wordcurrents new look

I have started using a new theme, "EBusiness" a premium theme by Elegant Themes

I am still playing with it: most parts are working, but some are not.

thoughts below ground, the series

This series of poems is based on the fact that my office is in the basement, it is spring, and I have been noticing worm castings all over the lawn.

Worms remind me of the Hamlet's line in Hamlet, in which having killed Polonius, he tells the king to look for the old schemer "not where he eats but where he is eaten. . . certain politic worms are e'en at him."

The setting, then, is under ground, from the narrator worm's point of view.

The snake references came about as a result of a breakfast nook conversation with son Pete. We were discussing out-of-character actions that people take; he told me about the belief of

Kundalini yoga, in which there is said to be a fire-snake, coiled in three and a half coils in the base chakra (one of seven power-zones along the human spine). It is coiled around the Shiva lingham ­ the male line of force that comes down from the sky. Kundalini is an Earth force that comes up from the Earth. Kundalini yoga is the practise of awakening the snake and allowing it to rise up the spine until it reaches the highest chakra, the Crown chakra, where the meeting of Shiva and Shakti lead to enlightenment and the trance of Samadhi ­ ecstasy ­ the annihilation of the ego and the end of duality.

[I refer for my source here to a Google search using the terms snake+"human spine"+mythology and I excerpted this passage from an article in http://www.2012theodyssey.com/articles-beyond.html to which I do not particularly subscribe; however, I find the speculation interesting.]

"fountain" named Poem of the Week

"fountain" which first appeared in wordcurrents on March 16, and was redrafted and posted on April 12 in a new version in WILD Poetry Forum, has been selected as Poem of the Week for the week of April 14 in Wild. The version of the text posted in Wild is different, and appears below. Here follows the text of the proclamation at Wild, posted yesterday.

Please join the administration, staff, members, and guests of WPF in congratulating Douglas Hill on the selection of his poem "fountain" as Poem of the Week. You may follow this link to the Hall of Fame to familiarize yourself with Douglas' work. What most appealed to us about Douglas' poem is his very unusual choice of subject matter and the fine craftsmanship of this poem. Douglas gives us many strong images to visualize and with this poem, proves that any subject matter can be poetic in the right hands. The final line is both touching and evocative. Thanks for sharing this one here with us Douglas. We appreciate the chance to recognize such an excellent poem.

Our Honorable Mentions have quite a variety of subject matter to offer you as well. In no particular order, they are:

"Monarchs" by Sarah Sloat
"A Dear John Letter to Zeus from Hera" by Brenda Morisse
"Restless" by Laura Ring
"Horse in the Yard " by M. Kathryn Black

What an excellent line-up of talented authors and we count ourselves very lucky to have their work gracing our forum. Our thanks to all of them and all of you!

Fountain

I spiral down the spit-fountain
in my father’s dental boutique:
stare into the circular drain,
spitting, hoping it is almost over,
his gentle hands wielding mysteries
of pain and precision and finally relief.

Now, leaning back in a hard barbershop chair,
I wonder if the same company made
both scrolled fantasies of wrought iron
and black leatherette—a place to fix
your hair your teeth your smile.

The mortar sang a soft tuneless rhythm as he
deftly urged it against the pestle, mixing
the silver-mercury amalgam I would years later
pay to have replaced by less poisonous acrylic, then
we would share a moment of bonding closer
more intimate than anything else in our lives:
his soft warm fingers in my mouth.

Looking out over the Elsa Valley: Tuscany, 1998

Today's poem, "Looking out over the Elsa Valley: Tuscany, 1998", was inspired by reading notes and poems I wrote while staying in Cellole Uno, ten years ago. I found them while doing the cleanup I wrote about in yesterday's poem, "clearing out the essentials"


For two weeks in April 1998, we rented a section of the villa shown here. This is located just a couple of kilometers from Castellina in Chianti, about half way between Firenza (Florence) and Sienna.

The view of the Elna valley shown here is partly visible in the above photo of the villa. The reason that the left side of the photo is dark is that I don't have a scanner: I took the digital image of the photo on the kitchen counter.

What struck me about the contrast between Canada and Italy was how wild our country is in comparison to the sense that every inch of Italy has been worked over for millennia.

