Rose DeShaw

POEMS OF THE LAUREATE CANDIDATES: Patience Wheatley, Steve Heighton, (more to come)

Rose — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 13:58:27 +0000

Patience Wheatley (From: A Hinge Of Spring)

A Hinge Of Spring

A blazing bird melted a twig’s
white cover-then there’s another
what can a cardinal want with winter
warming the snow and rock-grey grass?

cold binoculars fog over
I rub and the birds jump huge in the centre
of the round theatre below my birdfeeder

the red male observes the armoured pigeons
khaki sparrows, spike-furred squirrels

and swivels a princely black cat’s face
and quitely drops in the trodden circle
stands refulgent and splendid

startling the ruck he makes this country
in crimson majesty blesses our garden
and hinges spring open

Steve Heighton (From: Flight Paths Of The Emperor)

HURRICANE EARL SCRUBBED THE SKY

Rose — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 11:59:31 +0000

Bright cool morning with flowers their true colours after a storm night of wind & rain. Paradise in early autumn.
Here’s hoping my son’s house in Halifax, right across from the Atlantic Ocean, didn’t get blown off its hill. No word yet so I can sit and enjoy a shiny afterblow on my own hill across from the St Lawrence River here in Kingston.

POEMS OF THE LAUREATE CANDIDATES – Carolyn Smart, P. S. Sri, Tom Vincent (MORE TO COME)

Rose — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 11:35:43 +0000

CAROLYN SMART – (From, ‘The Way To Come Home.’)

November: Frontenac County

Trees are dark fountains of grief
moaning, summer, summer
in damp and breathless voices
at the place where they pull free
from soil, piles of leaves weep
in their repetitious way,
a haven for nothing

Even the porcupine swings
its quills away in scorn
and continues its solitary parade
towards the frost and shelter

a doe with excitable ears
wide open for the hunter’s tread
stands in a sodden field
steam rising from its nostrils
as we pass, marvelling

All the flowers of summer in memory
we want to fill our cups
with potpourri and sleep
It is November and we yearn
for flight

P.S.Sri (From: Blue Heron Anthology)

Winter

Is.

Scarce a month ago
these trees that line the roadside
like sentinels awaiting inspection

ravished the eyes, a riot of colour-
bright orange and pale yellow,
a mottled brown, a hectic red.

NOW,

the first shiver of ice whistling in the wind
and snow-streamers albino-snaking across the ground,

defenseless and shorn they stand,
bare, gaunt, austere,

stretching forth a myriad skeleton arms to implore

A ghostly withering drapery.

Tom Vincent (From: Blue Heron Anthology)

Summer Passes
St. Andrews, New Brunswick

Watch
along the sea
and down among the granite

watch
along the margins
of the bay

watch
among the rushes

watch
where the waves say

hush
hush

POEMS OF THE LAUREATE CANDIDATES – FREQUENTLY UPDATED (Helen Humphreys, Michael Hurley, Eric Folsom)

Rose — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 23:23:51 +0000

(Gradually listing 1 poem per poet on the candidate lists)

Helen Humphreys (From ‘The Perils of Geography’)

Landscape on a Birthday

All day the ground is
restless with mud, glitching up
into hunchback bubbles
plotting the ruin of rocks

birds are sprinkled
against grey sky, speciks
of black pepper flung
up to find the sun

All day the wind is
a blunt hammer swinging
down the row of winter trees

The lake from the window
a stiff blue arm

Michael Hurley – (From: ‘Blue Heron Press Anthology’)

Haley Goes For A Swim (1st page)

You walk into the lake
as if entering a dream
a poem
that buoys you up
the deeper you descend
for you allow it
to enter you
to dream you.
It is assumed
you are half-fish
since of all your family
you remain
immersed
the longest
from 45 seconds
to a year
(for time & space-
those frauds-
curve and bend
like sumac or bamboo
in this world
as much as in outer space
or inner).
Your aunts and uncles,
grandfathers and brothers
you leave on shore
with your shoes
and everyday masks
but here you discover
yourself…

ERIC FOLSOM – (From: ‘What Kind Of Love Did You Have In Mind?’)

