken, it’s being talked about. Last year PBS aired a series called Poetry in America on its stations and online. The show features wide-ranging and rich conversations about poetry with various celebrities in a format that expands the notion of poetry by marrying words and images to bring the genre to life in a new way.

The who, the what but what about the why? One of the reasons poetry matters again lies in its intrinsic nature–language compressed and intensified. Poetry has the ability to convey and comment on the sense of urgency many people report feeling in these turbulent times. All over the world, people are thinking and talking and debating about who we are and want we want to become (or return to). In an age when words are used as weapons, we seek clarity, comfort and hope in whatever words of wisdom we can find. When you pair this yearning for meaning with the availability of instant communication, it’s clear why poetry has been liberated from the halls of academia and the slick world of traditional publishing. Poets today live in and embrace what one reviewer terms “the fast-paced, democratizing, hyper-connected culture of the internet.” No longer the purview of the educated and affluent few, poetry is now available to all.

This may explain why so many of today’s poets as well as consumers of poetry are people marginalized by mainstream society: youth, women, immigrants and refugees, indigenous peoples/people of colour. When times are tough, they’re even tougher on those who are most at risk, and a result most likely to be involved in social protest and online activism. As poet Jane Hirschfield told the New York Times last year: "When poetry is a backwater, it means times are OK. When times are dire, that's exactly when poetry is needed."

The rules have changed, as our response to poetry no longer bound by academic dissection, as if we are meant “tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it…beating it with a hose to find out what it really means” as poet Billy Collins says in “Introduction to Poetry.” At the same time, poetry invites us to slow down, to look/listen/think/feel–a refreshing break from the demands of the instantaneous "Like” response we’ve gotten used to on social media.

At their best, poems prompt as many questions as answers, generating uncertainty and mixed feelings. When we wish for easy answers to complex realties, poetry reminds us that its value lies as much in what it does to us as what we “do” to it. Next month is National Poetry Month. Let’s take the opportunity to celebrate nuance and ambiguity–the stuff of human existence–and set aside the blunt instrument of a black & white/either-or/right v. wrong mindset. For this ubiquitous contemporary ailment, poetry may be the best remedy.

Take a look at Poetry Corner for a short poem that tackles a challenging subject with candor and courage.

Happy New Year! Each January, there are articles everywhere you look about starting the new year off “right.” Whether it’s “5 Easy Resolutions for Your Career” or “131 BEST New Year’s Resolutions” (yikes!), there’s no end to the advice available. Good news: this month’s blog is not one of them! When it comes to poetry, my only “advice” is “try it–you might like it!

That being said, I do have some thoughts to share with you on what’s happening in poetry in 2019. Here are 5 trends related to poetry you might find of interest. Over the next months, we explore each in more detail.

Here’s the big picture:

1. The popularity of poetry continues to rise

The number of print poetry books sold in Canada in 2016 grew 79% over the previous year–the largest jump of any category–and grew again in 2017. In 2018, two of the Top 10 bestselling Canadian titles of theyears were books of poetry: Milk & Honey and The Sun and Her Flowers, both by 20-somethng Indo-Canadian poet Rupi Kaur. At the other end of the spectrum, The Flame, the final book of poems assembled by octogenarian Leonard Cohen, was an instant hit when it was published posthumously in October.

This is by no means just a Canadian phenomenon. In the UK, poetry sales went up by 15% in 2017 and in the US, a 21% growth in poetry sales occurred between 2015 and 2017, making poetry one of the fastest growing genres in the publishing industry. And people aren’t just buying poetry, they’re reading it: last year almost 12% of North Americans polled reported reading poetry–pretty amazing when a quarter of of them indicated not having read a whole book in any format in the past 12 months!

2. The audience for poetry is changing

Of those polled who read poetry, almost 30% were between the age of 18-35. Saul Williams, a famous slam poet (more about this later!) noted the cyclical nature of poetry’s popularity, “It’s always engaged a new generation of youth who have brought it back to the forefront of culture and put new terms on it.”