The daily posting thing

[I accidentally posted this as a blank post with just a title; I'm going to become gun-shy of posting at all.]

I am really caught on the horns of a dilemma about posting a new poem every day in wordcurrents. On the one horn, the discipline of having to meet that daily deadline is really good for my writing bones; on the other, I am flooded with early drafts (consecutive daily poem 482 today).

Last night, after the movie (I saw Lucky You, with Drew Barrymore and Eric Bana — enjoyed it.) I realized I had not yet written the day's poem. I sat down at the computer, wrote the poem "parking lot", in about three minutes, posted it, and started wondering once again if I should keep doing it. But now that I am writing this piece, I think I see the benefit my craft receives from the exercise. I have come to be able to write "on command" ("By your command", as the Cylons used to say, in the earlier Battlefield Galactica, is fairly appropriate; it feels kind of robotic: I just decide on a topic or image or experience, how I feel about it, and start.) Last night, on the way home, we stopped in the Tim Horton parking lot so that Gilles' brother, Denis, could get a takeout coffee. While we were there, and as Gilles and I spoke idly about the experience of sitting there, I formed the image of desolation that it was, and started processing the experience that later became the poem.

When I sat down to write, I had no idea what the poem would be, but I did not have much time, so I just started writing without thinking about it. The poem is simple, not very ambitious, but adequate.

So I guess I will keep doing it for the time being. This blog, being a diary, reminds me a what diary researcher said: the one thing all diaries have in common is that everybody dies, and they (the diaries) all come to an end. I wonder where this will end?

Mouawad's "Scorched" -- about my review of the play

I have been amazed by the number of hits on my review of NAC's production of Scorched, Linda Gaboriau's brilliant translation of Quebec playwright Wadji Mouawad's stunning play Incendies. Granted, it is my first positive review in a while; but let's face it: this has been a bleak theatrical season, generally, with NAC's new Artistic Director Peter Hinton and GCTC's new AD, Lise Ann Johnson both retreating to seasons mainly consisting of short plays. Just a few minutes ago, I checked with statcounter.com, one of my hits analysis services, and discovered that every hit today started with a direct Google for or email link to Scorched. The review is so popular, that when one Googles "Scorched Mouawad" or any variation of the title and his name today, my review is at the top of Google's list. That is astounding to me.
What is also very interesting is that in the past, long before I the advent of the Internet, when I saw a play about which I had an opinion, my recourse was to talk to friends about it. Eventually, I became tired of having such a limited audience, and started reviewing plays in an email newsletter for Vagabond Theatre, our local community theatre club. When I started wordcurrents, it occurred to me that this was a place for my theatre reviews. I soon realized that the cast and crew were Googling my reviews.
Now think about that for a moment. It means that I have a pipeline directly to the people on stage or backstage, including the playwright, the director, artistic director -- that's a great aspect of the Internet: it gives us direct links to people responsible.
So if somebody does something that I react to, I am not limited to showing my response by my hand clapping at the curtain call: I can say it in a review, fairly certain that it will go directly to the people involved and others who saw it with me or will decide whether or not to see it based partly on my review.
Let's hear it for technology!

Looking at "You're Soaking In It!"

I had not realized it until just a few minutes ago, but "You're Soaking In It!" is currently the most popular poem in my blog. Of the most recent 100 hits, it had 26 (that's all my free service counts.) Little did I know when I posted that poem on March 18, 2006, that I was fascinating some people. I remember the line from the detergent commercial, where Madge is doing somebody's nails, and lets drop that her client is soaking her nails in whatever dish detergent it was.

I had to read the poem again to remember that it was about mirrors and mathematics, and visiting Versailles and Firenza and what those places meant to me and how they changed my view of the world.

(several hours later)

I read it to the writers at the club meeting tonight: polite applause, then a newbie who had arrived during my read excitedly asked to read, and we went on with no discussion. I think it is hard to discuss poetry without seeing it; I guess I should expect that maybe next time I'll take copies for everyone. Next time, I think I'll read "Linen", and give out copies. All I have to do is remember that.