The Hills Speak Our Language

come dressed in sheets of water, veiled in glass
make gowns of energy and dress your hair with light
come and take morning for your given name

they brought my family Bible to the glacier’s edge
tossed it into the million-year-old-crevasse
and waited for the words to melt centuries later
for the ancient words to rush down rivers
and water orchards we’d dug with our fingernails
then the railroads came, tearing up the orchards
putting knives in every cake

I speak what I remember, the days are careful
the night has a warm place to sleep
the hills can speak our language of course
that is why they comfort us

and a parliament of starlings will gather
in the town where I once lived
they will eye gooseberries and hurry through
their discussion of lost love
no prophecy can describe the sound they make
as judgment comes forth

let the sunlight from under our tongues
heal your broken hands

LOUD PARTIES BY QUEEN STUDENT’S YESTERDAY

Rose — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 11:21:21 +0000

Those of you who follow this blog recognize my house in this picture on the vine side, the end of a Victorian row of 4 houses.
For the second night in a row, the noise next door grew louder until they added one of those South Africian horns that came out in the soccer matches. That was followed by the heavy beat of some heavy metal music. I have to work today. This wasn’t helping.
It was after midnight by then, party having gone on maybe an hour and a half and showing signs of increasing in strength. Our bedroom directly adjoins their kitchen & party room. Due to the heat, windows on both sides are open. I got up in the dark, groped for the phone, dialed the police, listened to a rota of helpful community messages, got somebody who sent me to dispatch, listened to the rota two more times and finally got a sympathetic voice who said they’d send someone promptly.

Replaced the receiver, went back to bed in the dark, stayed awake and listened to the thump of music and the venusuleza? (need to get the spelling) till suddenly there was a most welcome but startled silence and after that – nothing! So I’m gearing up tonight since it’s Labour Day weekend.
When your house is attached to the one next door, you can’t get away. I went online in the morning and googled ‘Queen Student parties’ a terrifying search on a far larger scale than our so far simple next door situation which we devoutly hope may be resolved by some one on one sober chat about being neighbours and how helpful we can and will be if they might think about reciprocating. Yawnnnn. I’m still tired.

I WAS PHISHED ON FACEBOOK! Could be a T-shirt slogan?

Rose — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 11:20:26 +0000

UPDATE - Today Thursday, Facebook sent me this message: ‘on Sunday, there was a spamming incident on Facebook. During this time, photos (mostly of supposedly “free” iPhones) were posted to some people’s Walls, including yours. We’ve removed the photo from your Wall and fixed the issue that allowed spammers to do this. We’re sorry about the photo, but can assure you that this did not affect the security of your account in any way.’

Here’s how it went down: My sister called last Sunday, asking if I really was advising people they could get free ipads just by clicking on a link I’d put up on my homepage? My spiel started, ‘HEY!’ Right away I knew it couldn’t be me, starting a sentence with horse feed.
Being deep into getting the Poet Laureate blog right, I wanted to ignore it. Nothing much had happened other than someone had hacked into my account and sent an ungrammatical message, ostensibly from me. Which meant they’d probably gotten my password.
I went to the ‘Help’ site and told Facebook. “This only concerns ‘a very few members,’ Facebook said, barely supressing a yawn. What?? I wanted outrage! Vows to track down my account hackers and delete them back to their BONES! Whose side was FB on??
Several ‘friends’ immediately wrote saying they knew it wasn’t me, thank heavens. The hackers even had me saying, ‘gonna,’ in the message. Me?? Instead of ‘going to.’ What sort of education does THAT imply? I posted notices on my profile and home pages but other messages coming in rapidly moved them down to the bottom.
Several phone calls later, my sister made me promise to get a new e-mail address. Problem was, I’d just GOTTEN a new e-mail address the previous week.
Also I was probably ripe for it. I had been leaving my 3, 400 ‘friends’ just sitting around tapping their toes and drumming their fingers out of sheer boredom. I’d only know maybe 22 of them, all told, if I met them in the street or had to pick them out of a lineup. My nice plump juicy account was languishing.
So I am probably going to tell them all adios, sadly sweeps the raincloud ore the cliff and aloha ah! I set up another site with a sunflower, then went and friended myself. Facebook then said the two of me had one friend (me) in common.
Very glad to have shared the Facebook experience with my times. I’m not leaving, just moving, along with a few actual friends and some family (however they behave). Now I must tell the 3400 the sad news. Some I will be contacting for the very first time. For at least one friend, I am their only. Need to sort that.
In the meantime, The phishers are out there, trolling in the waters of our ignorance.