The survey showed steep increases in poetry readership across the board, but especially among women, minorities and adults with only some college education. Poetry has also gotten a major boost among rural audiences: almost twice as many people from non-metro areas read poetry in 2017 than in 2012.

3. The definition of what makes a poem continues to expand

An attendee at a local poetry event last year told me, “When I was in school, the teacher said that all we needed to know about poetry was “Ta-da, ta-da, ta da-da; Ta da, ta da, ta da;  ta da, ta da, ta da-da; ta da, ta da, ta da.” Wow-have things changed in the poetry world! Today, we’re approaching close to 100 recognized genres of poetry. Some of these forms have been “discovered” by Western writers in other cultures, like the Sijo (a Korean verse form related to Haiku but with more syllables) and the Ghazal (an Arabic verse form traditionally focused on love).

Conceptual poetry uses the placement of words and characters on the page so that the poem’s meaning is derived as much from its shape as its content. A genre that ‘s making a comeback is Prose Poetry, a composition often written in a “block” of text v. broken into verse lines (an early example is Hamlet’s soliloquy by Shakespeare). Leaping off the page is the genre of Spoken Word, a broad designation for poetry intended for performance v. reading (see an example at left from local writer Linda Hurley). A related form is Slam Poetry, a live performance in which the poet expresses personal story/struggle in an intense and emotional style and is judged by a random panel on the performance. Yup, that’s a thing!

4.  The focus of poetry is changing

Not only is the “what” and “how” of poetry changing–increasingly, so is the “why.” Addressing personal, social and political issues has always been a means of “speaking truth to power.” In these fractious times, poetry has stepped out of the libraries and off the pages to march, protest and call out injustice. From the the #metoo movement and the call for justice from indigenous communities to the demand for equality by the transgender people, poetry has emerged as a chosen form to address important issues.

While focused on different themes, many poets are turning their talents to speak to key social issues and empower the disenfranchised. Short verses are being used to further social change by appearing not in books or journals, but on social media to raise awareness, written on banners at protests, even as tattoos to literally “embody” an idea.

5. How we access poetry is changing

We think of poetry as something we seek to read, but increasingly, poems come to us. Poetry in the public eye–usually combined with visual imagery–is a growing phenomenon. From the large-scale “activation” entitled Something to Say currently on display in and around the Brooklyn Museum in New York (https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/something_to_say) to the interactive Write the Wavesinstallation we created on the hoarding at the end of North Pine Street right here in Collingwood, poetry is getting out and about.

And while sales of poetry books continue to rise, many of us are accessing poetry the same way we get the news, the weather and updates from fronds and family–on our devices. If the medium is truly the message, Instagram has provided another platform where form and content are conjoined. Short enough to take in without scrolling down, these short texts–often laid out on a coloured square pleasing to the eye–mesh well with our 21st-century reading habits.

If approached with an open mind, poetry can be delicious and satisfying. So I’ve got just one New Year’s resolution for you to consider: make a point to add poetry to your reading diet in 2019. If you’re not sure how to begin, here’s what the poet Eve Merriam advises in “How To Eat a Poem”:

Poetry–good and good for you. Enjoy!

November is a sombre and sobering month here in Southern Georgian Bay. Sombre in that the last vestiges of autumn have fallen–literally. The world is all angles of stark grey and brown until the first snowfall swaddles us in the soft white blanket of early winter. Sobering in that November is a month when we look back withlonging or regret–often both.

Gone are the lazy, hazy days of summer that burst onto the scene with such promise as spring crocuses and daffodils made way for roses and peonies, then daisies and hydrangeas and finally road asters and garden mums. Behind us now the fulsome harvest and our songs of Thanksgiving for the rich bounty this land provides us. The “holiday” we celebrate this month is Remembrance Day, a heartrending mix of gratitude and sorrow.

