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.

"the geology of snow"

I wrote this poem, "the geology of snow" in wordcurrents after a few days of observing the ugly remainder of winter, which is best understood, if you have not observed such snow, by looking at these photos:







I have been trying to publish these with the poem, but the Gallery feature of the new version of WordPress is not working for me.

"Jay-Gee closes"

Today's poem, "Jay-Gee closes" is based on the following.

After 61 years in Cornwall, Joane Assaly, owner of Jay-Gee Shoes, has announced that the store will close by the end of August of this year. "Competition from stores like Wal-Mart made it impossible to continue," she said. Jay-Gee comes form her her uncle's name and her father's name: Joe and George. The two brothers owned and operated the elite shoe store for almost sixty years, until George died this past year. Joe preceded him over a decade ago. The quality of merchandise the store carried simply is not available in Wal-Mart. Cornwall has lost another local store with the character to distinguish us form the homogenizing effect of the ubiquitous giant box stores, and we will suffer for it as a tourist destination and as a place to live.

Too bad most residents are unable to see that.

About me

Here is an article our local paper ran about me. It is a 20 Question Q&A with a brief bio. There was a photo taken last summer of me with my youngest grandson, De Danann, but it is not included with the article.

So here it is. To see the article, click on the title, "About me" above.

about "reluctant clocks"

The wordcurrents poem referred to here is "reluctant clocks"

Last night, as my wife and I, both sneezing and coughing and feeling somewhat sorry for ourselves, attempted to reset our bedroom clocks to daylight saving time over a month earlier than we used to, our clocks refused to co-operate. Her bedside clock, a fairly new digital clock radio seems to have decided that the "adjust" button refers to radio frequency and not the advertised-in-the-instruction-book "time adjustment, and delivered static and new unwanted stations instead of "springing forward". My smartly styled digital travel clock, possibly still under warranty (fat chance) refused to respond to the prodding of the provided stylus, and sulkily stayed at standard time. Then my brand new wrist watch refused to so-operate, and left me with a precise chronometer running "estimated" time.

I'm back to a sun-dial. Or maybe a water clock. Or lunar observations. Or guesstimates. Or who cares?

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.