The alphabet series of poems

I have started a series of poems, each on a letter of the alphabet. I am hoping to look at what I thought of the letters when I was first learning them, but I don't know if I can sustain that or not. I have decided to concentrate on the capital forms of the letters, although I have already thought of a little detour involving the letter "D". This will take several weeks to get through, not counting detours into other realms.


Today I had a look at the web site of another local writer, Sylviane Duval, who is publishing a collection of short stories on line.

Ellen Degeneres

[image copied from Wikipedia]

This article is a companion piece to the poem "MC", which I posted yesterday, in wordcurrents.

Ellen Degeneres' type of humour really appeals to me. While it is self-deprecating and seemingly self-conscious and even seemingly naive, it appears to come from a genuine joy. We all need that joy in our lives. While there is occasionally a bit of an edge to it, Degeneres offers the edge as a kind of devil-girl dare, like sticking out your tongue — for a moment, she shows her inner brat, and we like that. (Like her Oscar show cracks about the absent Dame Judi Dench's surgery.)
I used to like the "Ellen" show, and was sad to see how the industry dropped Ellen and her show so quickly when she perhaps naively declared her personal sexual preference, and it was not acceptable to the silly "moral majority"; it was as if she had been caught in a giant very public act of bigotry. Brava, Ellen, for overcoming such massive institutional cowardice and prejudice so completely and so bravely.
I genuinely liked Degeneres' hosting of the 79th Oscars, which I viewed with the sound off, for the most part, except when Degeneres and a few others were on camera. The erst of the time, I was writing, casting occasional glances at the TV.
I was pleased to see Ryan Gosling's sister, Mandi, on his arm at the awards. Mandi was a very talented student in the Program for the Arts Drama course I ran at CCVS in the last years of the teaching career. Ryan would have been in the program, but he became a member of the revived Mouseketeers before that could happen.

[Ryan and Mandi Gosling]

So, the Oscar held two pleasures for me: enjoying Ellen Degeneres and spotting Mandi on the red carpet. Cheers, Mandi!

shovelling out

I wrote this piece early in the morning, prior to facing the foot or so of snow in our driveway. I had an appointment for an interview later in the morning: Kathleen Hay, the arts reported for the Cornwall Standard-Freeholder, was coming over to do a piece on the anniversary of wordcurrents, and I wanted her to be able to access the house. As well, Flora had to get out for her curling in the afternoon.

I was surprised that the shoveling did not completely crush me, leave me aching and breathless as I expected it to. I was shoveling for close to an hour in a pretty stiff wind, moving snow that was about ten inches deep except where it swirled around the house in a two foot deep drift. (Interesting: we say "two foot" instead of "two feet". I wonder why that is?) When I went to the door to let Kathleen in, I noted that the plow had passed and left a foot-deep bank across the driveway. It never fails.



The snow really was aniu. It chopped into blocks easily, nut was hard to scoop, as large sections broke away, too big for the scoop, and would tend to tumble off inconveniently. So I guess I don't feel quite as much like the old guy approaching the particular multiple of ten anniversary that I am approaching; I feel more like that number minus ten or so.

My niche of the St. Lawrence River

Some nostalgia for better weather: here are some photos from October, taken the day we closed our cottage. I found them stored as a draft in my Blogger account, so: better late than never. I notice that my camera's optical sensor needs cleaning. Anyway, these sunny shots show our dock up on shore, and views around the island as we left. The white thing in the view of the shoreline is a crash wave roaring by the beach. It was caused by a passing freighter, as usual breaking the speed limit during the off-season. These waves cause serious shoreline erosion, but nobody really polices this issue. Another example of a wonderful resource being damaged in an atmosphere of apathy. Getting grim; better stop.

wordcurrents: New Look progresses

Here is the latest version of the new look at wordcurrents. The photo I took in July 2006 from in front of our cottage, towards the Ontario shore. This is the view that I see from my favourite haunt, our screened front porch. That is where I do a lot of reading, writing and thinking. I don't have a computer at the cottage, so I write in a spiral notebook with a gel pen.

About the lettering in the photo: I did that in an old version of Ulead's Photo Impact, which came with a scanner that no longer works. I have finally given up on scanners. I don't think any of the three I have owned have ever scanned more than a few dozen things before burning out or failing in some way. That's no fault of Ulead, which makes fine software.