The homily at this year’s Remembrance Day ceremony focused on poetry as one way we try to make sense of war. We honour those who made the ultimate sacrifice to keep our land “glorious and free” by reciting “In Flanders Field”* (See links for the poems below). At the same time, we bow our heads in shame that “for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war,” as Margaret Atwood points out in her poem “The Loneliness of the Military Historian”*.

Given the paradoxical nature of our response to war, poetry sometimes seems the only appropriate genre to address both aspects. Poetry often resides at the edge of experience as a border that is both boundary and meeting place. In “Vergissmeinnicht”* English poet Keith Douglas makes an encounter with “the enemy” very real and personal when he reminds us that in the dead German soldier– a photo of his girlfriend inscribed with “Vergissmeinnicht” (Forget Me Not) in his pocket– “the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt.”. This liminal nature of poetry is illustrated in this modern interpretation of the poem “But You Didn’t”* by Merrill Glass (no relation that I know of).

Poems like these leave us thinking–and feeling. No wonder the day after the poppies come off we are so eager to “don our gay apparel” and turn our faces toward Christmas, even though it’s over a month away.  Between now and then comes Advent, a time of waitingin the natural world as well as in the Christian year. Just what is it we are waiting for, and clamour to celebrate each December? Beyond any religious impulse, we are carried into and thorough the darkest days by the hope that this old world will keep on turning, and the warmth and light will return in due course.

As we wait, we are well advised to slow down, even stop our frenetic pace so we can take a breath, reflect on the past and begin to imagine a better future. Here’s how the poet Pablo Neruda describes this opportunity.

Keeping Quiet

Now we will count to twelve
 and we will all keep still
 for once on the face of the earth,
 let's not speak in any language;
 let's stop for a second,
 and not move our arms so much.
 
 It would be an exotic moment
 without rush, without engines;
 we would all be together
 in a sudden strangeness.
 
 Fishermen in the cold sea
 would not harm whales
 and the man gathering salt
 would not look at his hurt hands.
 
 Those who prepare green wars,
 wars with gas, wars with fire,
 victories with no survivors,
 would put on clean clothes
 and walk about with their brothers
 in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.
 
 Life is what it is about
 I want no truck with death!
 
 If we were not so single-minded
 about keeping our lives moving,
 and for once could do nothing,
 perhaps a huge silence
 might interrupt this sadness
 of never understanding ourselves
 and of threatening ourselves with
 death. Perhaps the earth can teach us
 as when everything seems dead in winter
 and later proves to be alive.
 Now I'll count up to twelve
 and you keep quiet and I will go.

- Pablo Neruda

Does this poem speak to you? If so, think about responding with a poem or two of your own that we can share in our Poet’s Corner. This month we feature a beautiful seasonal piece by local writer Susan Wisner, whose poem “Waiting, Late Autumn” has been selected for publication by Your Daily Poem. Look for it on November 29th. Way to go, Susan!

And speaking of November 29th, I’ll be celebrating my birthday that day. If you’re near Collingwood and are so inclined, stop by the Huron Club after 8:00 PM to say hi and enjoy the great music of local band Bored of Education. After all, danceable songs are “poetry in motion!”

Maybe it’s because I spent so many years in the classroom– first as a student and then 8 more as a teacher, but for me the real “new year” starts in September. As much as I love summer, the final days of August often seem tired and worn out, and I look forward to the snap of fall that often occurs shortly after Labour Day, at least in Canada! September is a time of transition, as we shop for new clothes/haul out old fall favourites, stock up our kids with back to school items ranging from notebooks (or Notebooks!) to lunch box treats and celebrate the end of summer with camp/club/pool closing events.

Now is the time we begin to prepare for a new cycle to start all over again. Even if the weather is still warm, the locus of activity shifts from outside to indoors (although the barbeque stays out all year!) No matter what the thermometer says, we know it’s fall when the yellow school buses punctuate our morning commute and political candidate signs pop up on lawns to compete with bedraggled summer flowers. We root around for sox and find ourselves thinking about apples and pumpkin lattes v. watermelon and iced tea.

