A Fresh Perspective

As you can see, I've not posted anything new recently. I have decided that my energies are better spent concentrating on my poetry. I miss doing the blog but can't do everything. My priority is the poetry.

I've been lucky to have found a writer's group, published a little, won writing competitions, completed a writing mentorship. I am nearly finished my first poetry manuscript. 

I want to complete the work I've begun and do it well. That requires commitment and self discipline. It requires focus and settling down to what it most important. Poetry.

Thanks for reading my blogs and following my journey. Wish me luck with the next steps.

The Late Season

This poem, "The Late Season" is about aging, the journey we each make. It was published in the December 2014 issue of Galleon III, and a slightly different version of this poem was the winner in the 2014 Writers' Federation of New Brunswick's Individual Poem Competition.


The Late Season

At the edge of the field,
wild asters wither.
Goldenrod and
yellowed grasses
bend seed heads
to the soil.

Brazen colours burst
reveal brown silhouettes.
Darkness shrivels the days.

The chickadee flits
to the feeder,
sings,
takes one seed
at a time.


I've been told that words like "darkness" are to be avoided in poems, as they are overused and too vague to convey concrete images. It is better to "show" than to "tell"; something I constantly struggle with. A writer must trust the reader to make meaning from the poem. I tend to over explain, wanting to ensure the reader gets what I'm saying.  Less explaining, more trusting, better crafting. It's good to learn from my poems and to receive feedback.

The competition judge for this poem was Sean Wiebe of Prince Edward Island. He had this to say about "The Late Season":

'Carol Steel's poem has an Impressionistic quality to it. Her simple and direct language is judiciously chosen, without literary effect getting in the way. Here is a good example of straightforward language used to maximum effectiveness. The painting of rural scene offers a picture of the edge of a field "bending" toward the remaining years. The delicate juxtaposition of "goldenrod and / yellowed grasses" with "the chickadee flits" is Impressionist pigment in words.' 

The task of learning to write poetry is a hard work, and it is gratifying to receive pointers, questions, suggestions about what works and what could be written in more effective ways. I appreciate the balance of both.

How else will I learn?

Brother

One of the methods I've used to learn more about writing poetry is to copy a poem by someone else, then study how that poet created the images and made the poem work. It sounds simple, but isn't.

I copy the poem longhand and leave every second line blank. Then I make several photocopies and use the pages as study work sheets. I begin by going over the poem line by line and making my own notes in the blank spaces about what happens and how in the poem; what metaphors are used and how they are working together; how the sounds of the words echo each other and echo the sense of the line, and any additional ideas this study process creates. This is a messy but fruitful project. I end up with many pages of notes.

Sometimes I learn something new about how to write, the importance of enjambment for example, the uniqueness of where the poetic line ends, or keeps hanging until the next line.

Sometimes this process leads me to a poem of my own. This poem "Brother" is loosely based on Ted Kooser's poem "Mother" from Delights and Shadows.

Brother

(after Ted Kooser's poem "Mother" from Delights and Shadows)

Late August already, and the mountain ash

sways, weighted with fruit, clusters of orange.

Colour so bright, it stops my breath.

You have been gone thirty years today

and have missed my two marriages and one long

divorce. I sat in that smothering house,

restrained inside my own ribs, until the memory

of your words pulled me out

gasping.

Late goldfinches exchange ragged feathers

for fearless wings. Hydrangeas bloom.

Sturdy white blossoms deepen dusky pink.

This season bursts into the one coming

and the air is delicious.

This poem was published in The Nashwaak Review, Volume 34/35, the Summer/ Fall Issue of 2015. Thanks to TNR for this opportunity and permission to share.

For additional information on Ted Kooser, click here. For a copy of Delights and Shadows, click on the title.

The photos and poems on my blog are copyright 2014-2016 Carol Steel, unless otherwise noted.

My Interview by Quest

I am delighted to have been interviewed by Quest, The Prayer Bench newsletter.