I am trying to make the site more accessible and more inviting and personal. We'll see . . . .

New look at wordcurrents

I am experimenting with new templates for wordcurrents. As a result, it is looking kind of freaky occasionally, as I run through the twenty or so templates I have down;loaded form the good volunteers at WordPress. I have always wanted a calendar that has live links to the posts for each day, to make navigation easier and more instinctual for visitors. I tried using "widgets" to have one with my usual "becca" theme, but the drag and drop does not work in either Firefox or IE7.

I like some themes, but I am worried about how my readewrs will react to white text on a black background or the number "82" mysteriously haunting a prominent corner. Here is a screen capture of the one I am currently trying. I may run poll here to see what my readers think.

The calendar is live, and gives a popup of the title on that date. I think the header image takes up too much room. I shall probably substitute another, like a photo of the St. Lawrence. This is called Wucoco two column, designed by Mike Lococo. I wonder if he is the same Mike Lococo who studied dentistry and lived with us at St. Mike's.

Gulp

I sent off my entry to the CBC Literary Awards before the deadline (today, November 1).

By the time one gets to the final umpteenth rewrite of something this long, it starts to nauseate. I have had that experience before: I get to the point where I start to dislike the piece intensely, wonder how anyone could like it, and start to debate whether it is worth paying twenty bucks to have someone read it. I wonder how any writer can go on a book tour, for instance, and wax lyrical about something that has become such a chore to approach. The awards are announced in February. Maybe by that time I will like it again.

I had a fruitful telephone conference with Linda and Stacy, the MCs for our barbershop show November 18, Daddy Sang Bass. They are going to be just what we want: fun! Now all I have to do is write the script; fortunately, we don't need a lot of material, just fast, funny, witty and brilliant. (sigh)

I am thinking of posting "Remembrance at the War Museum" in WritersBeat.com. I have already posted it in Zeugma, where it was well-received. With Remembrance Day coming up, maybe I should think of sending it to the local newspaper, although with their sloppy standards of typography and editing, you really take your chances submitting poetry.

Rain, rain, rain . . . .

"It never rains but it pours" is a suitable motto for my present situation: not only is it almost perpetually raining, but I seem to go from one review to the next these days. At least, we are attending plays every few days it seems, and of course, I am reviewing them. As I write this, I am just finishing my review of Vagabond Theatre's production of David Belke's comedy That darn plot, which, except for some directorial choices and technical issues, I liked. Within the past couple of weeks, I posted reviews on GCTC's The Oxford Roofclimber's Rebellion by Stephen Massicotte (two days ago), and NAC's The Dream Machine by Blake Brooker. In just two more weeks, I shall be up to NAC for another play.

Our Barbershop Chorus' show, Daddy Sang Bass, in which I sing baritone (not being Daddy, I guess) hits the boards at Aultsville Theatre on November 18 at 8 pm. We are working for a sellout.

The deadline for my poetry entry in the CBC Literary Awards is fast approaching (November 1). I am still revising it. Fortunately, I can submit it by email, so a last minute submission is okay. The word length is 1000 - 2000 words, and I am coming in at 1546 at present. This is the kind of poem I like best: long. I cannot write more about it here until the judging is over, as the entries have to be submitted anonymously.

I have a conference by phone later today with my dramaturg for a murder script I am writing, and a script phone conference Tuesday with the MCs for the Barbershop show, for which I am also doing layout for the printed program.

It just keeps on raining showbiz.

Blue

This trip inspired "Blue"; as you can see, there is a lot of blue in the photo.



This is a view downstream (towards the north-east) at the head of Lake St. Francis in the St.Lawrence Seaway. To starboard is one of the green winter stick-buoys marking the south (Quebec) side of the channel. What a beautiful day this was. All of the land masses visible in this shot are islands. Below is an enlargement of the horizon, showing the little floating islands that really seem to inhabit a never-land between earth and sky.