September is also a month of renewed responsibility. Each fall, our low-key, laid back summer selves pull it together and recommit to getting serious. While January 1st New Year's Resolutions seem more like making up for holiday indulgence, those forged in September– whether a new hobby, a class you’re going to take or home improvement project– all feel appropriate for this time of year. And our inner calendar is mirrored by the outer as community meetings and events that wrapped up in June often launch with a flourish this month. 

In the midst of this excitement there is also some sadness, as we see the days getting shorter and we know that Winter is Coming. While we look forward to the joys of fall, we sigh as another summer passes into the past. Poetry provides a great way to mark some of the conflicting emotions we feel at this time of year. Here is a poem I wrote that delineates the difference a day can make, when the day is Labour Day and the next Back to School:

Summer’s End

The sun’s pale yolk sizzles on a blue platter of sky,
pressing down on the earth like a heavy china plate 
grabbed to flatten a single flower,
as if any dry, faded, two-dimensional form 
could preserve or even recall its fulsome summer bloom.

I counted eleven watercraft in the harbour yesterday–
jet-skis shimmering across the waves like dragonflies, 
sailboats dabs of white paint on a blue canvas, 
the tour boat ferrying a load of Mennonites on holiday, the men in silent attention 
as the captain shared local lore, the women gaggled in the bow.

As hot today as yesterday, but the waterfront is deserted 
save for the flotsam of brown ducks in the shallows, 
geese and swans finding refuge in the shady overgrowth along the banks.

Today is the day after Labour Day, and the humans have departed.
Living by the calendar and not the thermometer, 
vacationers have vacated and sun-worshippers have returned to work.
Children have traded dog-eared backpacks carrying beach toys and sand
for new ones filled with supplies for the new school year.

There is no sound overhead but the keening of the gulls,
their cries seeming to say
gone back to work, gone back to school, gone home.
No wonder the cicadas drone a mournful dirge. 
Summer is over.

For another seasonal offering, check out our Poetry Corner for the poem “Launched” shared by Val Losell, a poet and painter living in Barrie.  Val recently self published a book of paintings and poems called Holding Up the Sky: 33 Paintings and Their Poems, available on Amazon and Chapters and Friesen Press websites as paperback, hard cover and e-book, or from Val directly at holdingupthesky2018@gmail.com. 

You may also want to mark your calendar for a BMFA sponsored event at the Simcoe Street Theatre on October 13th featuring poems written by Collingwood poet/graphic artist David Conning (who is also the co-owner of Clerkson’s). This unique theatre event will pair poems David wrote for his daughter over 25 years with music by the subject of those poems, Laura and her partner in the band Honeymoon Phase.

Finally, on Saturday the 8th, I’ll be kicking off Words in the Woods–the Dunedin Literary Festival co-sponsored by Rina Barone, owner of Simcoe Street Books and featuring an exciting lineup of writers. If you’re so inclined, spend the day at Dunedin Park where we’ll have an interactive Poetry Tent.  Come play with words and maybe get published on our site next month! 

As you head into this other new year, a month of new starts and fresh beginnings, I’ll leave you with one question: what’s your September poetry resolution?

Last month, thousands of Grade 12 students across Canada graduated from secondary school. For many, it may be the last time they set eyes on poetry. In an age when education is presented as a means (skill building) to an end (employment), any time not spent on STEM (science, technology, engineering, math) or business subjects must be a waste of time, right? After all, what can poetry “do” for you? If you’re in it for the money, you’ve picked the wrong career, and even as a hobby, it’s vague and seemingly purposeless. 

