Posts Tagged ‘poetry’
raddit
Rabbits have always been a part of my life. When I was young, in Alberta, rabbits (the white-tailed jackrabbit) overran the prairie and almost every evening, you could look out on the lawn and see them grazing. In New Brunswick, we often see rabbits (the snowshoe hare) along the roadside.
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When I was in Grade One, I was asked to submit my scribbler for a contest. The teacher, Mrs. MacDonald, said two things about my scribbler. First, I should look at my spelling of ‘rabbit.’ It occurred many times in the scribbler and everywhere I had spelled it ‘raddit.’ Second, she said to use an eraser to make the corrections. “Do not wet your finger and try to take out the two ds. It will leave a hole in your paper.”
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I had no eraser. And I wanted to win the scribbler contest. The teacher had mentioned the use of a wet finger as an eraser. Perhaps it would work. So I wet my finger and rubbed at the ds. You guessed it, I ended up with a hole in the scribbler page. I did not win the contest.
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twitch
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grass, bent after rain
underside in dark, topside
rinsed in moonlight where
eight brown rabbits lope
from perimeter of prairie
eager for a nibble of green,
nip of delirium, dancing
in moonlight, whiskers
liberated to brush
cheeks in mobile
shadow, to make
transparent, long
ears, vein-lined
twitch, stand
erect, ear
hairs scan
for two-
or four-
legged
danger
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All my best,
staying home,
Jane
ice
As I go over the many poems I have written over the years, I find a lot of poems about ice. Ice is very poem-worthy. It glitters and drips. It is cold and changes form. Icicles make great popsicles (if they are dripping from a clean surface). Ice can be a metaphor for emotion, life experience, change, danger, and so on.
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Today we had a high of 7 degrees C and all the snow and ice are melting. Not really sad to see them go this year.
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river ice
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builds in shallows
at the rim of river, incremental
embellishment to transparent sheets
of glass, ice envelopes winter
remnants, reeds and willows
thickness increased as frost
penetrates, sharp edges
cauterized by cold
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freezing rain
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trees, bare branches, wait
wood snaps in the stove
budgies peck at cuttle bone
pellets of rain, tossed
at the skylight
a second transparency
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bare twigs turn in wind
distribute their coating
in these last moments
before temperature turns
the snowpack on the picnic table
shrinks at the edges
shoves over, makes room
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branches gloss so gradually
candles dipped in a vat of wax
over and over, acquiring thickness
the sky, through the skylight
dimpled tile, rumpled mosaic
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rain stipples bark as narrative
appends to memory, pane here,
light there, layers of glass
cedar twigs turn downward
as fingers, ice builds
layers of skin
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All my best
(staying home!)
Jane
organizing writing files – ordering a manuscript of poems
Last month I started a big project – to find and organize all the poems I have written during the last forty years. For a glimpse of my approach see here.
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After four weeks of effort, I now have a file of poems I would like to assemble into a book. The title will be ‘niche’ and the book will include poems about the ecological spaces plants and animals (including humans) occupy.
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niche \ ‘nich\ n (F, fr. MF, fr. nicher to nest, fr. (assumed) VL nidicare, from L nidus nest) 1 a : a recess in a wall, especially for a statue. b : something that resembles a niche. 2 a : a place, employment, or activity for which a person is best fitted. b : a habitat supplying the factors necessary for the existence of an organism or species. c : the ecological role of an organism in a community especially in regard to food consumption.
– Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, 1979
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I have identified 66 poems for ‘niche,’ taking up about 110 pages. Although I could just toss the poems into the book in random order, I like to think about how I want the reader to encounter the poems. I organize the poems in the book following these steps.
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1. List the ideas in the poems:
After I find all the poems to fit the ‘niche’ category, I arrange them roughly into a manuscript. Then I print the Table of Contents and write a list of ideas associated with each poem. Examples for ‘niche’ include: needs, predation, reproduction, invasion of other spaces, seasons, nutrition, competition, and so on. I also start to get a feel for poems that do not fit.
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2. Develop a progression of ideas:
Once I have identified these ideas, I decide how I want to group them and how I want them to progress for the reader. In the case of ‘niche,’ I want the poems to first define niche, then consider the strategies plants and animals use to stay in their niche, then explore the discomfort or danger created when a niche is occupied, consider the spaces I have occupied in my own life, consider the problems you have to overcome to occupy your own niche, and conclude with an idea of the ideal space. Then, I reorder the poems so they fit the progression of ideas.