Here is a link to the interview, in which I respond to questions about my poetry and which includes two of my poems: The Late Season (published by Galleon III) and The Orb Weaver (published by The Nashwaak Review).

Thank you to Janice MacLean for asking me to be part of this month's communication to the followers of The Prayer Bench. To find out more about The Prayer Bench, click here.

All work by Janice is copyright to her; my poems and photos are copyright to me. The photo of me reading at the Attic Owl Reading Series, which is included in Quest, was taken by George Griffin, used with his permission.

Common Mergansers

Hello again.

I'll share some poems on my blog from now on, but only ones which have been previously published by literary journals. The reason? Most journals consider posting on a blog to be "publishing" and will not accept anything which they consider to have been previously published.

This poem was included in the Summer 2015 Volume 46, No. 182 of The Antigonish Review. I am happy that TAR accepted one of my poems and thank them for that opportunity.


Common Mergansers

We heard them coming,
              notes out of tune,
                           flying low and straight,

racing their shadows
              over the water.
                            They splashed down

to drift and to fish,
              in front of the cottage.
                           "There's something about

these ducks," you said,
             "they take every damn trout.
                           Fishing isn't as good

as it used to be.
              Nothing is."
                            I felt the mud

cold sludge
              between my toes,
                           the strike of your hook.



A friend told me that fisher folk hate Common Merganser ducks as they are capable of cleaning out entire fishing holes with their hooked bills and efficient diving tactics.

I hope you enjoy this poem. I think it captures those moments in relationships when we each say unkind things to one another. Because we know each other so well, we know where to sink the hook.

You can find out more about The Antigonish Review literary journal by clicking on this link. Thank you to TAR for publishing my poem.

I've Been Absent

Hello.

I've been absent from my blog for some weeks. Life has squeezed my writing out of the way for a short period. I'll be back very soon.

Thanks for your patience.

Carol

Attic Owl Reading Series, January 28, 2016

January 28, 2016, I will be one of the readers at the Attic Owl Reading Series in Moncton at Café C'est la Vie. On the Attic Owl site, there is a link to my blog in order for people to learn a bit more about me. That is a problem for those searching out my poems.

Because poetry which has been shared on a blog is deemed to have been published, I don't put my poems on my blog. That way, they are eligible for consideration by literary journals. I have just started to submit my poems to publishers in the past fifteen months. Six have been published in Galleon III and IV, in the Nashwaak Review and The Antigonish Review.

I began writing poetry after I retired early from a career in mental health education and promotion, and following two serious illnesses. Epiphanies. Now or never moments. Write, right now or else....

While visitors to my blog won't see poetry, they will discover my love of photography and the natural world, plus my lifelong fascination with how relationships work, or don't.

I will read some of my poems at the Attic Owl Reading Series this Thursday, 6 pm at Café C'est La Vie in Moncton. Come listen. Enjoy the work of botanist, novelist, artist and poet, Jane Tims. There will be music. The Café is licensed, serves great meals and will be full of lively folks interested in the arts. 

There will be a donation box to accept your coins and bills which help defray the costs incurred by Lee D.Thompson, who does such a great job of promoting and organizing these events.

I hope you will come and enjoy the evening.

Words in colour will take you to another site with more information, if you click on them.

Happy Beginning of 2016

Happy new year, happy endings and beginnings.

Enjoy the small gorgeous gifts which nature offers.

Look closely, breathe deeply, relax into delight.

Each moment is new.

Happy New Year's Eve 2015

Mourning Dove sunning on the deck

When you find your sunny spot,

stay, enjoy and then move on.

Happy New Year's Eve, 2015. 

May your New Year move 

through many sunny moments.

Merry Christmas 2015

Good Morning and Merry Christmas to everyone.

Almost There

The house is clean and the turkey is in the oven. We're almost ready, almost there, feeling the tingle of anticipation, a gentle glow spreading over us.

Happy Christmas Eve to all.

Let Christmas Unfold as it Does

It hasn’t been the pre-Christmas season I’d imagined.