As one writer put it: “To devote a life to poetry looks to most people like a decision to ignore the benefits of modern life, in particular the power of money to effect any meaningful progress. It looks suspiciously like sulking.” Hard to argue with that perspective, but a renowned physicist (and poet) Dr. Iggy McGovern disagrees. His claim as a scientist is that “Poetry as an inoculation against rampant emotion is now more necessary than ever.” Huh? How does that work? Isn’t poetry all about emotions v. the “reality” of science? 

Dr. McGovern explains that poetry is indeed largely concerned with our emotions, what he calls “the strange agents that operate on both sides of the brain-body border.” He notes that emotions are powerful stimuli that serve as both “our ‘emergency response unit’ and our own worst enemy.” This mixed bag is certainly evident these days, as emotions seem to be running high in so many aspects of life. Whether it’s politics, the economy, social issues–even our capricious Canadian weather–people are getting hot under the collar and bent out of shape. How on earth can poetry help? 

Simple answer: carefully chosen and consciously placed words. Poetry uses language in ways that help us see the world with a bit more perspective. Employing literary devices such as metaphor (“hot under the collar” and “bent out of shape”), poetry has the ability to present emotions within a frame, “tamed, like the performing tigers in the circus” as Dr. McGovern’s simile suggests. Emotions recollected in tranquility v. experienced first hand are more manageable, able to teach us valuable lessons, “so that the next time the heart revolts against the head, the potential damage is better contained.”

As Dr. McGovern points out, “Science, on the other hand, doesn’t do feelings.” Science by definition is about building a strong wall between cool logic and messy emotions in order to maintain true objectivity. But there are truths in poetry that differ from scientific truths. It may be unscientific to refer to getting one’s heart broken, but anyone who has suffered the loss of an important relationship knows all too well that “broken hearted” is just what it feels like. 

So, what can poetry “inoculate” us against and why is that even necessary? While one of the benefits of science has been useful knowledge that we can apply to make everyday life function better, too much tech can leave us feeling–well, a bit numb. From blurred vision from staring at a computer screen to texter’s thumb, we pay a price for our rampant addiction to the technological gifts that science has given us. One of the best uses of poetry is to get us off our screens and into our imaginations, more powerful engines of creativity than any machine, device or AI app.

How does poetry work its magic on us? The big difference between reading or hearing a poem and a scientific fact is in how the words are used. In an called essay Poetry & Science, Czech poet and immunologist Miroslav Holub argues that while science is based on a single logical meaning of a sentence or word, “poetry tries for as many possible meanings and interactions between words and thoughts as it can.” Think of it as the difference between designing a garden and planting a crop in straight lines; with a crop, you are looking for uniformity, maximum yield and no surprises. The joy of a garden (not to mention wild nature) is its variety, diversity and surprises (how did that tulip get into the middle of the lawn?!?)
In this technological age, we may discover we need poetry more than ever. Modern science pushes us to get the one and only “right” answer in an increasingly ambiguous and nuanced world. Social media has given rise to expression of unbridled emotions that have led to ruptured relationships, despair, perhaps even war. This is what happens when science can deliver our every thought instantaneously to a rapacious public of potentially millions via 144 ill-considered characters. Poetry allows us, invites us, even forces us to slow down, take a breath, read and then reread, ponder, imagine. The “word-space” of a poem can take us out of the logical, linear “single-vision” Newtonian world we seem stuck in

In a time when the planet seems to spin faster on its axis every day and “the world is too much with us; late and soon,” poetry is a great remedy. We may no longer live in a time when humanity talked about the world via thousands of lines of memorized song-poems. Those epics eventually dissolved into individual words – pieces out of the whole, like science reduced to smaller and smaller bits of matter, many unseeable, not just unseen.  What we have in each area seems stingy by comparison, but poetry can help us reclaim the magic of true science: that what is known and knowable as well as our own emotions. 

When we are experiencing the inconsolable loss of feeling alone in the universe or in our own lives, poetry can provide solace. In a verse entitled “The Stars once spoke to man,” Rudolf Steiner wrote that while it is “world destiny” that the stars are silent now and that “to become aware of this silence can become pain,” it is in the “deepening silence” that human beings can earn to speak y to the starts and “to become aware of this speaking” can become strength for humanity.