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3. Sort the poems roughly into groups:
Once I have decided on a progression of ideas, I put poems into sections to portray those ideas. I choose the title for the section from a poem in the section. It is at this point that I decide which poems do not belong in the collection and remove them. For ‘niche’ the following are the sections (for now):
occupation of space – needs of an organism for food, water, air, physical space, and so on.
strategy – ways plants and animals protect their niche and solidify their position
praying for rain – dangers and discomforts of occupying a niche
mapping the labyrinth – places I have occupied, a bit of memoir
not touching the land – ways a niche is changed when it is occupied
forgetting to move – getting comfortable in your own niche
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4. Order and fine tune:
Now the fine-tuning. To create a readable book of poetry, I think poems should not only be consistent in theme, but also segue from one to the other. This may be as simple as grouping poems of one season together, or grouping poems about plant species. It also means allowing the language and rhythm to flow from one poem to another.
The intensive way to do this is to print all the poems and lay them out on a surface, ordering and reordering until they feel ‘right.’
I hate to waste the paper, and I like to have all materials within one view, so I use an abbreviated method. I prepare pages showing just the section titles, the poem titles and a line about the poem. I cut these out so they can easily be moved around on a table. If I want to check detailed poem content structure, I have my i-pad near at hand.
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The process is sometimes tedious. Taking a break helps since after a while the poems you know so well begin to blur in meaning and the relationships between poems become nebulous. However, like many editorial-type tasks, the end product is worth the effort.
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All my best,
staying at home,
Jane
organizing writing files – what to do with scores of poems
Lately I have been doing a lot of thinking about the poetry I have written over the years. I have two traditionally published books of poetry and will publish, independently, a small volume later this month. But scattered in the memory of my computer are hundreds of other poems, written over the course of forty years. Quality varies, but they are all mine, an expression of what it is like to be ‘me.’ Someday, when I am dust on the wind, someone is going to scan my computer and push delete. My son would not do this, but if I leave them in this state, they will become part of the clutter of his life.
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So, if I have had success at publishing my own work, and have the skills, why shouldn’t I ‘save’ the poems it took four decades to write.
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My approach has been to find the poems and assign them to one of five files. Each of the files will be the contents of a book of poetry, independently published and produced in a few copies. I have no intention of marketing these books. I may give them to family or friends, perhaps submit them to a few contests and just enjoy them myself.
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The five files will be:
1. ‘niche’ – poems about the spaces occupied by plants and animals
2. ‘myth and mystery’ – poems about strange occurrences in life
3. ‘lakes’ – poems about lakes and rivers in New Brunswick
4. ‘my grandfather’s farm’ – poems about my memories of the farm
5. ‘journal poems’ – poems about specific times in my life
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This is a slow process. First, there are multiple copies of some poems. Second, I have not been consistent with the naming of files. One outcome of this project will be a tidier computer.
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When I have the files in folders, then I will work to organize the poems, revise them, format the manuscript and produce a book. A huge task, but as with all things, I will see the project through in stages, working on one part at a time.
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UPDATE: I now have the files organized! It has taken about a month of work, off and on. I am now working on the poems for ‘niche.’ There are 66 poems, taking about 110 pages. Next post, I will write about organizing the poems into a readable manuscript.
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All my best,
and staying home,
Jane
blue shadows
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blue shadows
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crawl across the snow
reflect trunks and branches
tufts of lichen
curves of bracket fungi
curls of bark
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blue shadows
nuanced in ultramarine
and pthalo
a dab of violet
but never grey
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sinuous, diagonal
gaps of light
slow alteration
with angle of sun
no flicker of foliage
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All my best,
Jane
crystal ball
During these incredible days of isolation, our writing group has begun a series of prompts to help stimulate writing. One of our members suggested ‘weird phrases’ as the prompt category. So far we have had ‘ear hair,’ ‘under the fridge,’ ‘spider web’ and ‘crystal ball.’
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I have two ‘crystal balls,’ both small and both more properly called ‘glass spheres.’ But they are as close to a crystal ball as I will ever have. I am certain neither sees the ‘future’ but both show an interesting ‘present’ and both remind me of the ‘past.’