TWELFTH OF NEVER PREDICTED ARMAGEDDON!! BREAKING NEWS.

Rose — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 12:30:08 +0000

PAUL WEBSTER LYRICS LINKED TO MAYAN CALENDAR – DID HE KNOW?
Fifties hitster, lyricist Paul Webster, agonized over whether to panic the known world with his sudden but brilliant insight into our future. What to do?
With his covert but phenomenal psychic powers, way back in 1957, Webster was writing lyrics to a Jerry Livingston tune, saying clearly that our world would end in 2012. Of course he could abandon the simple lyrics and exploit his knowledge to make millions (or be labeled as a nutcase and persecuted). Still he owed it to our world to leave some clues as to our fate so that we might set our affairs in order
Finally, this tuneful genius, using the skills that served him so well in hit after hit, decided to stuff what he knew into a simple but ultimately annoying song: The Twelfth of Never: Genetic Engineering, Pesticides, Acid Rain, Demise Of The Book, they are all in there with a unforgettable worm of a tune, even the title a clear warning for what was to come. He never worried whether or not it would become a hit. That’s just the kind of guy he was.
“I’ll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom
I’ll love you till the clover has lost its perfume
I’ll love you till the poets run out of rhyme
Until the twelfth of never and that’s a *long, long time.”
(*55 years and then, BLOOEY!’ he thought in 1957 as he penned prophetic words).
ANALYSIS
Many people think the ending of the Mayan calendar in 2012 signifies the Mayans somehow knew the world ends then, less than two years away. Now it turns out they weren’t alone. There are little signs all over but perhaps the strangest is the prophecy stuffed into that beloved 50’s tune, once popular at engagement parties and weddings, The Twelfth of Never,
You wouldn’t think Paul Webster knew anything about the Mayan calendar when he wrote this song in 1957. Nor when he reached for what must’ve seemed eternal verities to express just how long his love would last. How could he have known all these forever things could vanish, simple things of nature without which we can’t imagine our world?
But the first line of his chorus promises to love, “till the bluebells forget to bloom.” Garden writer, Helen Yemm, warned recently in the Telegraph, “Trample with care – loss of habitat and poaching are destroying our bluebells.’ Not coming up in the spring can surely be classed as ‘forgetting.’

Then he promises to stop loving when, ‘the clover has lost its perfume.’ Like the Spanish Inquisition, nobody expected genetic engineering to go to work taking the scent out of such flowers as it continues to do.
As a clincher, he promises to love, ‘till the poets run out of rhyme.” Anyone in the fifties would feel safe in thinking this could never happen. Yet a recent Six Chix cartoon has Mother Goose being told by an English department: “No one will take you seriously as a poet if you rhyme.’ Just ask poets whether anyone publishes rhyme anymore.
The world was a different place back in 1957 when Webster chose bluebells, the scent of clover and rhyming couplets to prove eternal love, as they’d been around as long as human memory.
I heard the Twelfth of Never on the radio when it first came out, sitting on a blanket to admire the buttercups which seemed to button down our dry Okanogan soil like a vast tweed coat. It was spring and nature seemed a pretty solid thing in those days. Wild flowers came up reliably, year after year.
Nobody fiddled with nature then except for a little light testing of the atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico, just twelve years before Webster sat down to write. Is it significant, this twelve year gap? Is it yet another indicator that he meant the song to convey a hidden message? Given the declining bluebell, the genetically altered clover and poetry now a series of anagramic slams, was The Twelfth of Never meant to predict our doom now less than two years away? Listen to Webster.

DEMONIC SLEEP APNEA MASK – CPAP CAN BE CCRAP!