I read at least one poem every day: on the deck with my morning coffee, stretched out, feet up for an afternoon break with a cool lemonade, at a sidewalk café with a glass of vino, even on my phone under the dark starry night sky. Wherever I am, it’s great to know that every poem I read is inoculating me against the vagaries of the world. I consider it time well “wasted.”

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Here’s my favorite summer poem, written by American poet Mary Oliver. If you had the good fortune to attend one of the performances of Quarter Century Theatre’s’ brilliant “Collected Stories for a Better World” in May, you may recognize the snippets that were included in the scene between the reluctant student and the jaded teacher. The latter was portrayed by fellow Collingwood poet and colleague jake MacArthur, whose own fabulous poem on weather is posted in the Poetry Corner. Check it out and think about penning a verse of your own “weather” or not you consider yourself a poet! Happy Summer.

The Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Let’s face it: poetry is weird. Novels and short stories have the decency to proceed in an orderly fashion from beginning to end in structured sentences and paragraphs, filling one page before starting another. Poetry wanders around, paying little attention to any rules but its own. 

Some poems rhyme, but others don’t. Some have a prescribed number of words, syllables or lines, while others jump all over the place. Poems take liberties with grammar, spelling, punctuation‒marching to the beat of their own drums. Some poems don’t even have the decency to stay in books where we expect to find them. They’re happy to have snippets of themselves displayed on greeting cards and posters and are even so bold as to expose themselves in public places like parks and the sides of buildings. Just who do these poems think they are?

Unruly as they may be, let’s see if we can come up with a definition: poetry is a form of writing that uses a distinctive style and rhythm to express feelings and ideas.  A lot of the communication we’re used to‒written and spoken‒is to convey information (textbooks, instructions, articles in newspaper and on-line) or to persuade us in some way (ads and commercials, paid political announcements, opinion pieces). Poems on the other hand capture in a concentrated form some imaginative awareness of the poet’s experience by language chosen and arranged to evoke a specific emotional response through meaning, sound and rhythm. If non-fiction engages our thinking and novels and stories our imagination, poetry that works goes right to our core. 

One of the most noticeable characteristics of poetry is economy of language. Poets are stingy about the way they dole out words. They carefully select language not just for conciseness and clarity but also taking into consideration how a word makes us feel, its musicality, its spacing, even its spatial relationship to the page. Like all artists, poets create something out of thin air. A poem can be described as a painting by an artist who uses words instead of paint, and the canvas is you.

The poet hopes that when you experience the poem‒whether reading it or hearing it‒you will feel intense emotion. It might be joy, sorrow, anger, release, love, even surprise‒one of those aha! moments when something snaps into focus and you see yourself, another person or the world differently.

Poems have a big job to do, and there are so many ways and forms they can take that it’s no wonder that they’re the free spirits of the literary scene. Once you get to know them, you’ll discover that poems these days are playing hooky from school, escaping from libraries and climbing down from bookshelves everywhere to make their way out into the world in their own unique way. You’ll be meeting a lot of poems on this site but keep your eyes open and you’ll  discover poems cropping up in all sorts of unexpected places throughout our community. They will welcome your attention; just don’t try to define them too tightly. Keep in mind the words of contemporary literature expert Mark Flanagan, “Perhaps the characteristic most central to the definition of poetry is its unwillingness to be defined, labeled or nailed down.” As I said, weird‒ and wonderful.

Here’s a poem I wrote about the process of writing poetry. I’d love to hear your reaction.
Sugaring Off IV

Summer is the time for blooming, 
spreading your arms wide as you lift your face to the sun.
Winter is for hunkering down, 
drawing close to the warm fire and dreaming of the past.
But in the spring and fall of your life,
you may become aware of the shifting light 
as the days stretch or shrink 
in accordance with
the dance of the sun 
and the whirl of the seasons.