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clairvoyance
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my crystal ball
is a glass sphere
from a claw-footed
piano stool I sat on
to practice my scales
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chipped, it never
snags the sun
will not scry or clarify
occludes
forecasting fog
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it has a past
Chopin’s Butterfly Étude
in half-time
and a furry
Für Elise
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but gaze
though I may
it never resonates
with a note
about tomorrow
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although it has
guessed, after
damaging percussion,
I will never play
Carnegie Hall
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All my best,
Jane
spider web
My writing group has been sharing writing prompts in this time of isolation.
The most recent prompt was ‘spider web.’
Took me an hour to find a spider photo since I am spider-averse.
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spider web
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web enlarges spider
her domain, her coefficient of creep
extends her occupation of space
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trap for unwary
blue-bottle flies
beetles on the wing
and gnats, nattering
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all of the cobwebs
I have brushed from my face
would not weigh a gram
but they take up
a fair chunk
of brainscape
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just as the spider
is sensitive to vibration
my skin notices
the sub-threshold of touch
the tiniest occupant
of my domain
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All my best,
Jane
Ball’s Bridge’
In southern Ontario, the Maitland River winds through fields and woodlands before it empties into Lake Huron at Goderich.
When we visited the area two summers ago, we discovered the Ball’s Bridge on the Little Lakes Road.
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Ball’s bridge was built over the Maitland River in 1885. It is a rare example of a two-span pin-connected Pratt through-truss iron bridge and one of the oldest wrought-iron Pratt bridges in the US and Canada. The bridge was built at a time when horse-drawn carriages and carts were its only traffic. In 2006 the bridge was declared unsafe for the weight of modern vehicles. In 2008, the bridge was saved from further deterioration and eventual destruction by the Friends of Ball’s Bridge.
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The poem below tries to capture the interplay of light and shadow as we crossed Ball’s Bridge and drove the local roads.
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Ball’s Bridge, Maitland River
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on the first day of fall
landscape is criss-crossed
in lattice and wire
spider web and the flight paths
of pigeon-flutter
to the high lines
of the iron bridge
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rays of light
find solar panels
and the backs of turtles
sunning on river logs
the inter-lacing
of dark water and light
the shadows of metal and truss
intercepting wire
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cornfields
and winter wheat
embedded rows
a river and its valley
and a hawk follows
panels of air, first frost
and meltwater collects
on oval lily pads
yellowed leaves
rusted wire
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This is the second metal bridge we have visited in Ontario. A few years ago we photographed the South Nation River Bridge, in Glengarry County, not far from Cornwall. That bridge has been removed, another loss from our built landscape. For the story of our visit to the South Nation River metal bridge click here
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All my best,
Jane Tims
wings of angels
As part of my at-home-writers-retreat, I had a ‘break’ day yesterday. I had my hair cut (always relaxing) and went with my husband for a drive to our cabin. We read our book aloud (a Philip R. Craig Martha’s Vineyard Mystery) and took lots of photos. This evening I wrote a poem, based on today’s photos. Most are blurry, because of the relentless wind.
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wings of angels
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I don’t believe in angels,
though I catch their whisper
between stems of Poa,
meadow grasses and blue.
Discover feather fall,
seed tufts of goldenrod,
Solidago. Wing tips
disguised as autumn leaves,
staghorn sumac or oak.
Glimpsed along low ditches,
silken hairs of rabbitsfoot
Trifolium arvense.
Find feathers aloft, on air,
cirrus or stratus clouds,
or wind-smoothed cotton-grass,
tassels of Eriophorum.
Catch scent—Dennstaedtia
hayscented fern, or cedar,
sets cones for another year.
I think of angel wings
and refuse to believe.
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Copyright Jane Tims 2019
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All my best,
Jane
red, red, red
Autumn, no doubt about it. When I go outside, I see red everywhere. The red of the leaves of red maple, many already on the ground. The red of the lily-of-the-valley berries. The red of the crab apples on our little tree at the end of the walkway. The red hips on the rose bush beside the driveway. Red, red, red.
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red, red, red
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each rose hip edge
an ellipse to complete
the curve of rambling canes
berries red, mellow to orange
the white shine, highlight, tipped
with the black remains of blossom,
once pink, now vermillion of vermis,
cinnabar, poisonous, mercuric, toxic
lily-of-the-valley, raceme of berries
dangle, vivid crimson blush, bright
spot on fevered cheeks, the child
thought the berries good to eat
scarlet sigillatus, decorated
small images, pixilations
of woman with camera
limps to reach third
red, ruby, purple
red crabapples
in bunches
hanging
in rain
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Copyright Jane Tims 2019
All my best,
Jane
nichepoetryandprose 