I’ve been ill with a cold which morphed into sinusitis, complicated by adverse reactions to another procedure’s prerequisite meds. But, it will end. I’ll get better. I’ll live.

I’ve done no baking this year as I didn’t think anyone would want my green-gold seasonally coloured snot anywhere near their food. Prior to getting sick, I had made my own Christmas cards and written all the inside notes. I added quotes to the cards and discovered some which spoke to my own feeling-sorry-for-myself state of mind.

“Don’t spoil Christmas by anticipating how it will be.

Let it unfold as it does,
and be grateful for whatever comes.”    Tori Sorenson

So I am grateful for:

lots of rest

outside Christmas decorations done in early November

the invention of tissues

a tree finally decorated

daughters who helped with shopping

antibiotics

Gary’s care

reduced expectations

I look forward to feeling well again soon and being able to smell the fragrance of the fir tree, warmed by the fireplace.  And, I remind myself of the words of Dr. Seuss. “Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.”

I’ll be grateful for whatever Christmas offers this year.

Dear Elizabeth

Dear Elizabeth

It’s New York at the Women’s Project Theatre, a full house. The audience settles and reads the Elizabeth Bishop poems left as “A Poem for your pocket” on each seat. Programs rustle, anticipation mounts, the house lights brighten then dim, a cockroach scurries beneath a desk on the stage. We are there to watch Dear Elizabeth, a play written by Sarah Ruhl, originally published as Words in the Air in 2008.

The play is based upon the thirty year correspondence and friendship between the poets Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. Their relationship is complicated.

Pulitzer-winner Bishop, who was lesbian, was left financially stable enough to be able to travel as she wished, a love for travel reflected in her work.  Lowell, also a Pulitzer recipient was twice divorced and his third marriage ended when he died in 1977.

All the words in the play are taken from their letters and their poetry, and force the audience or reader to look at their lives not as story, but as lives lived.

Bishop’s and Lowell’s admiration for each other’s work is immediate and their letters are full of compliments and professional observations and suggestions. Their friendship is an ever-evolving affection, with each seeing the other as that rare person who understands the need for a balance of solitude and public image. There are oblique references to infidelity, depression and alcoholism. (BWW Review, Michael Dale)

The play begins with the poets as adults, so no mention is made of Elizabeth’s childhood in Great Village, Nova Scotia, her Canadian connection.

Dear Elizabeth unfolds as letters are read from two wooden desks placed on opposite sides of the stage. The cast frequently changes. The evening we attended, the actors were Ellen McLaughlin and Rinde Eckert, with Polly Noonan as a kind of stage manager, stationed in an upstage corner.

Familiar with the work of each of these 20^th century poets, the play is a delight for me. As a poet, I value the profound effect of friendship and knowledgeable critiques of one’s writing, as well as the necessity of dealing with real life while writing.

I appreciate the kindness and generosity of my daughters in taking me to see Dear Elizabeth, as I know their own tastes would have led them to another sort of play. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and appreciated the evidence of their recognition of me, as poet.

The cockroach provided a play within the play, scuttling around Rinde’s shoes during the evening. When foot work became too active, it took off for the safety of the travel props at the back of the stage.

Life intrudes into our stories without warning.

Words is colour will take you to another site with additional information, if you click on them.

Travelling by Air

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Sir Bedevere: 'Now, why do witches burn?'

Peasant: '... because they're made of wood?'

Sir Bedevere: 'Good. So how do you tell whether she is made of ... wood?'

Peasant 2: 'Build a bridge out of her.'

A Cautionary Tale of Travelling by Air

My plane is late leaving LaGuardia, an hour late, which will cut into the time I have to make connections in Montreal. I need that time for customs, picking up my suitcase, going through security, dropping off the suitcase and then getting though the next security before boarding my final flight. If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to eat.

Everywhere in the Montreal airport, there are signs saying, “This process will take 10 to 15 minutes. Following that, you have a 5 to 12 minute walk to your gate.” This is supposed to be helpful. It isn’t reassuring when I’ve lost an hour, sitting on the runway at LaGuardia.