If you notice, you may respond by reaching down 
deep into the earth to discover an aquifer of words 
waiting to be drawn up through your peculiar roots.
You have the power to transform 
the water you find buried beneath your life  
into barely sweet sap. 

Do not stop there.
Tap that sweetness, gather it up.
Boil buckets of words down,
luscious, golden, thick.

Keep going, 
until all that remains is 
a lump of intense sweetness.

You are the author of nature’s alchemy:
water to sap, sap to syrup, syrup to sugar

poem.
-Day Merrill

During the month of April, Poetry Kits were placed at the Collingwood Museum and Centennial Aquatic Centre. A spontaneous poetry wall was also created at Central Park Arena with note paper and pens on hand for those ready and willing to play with words! Here are a few of the submissions:

New in Town

I have found this trail on a city map
along White’s Bay leading to  an isle
called Hens and Chickens – a farm,
succulents?  I am about to discover,
 hoping for green, a glimpse of spring.

Pieces of ice break off with a crack,
Meld with the water, liquid at once.
Redwing blackbirds cling to branches,
screeching, proclaim  their  territory.
Wings of geese whistle overhead.
Mergansers bustle to and fro.
Willow catkins and moss by my feet,
 velvety pillows greeting. All around 
celebration, spring is here.

Abruptly, the path to the island ends.
A footbridge has been taken out 
by ice and winter storms. Over there,
I see some mounds, homes of muskrats.
Water birds weave through the marshes.

A swan detaches from yellow grasses,
head held high, white wings pristine,
he floats through the gap a few paces 
from me. He doesn’t care that I am there,  
so sure of his domain.

-Ella Pankatz

Returning

Surrounded by succulent sweet crab apple blossoms

dripping in the wind, the ground a pink carpet, creeping flocks,  

red yellow tulips alive and dead, deep purple iris,

a wicker chaise lounge cushioned  comfort,

filled with memories,  fields of wheat undulating,

unfamiliar beauty, wildflowers,

climbing  above constant change.

The Bay calls me, the heat,

invites perhaps demands,   jump,

like cool mountain streams at the end or middle

of those days welcomed toes and feet

filled with  bygone knowledge,

Roman,  medieval,  visible ruins.

I walk now on land,  remembering, that

where  I walk…”Indian children used to play…”

called to be aware to notice, history here.

 “ Jesus carried his burdens,”  he said

she replied “  I am not Jesus, and he was not sixty.” 

Yesterday, after the vegetable beds, were mulched, 

and seeds were planted,  the labyrinth was mowed and

dainty blues forget me nots were placed in vases, 

I watched rain fall, glee filled,

holding knowledge of thunderstorms,

in the valley, on distant mountain ranges, 

rain covers over packs,  swelling stick clicks on earth,

petitioning for five  more kilometres of grace.

You wave as you go by,  “ welcome home,’ 

familiar comfort on your face.

I met him, for the first time at the airport,

heading to St.  Jean,  three meetings later, he fell

into my arms,  a mountain climbed, descent accomplished,

we lost each other on day five.

She gave me my wedding album, forty three years ago,

I was nineteen,    so young and wise,  

now changed.

Forty countries more or less 

                            gifted me

with wisdom

                  from their citizens.

my pack sits empty on the floor,  

not put away,

not yet. 

• gloria kropf nafziger

The world is angry, spitting fire and ash.

How many eruptions must it create?

Where must it next open earth and roar?

It’s had enough of our senseless squabbles.

Its threat is real, we should abide, revere its mighty roar,

fear its inevitable outcome, desist our squabbles.

One potentate after another trying to fight – not play.

To destroy – not create.

To pollute our destiny with destructive toys.

Cease and Desist!

We have what we’ve been given the use of –

not the right to

destroy each other,

tower over,

defeat

mankind and its companion species,

inhabitants of this great blue sphere

we all call home.