Rose — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 11:59:55 +0000

I need more sleep than most. 8 hours doesn’t cut it. 10 hrs is more likely. BUT with my deviated septum, I need a mask, called CPAP, so I can keep breathing while I sleep. (That’s the little demonically-possessed item in the picture. It fits around your nose). This is a Fisher & Paykel CPAP, Thermosmart & heated Serial # 091204033412 Part #HC60rMJHu The mask is a ResMed
Yes, it’s the best mask in my 12 year history. Sleep apnea science is progressing. This one is flexible, fits snugly, gives lots of air BUT it wails and moans unexpectedly during the night. Exorcism? Mistreatment? I’ve all but stood on my head to make it shut up.
Finally I’ve narrowed it down to one tiny component of all the bits of moveable and immobile plastic that make up this little triangular dictator.
It’s this tiny tooth-edged plastic circle on top that lets out the air. Here’s the view from inside. There are some rocks like this in the Alaskan cliffs of Lost River where the wind howls and the aboriginal legends say the souls of their ancestors cry out there in pain. That’s the kind of noise I hear from this #%!! mask in the middle of the night.
I’ve tried water levels, attempting to hold the hose rigid as I sleep, duct tape, fiddling with the connections but the only thing that works (and often for only a short time) is thumbing the air holes around the circle in a strangulation movement. But why would this work?
Obviously I don’t understand apnea engineering. There it sits, the llittle circle on top. Can you see it leering?

ONLY 1 POET LAUREATE – MANY GREAT CITY POETS (FREQUENTLY UPDATED)

Rose — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 10:40:34 +0000

Disclaimer: This is an attempt at an objective overview of whom to choose for Kingston Poet Laureate. Though a sometime poet, I am not a candidate, being primarily a writer of Creative Non-fiction.
NOTE- EXPECTING CORRECTIONS/UPDATES This site will be CONSTANTLY UPDATED as information flows in. Some of these poets may be up for Putlizers. Write & say so. No intention of slighting ANYONE, okay?? (Perhaps I’ll maintain this area of my blog after we have our laureate, just in terms of ongoing good poems.)

CRITERIA - First, goes without saying, they need to be permanent IN KINGSTON. Not occasional visitors trailing clouds of glory from their REAL homebase. (This has been in contention lately but we need to limit this firmly to more than HALF a poet, eh?)

Then the important questions (Though no poet will have them all): Is the poet: an ongoing mentor? Regularly billets? Has more than one non-self-published book of poetry? Won grants, awards, honours? appointments? Paid paid poetry dues: (membership in League of Poets, starting magazine or reading series, volunteered for national poetry week, etc?) Known particularly for Poetry rather than other arts areas?

Will their election help heal the illusion/delusion/(some say reality) that poetry lives only at the university? Walt Whitman helped disperse that in his lifetime but not in Kingston. For a long while, readings were held ONLY at Queens. (the academic paradigm?) The appointment of a working poet, unaffliliated, would go a long way towards changing that unfortunate perception.

Poetry these days is a hard sell. If you truly hunger after precise, moving use of language, there’s a lot to choose from in Kingston. Some good poets are also better at the marketing and promoting side.

Others write, publish and slough through the poetry trenches, mentoring, supporting and welcoming new poets to the ranks while remaining relatively unknown to the population at large.

Poet Laureate selection time should be an opportunity to recognize the hard work of those behind the scenes as well as selecting one of them to recognize the importance of poetry to this community.

While there’s still time, let me suggest some names that might otherwise be overlooked, along with what little I know about each of them. Of course I’ll miss a lot, those writing and publishing quietly, likely for many years and fully as deserving. Remind me. I have an aging memory.

While Gender MUST NOT enter into the selection of the Laureate, we know – There Are More Women Poets But Men Tend To Publish More Easily. And Finally: It Never Hurts To Have Queen’s In Your Corner.

Obvious Candidates: (No One Would Be Surprised If They Got It: Prominence, Position, Publications, Profile. The Laureate will probably come from here. Short List:

Helen Humphrys - Honours, Awards. Publications. Canada Council. Former Poet in Residence appointment Queen’s.