Wet snow

Here is the photo of one of the scenes that inspired "Wet snow", the little poem that I just published in wordcurrents. We were driving home from an afternoon with friends, playing bridge, when the rain turned to snow. Back home, I took this photo with flash off the deck in our back yard. You can see the snow on the horizontal leaves. There is a fragility to this delicate scene; you can see why trees with leaves have to be deciduous in our climate.

About "Four percent"

"Four percent" is a screed and a sort of a poem that I published yesterday in wordcurrents. As I was writing it, I was thinking of the Star Trek the Next Generation episode in which the Enterprise crew captures a warrior who has been genetically modified into the perfect fighting machine; and after he and his brethern have won the war for his civilization, they are exiled to a moon. They are only dangerous when threatened. Like so many SNG plots, this one is related to actual human archtypes, in this case, the psychopath, whom research has shown was necessary for human survival in more primitive times (and, I would argue, today and tomorrow), but is unacceptable in present "civilized" society. I suppose John Rambo is another example, or just about any lost veteran who can't fit in after the fighting is over.

I see "Four percent" as a template for some future poems that are more like poetry, because I think there is a lot of pathos and therefore poetic subject matter in such a subject. The psychopath has several characteristics of the tragic figure: alienation, isolation, a tragic flaw — all built in.

Another current literary example of the interesting psychopath is the main character in HBO's new series on the Movie Network: Dexter. This is CSI is Jack the Ripper is Sherlock Holmes *shudder*. Here is a serial killer who works to solve crimes by day and secretly hunts down and kills serial killers by night. The interesting twist on this is that Dexter himself is being stalked. It would be even more interesting if the stalker were his sister, an apparently not-so-smart police woman he helps progress through the ranks by giving her clues that make her appear smarter than she is.

CBC Literary Awards

I was just reading Alison Pick's winning entry for the most recent awards. If you click on the title above, or this link — CBC Literary Awards 2006 — you will open a window on the links to all the winners from last year. Pick's entry is pretty impressive.

When one enters one of these contests, it is useful to be able to read previous winners, just so you can allow yourself to fall into the morass of despond and not expect too much. * signs and pounds forehead *

The winners are published in Air Canada's En Route Magazine, which appends the following disclaimer:

"The views expressed by the writers do not represent the views of enRoute, Spafax or Air Canada. Certain readers may be offended by the contents."

Don't you love it? More of Big Brother looking out for those of us who may be offended. I think there are a lot of people in this world who should be offended more often. Just in our own country they should be offended by child poverty, homelessness, the hoarding of wealth — and the list goes on; don't get me started.

On that subject, I am offended by the huge number of times TV programs warn us after each commercial break that "the following program may contain scenes of nudity, violence and coarse language. Viewer descretion is advised" — and then after they've gotten my hopes up, the closest thing to nudity is an occasional unclad family pet, the closest thing to coarse language wouldn't be bleeped on The Actors Studio and the violence is all about the same as you see on the street at noon. I recall sending a letter home to parents in the seventies, when we decided to show Roman Polanski's MacBeth* to students in the school auditorium. I told them that the film was reputed to have a nude scene and considerable violence. The only reaction I got back from the parents was that they applauded our decision to show the kids saw something with some issues in it, keep up the good work. The film really impressed the kids, and the followup classroom discussions were very productive. About ten years later, I showed the same film, and found the kids giggling at the gory death scenes, then realized, during the followup discussions that they were seeing the gore through the filter of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which I think may have used the same costumes. How times change.


* Produced, dear readers, by Playboy Magazine

Swamped

The CBC Literary Awards deadline is November 1. I have just realized, upon reading the rules, that I cannot submit any of the 260+ poems I have published so far this year in wordcurrrents, nor any of the other poems I have published in the three poetry forums I post in.

Interesting limitation; interesting complication. Fortunately, I still have time to work on my entry of 1,000 - 2,000 words of verse. But, in the meantime, I am trying to learn the music for our concert November 18, and work on the playscript. If I still had a job, I would probably have time to do this; but since I am retired, it is quite hopeless. Now we know what a job is for: to protect one from the demands on free time.

I had better get going on writing todays' poem for wordcurrents; I haven't even decided yet what it will be. I drove the boat down river to the marina for winter storage today. Beautiful bright calm day for a ten kilometre trek by boat. Maybe I'll write about that.