-Faye Austin

The boy is gone; he’s launched
and left a gaping space
wet towels, drums and reeking rugby shirts
used to fill.
It’s too quiet now; the sparkle’s gone.
Gabe shared his joys and passions easily;
kept his sorrows and fears for his friends.
No more, “Hi Mom!” though truth be told,
we’d heard it less of late.
Now sometimes over skype,
him sprawled on his dorm bed,
I’ll say, “So, how was your day?”
watch him stroke his beard and calculate
what he’s willing to share (while
admiring himself in the camera).
Just a few weeks gone and he’s already
pitched a ticket home to catch
Viking Metal in TO. (oh ya,
and dad’s birthday too, I guess).
He’s already jamming at a friend’s,
prepping for open mike,
fishing in Ste. Mary’s River
and shaving with his KA BAR knife
by the campfire.
Yes, he’s launched.
I’m happy he’s so full of his own life now,
but I also wish he were still six,
and I were still the apple of his world:
As he will always be of mine.
 
Val Losell

I delight in weather

I flow in the passage of weathers

I don’t wield umbrellas to ward off the rain
or deflect the brilliance of solar light and heat

I don’t live buffeted by the chaotic imagined vagaries of weathers
I revel in the stillnesses and breezes and buffets of true air flows

I don’t moan about the dim and damp of wet summers
I search for secrets and treasures in the shadowed picnics of the dark

I don’t shiver in the midst of winter blizzards, yearning for spring greening
I sing lullabies to sleeping embryos and cuddle the icebergs of silence

I delight in weather

I don’t plant cultivated gardens or water weedless lawns
I write symphonies for wildflowers and float blinded by oceans of dandelions

I don’t gasp in panic with summers passing and the turning, falling of leaves
I dance in harmony with the penultimate colours drifting to their birthing graves

I don’t listen to the manic meteorological dramatizations of media prophets
I watch cloud patterns, leaves and cows and open my nostrils to shifting scents

I don’t get worked up by weather
I flow with it
I delight in it
I’m grateful for weather … of any kind … on any day
affirming every moment …
I’m alive.

© Jake McArthur 2009 

Exasperated with the whines and complaints and sighs from people reacting to a summer of more than average rain; the emotional pot-stirring of media around weather forecasts and the endless cycles of complaining about the cold in winter, the heat and humidity in summer and the wishing for something else than what is. Stop … feel blessed!

And then the tide recoiled
when the urge to grow 
wealthy as an ocean
was more futile than 
the strength it took 
to float.

-R.C.

Here are four of the poems generated at our recent Playing With Words poetry “playshop”. These poems were created on the spot using a “prompt” or starting point called Poetry Jam, which is a way to concoct a poem based on three nouns. If you’d like to try it yourself, pick any three nouns (person/place/thing), ask someone else to assign you three or use this handy on-line Random Noun Generator to produce three nouns for you to use:  http://www.desiquintans.com/randomnoun. The prompts used for each poem are in bold.

Strangers always seem to find me.

This one’s heart glitters like gold, it’s blinding.

Only with another soul do I expand my view.

-Rick H.

I hear a voice,

quite clear and direct.

I am in the church.

It comes from under

the frontal arch

and speaks of death.

I stand to run away

but decide to stay

and wait for it

to speak of life.

-Eric B.

I walked the streets of downtown,

trying to make sense of the homeless souls

I saw living and dying on the sidewalk.

It wasn’t until I listened to the yarn

of a desperate grandfather

that I realized, anyone’s life can go

off the rails

and I could be him

instead of who I think I am.

-Ruth H.

Long awaited retirement.

I pin my hopes on my future,

my plans, dreams, adventures.

But here I am in hospital.

Life has stalled, every day the same.

Dreams fade and change.

A visitor comes by my window

with feathers ruffled from a

journey of wind and weather.

He sings his birdsong.

Hope is renewed, a new song.

I will rise and fly once again.

-Nancy L.