Steve Heighton-Honours. Awards. Canada Council. former Poet In Residence positions

Elizabeth Greene – Publications. Works for Poetry. Former Poetry Prof some student mentoring Former Queens.

Eric Folsom-Former poetry publisher/editor, (Next Exit Quarterly), former League of Poets Rep, CBC poetry shortlist, Many publications/anthologies/chapbooks, Poetry Prof, (St Lawrence & School system), Workshops, frequent reader/organizer/poetry promoter. 30 yr history as billeter/feeder/driver of out of town poets, down on their luck poets

Patience Wheatley Publications. Canada Council. League of Poets.

Carolyn Smart- Publications.Plays. Poetry Prof. Canada Council Poet? Queen’s.

Michael Hurley- Performer/Reader. Many publications. Canada Council Poet? Poetry Prof (RMC) Mentor Royal Military College English Prof

Joanne Page – 3 books of poetry, finalist for Trillium Award, anthologies, workshops, teaching.

Mary Cameron Publications, League of Poets,

Others who MUST be considered:

P.Sri Publications/Translations. RMC Professor

Tom Vincent Publications. RMC Professor?

Laurie Lewis – Publisher. Years on Poetry Scene. League of Poets, Probably Canada Council Poet. Publications.

David Daniel Moses – Poet/Playwright. Publications. Queen’s. Better known outside town. Queen’s.

Diane Dawber- first poet to establish/host monthly reading series in town, unconnected with Queen’s, (Poetry & Company). 7 books of poetry. Billets & hosts poets on regular basis. Countless school workshops. Canada Council Poet. League of Poets.

Bruce Kaufman- started & hosts monthly reading series (Artel Reading Series). Published?

Bob MacKenzie – started/hosted 2 poetry reading series (Chamolean Nation & Gallery Series ). 45 yr writing career. OAC grant. Combines poetry with music & visual art. League of Poets. Press Published?

Pat Andruchuck-Honours. lengthy publishing record. Awards.Better known outside Kingston. Canada Council Reader

Sister Peggy Flanagan - Uplifting poems part of community activism

Jennifer Londry- Moving, unusual writing. Frequent reader. Publications.

Jason Heroux- Witty stuff. Regular publications. Canada Council Poet.

Doug Roy-Publications. Inspires/edits anthologies. poetry group leader, 2 books, League of Poets member

Bonita Summers- press published? Active in poetry scene.

Hugh Barclay- Beautiful presentations. Work behind the scenes. press published?

Erin Foley - Poetry promos. Press published?

Mary Ellen Csamer – League of Poets including Ontario rep. Publications. Long history of work

Leah Browning, Publications, readings, League of Poets

Cory Mayhew, Several anthologies. Press published?

Jan Allen – Writer, Visual Artist, Curator, Poet. Publications
.
Clive Robertson?

Rielly Stares - anthologies, readings. Press published?

Others – (some may be Ottawa – please let me know): Armand Ruffo, Shane Rhodes, Terry Ann Carter, Ronnie Brown, Nicola Vulpe, Colin Morton, Blaine Marchand, Anne Le Dressary, John Rivers and Robert Colman.

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PICTURES AS NEW ICONS

Rose — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 12:36:40 +0000

Probably my favorite childhood picture of my husband. He is having a bath in what they called ‘the washshed.’ Stubborn as always. But here is this little square image, taken some seventy years ago – and what to do with it now?
Here he is again, usually with a dog. Most family pics also included the car for pride of ownership. The camera was trotted out only on special occasions: visitors, events (like the catching of a big fish) These are the hardscrabble poor Montana Higgins, grandfather with his first two grandsons. And, of course, the fish.
On my side the camera comes out one rare Christmas, uniting sisters. The one in the foreground has decided to quit speaking to me anymore but our closeness is still evident in childhood.
Or digging out from a snowfall in Nome at my grandmother’s house. None of this sparse collection was in colour. You had to send them in an envelope marked, ‘Photos. Do Not Bend.’ stamped and carefully addressed, hoping the recipient might still be at that address since you hadn’t heard in awhile. How the world has changed while human nature has stayed exactly the same.