I hustle through the Montreal airport, walking-running-sprinting, paying attention to where I’m going so I don’t waste time getting lost. All is well, though time is tight, until I reach the place where I hand over my customs form and am about to return my luggage to Air Canada. I fumble handing the form to the staff person. My hands are sweaty from hurrying.

He looks at me, sees an older, overweight, sweaty woman who appears nervous.  Automatically, he points at an open door. Now, I have to go to a second level of security screening. The officer decides I am trying to hide something.

Him: What are you declaring?

Me:  (I think, holy shit I’ll never make the plane now, but remain polite.) I bought two small books and a DVD while in New York.

Him: You’re telling me that you were in New York for Black Friday and all you spent was $60?

Me: Yes. I went to visit family, to spend time with grandchildren.  All I’m bringing back are two books and a Monty Python DVD.  (I offer the additional information hoping it makes me look ordinary, boring and non-threatening.)

Him: Are you saying that if I search your bag and your purse, I won’t find undeclared items?

Me:  That’s what I’m saying.  I have a cold, caught it from my grandson and I’ve been running trying to make my connection. That’s why I look flustered.

Him: Yes,’ tis the season for giving. (No smile.)  I want to search your bags.

Me: That’s OK with me.  Can you help me lift the suitcase?

Him: You look anxious? Are you hiding anything? (He glares at me.)

Me: (Trying hard to remain calm and polite.) No I’m not hiding anything. I visited my family and I didn’t want anything badly enough to take the train, then the subway into New York to shop over the Thanksgiving holiday. I am anxious as I don’t have much time to get to my next flight.

Him: You are shaking and your eyes are watery.

Me:  Yes, I have a cold, and yes, my nose and eyes are runny.

Him: I think you are hiding something.

Me: (I think every swear word I know.) I say: I am hiding nothing but you are welcome to search. Perhaps you could help me lift this bag to your counter.

Him: (Smirking.) You look suspicious because you dropped your customs form and because you are sweating. (He stares and bends over the counter to push his face closer to mine.) I can go through everything. What will I find?

Me: (I stare back, feel bullied. I hope he catches my cold. He continues to stare at me silently. I blow my nose.)

Finally...

Him: Have a good trip. You can go now.

Me: Thanks. (I think bad thoughts.)

 I run-walk to return my bag to Air Canada: this contentious bag containing two small books and a DVD and my clothes.

It is 20 minutes until final boarding for my plane. I go through the next security point (10 to 15 minutes) and then run to my gate (faster than the seven minutes it says it takes). I make it, sweating, out of breath, feeling miserable.

Because of delays, I eat nothing since breakfast except airline pretzels and water. I feel sick and shiver uncontrollably in the uncomfortable, cold and noisy Air Canada Dash 8 which flies from Montreal to Moncton.

The air hostess is friendly, asks if I want water and free pretzels. I say no. She asks if I enjoyed my trip.

The answer is yes, except for this last day of travel with Air Canada, coming back through Montreal.

What have I learned?

Don’t sweat or look nervous when passing through security’s scrutiny.  (Yes, I know they have a job to do and an important one, however this issue of being hauled over and given the gears for merely sweating has happened before. I’m sorry but I’m a damp kind of person.)

Don’t fly with a cold. Wow! That was a painful lesson and one I won’t repeat.

Drive instead of flying whenever possible.

Learn to sprint without perspiring.

Why am I not complaining about my trip from Moncton to New York?

I flew that part of the trip with West Jet.

Perhaps, the Monty Python writers could make a movie moment out of the idiocy of harassing older, out-of-shape women in airport security.

The photo and quote above are from Monty Python's The Holy Grail.

Buy a Lily

If you have two loaves of bread,

sell one and buy

a lily.

Buy a lily.

Feed your heart

and your eyes.

Feast!

If you have two loaves of bread, 

sell one and buy a lily. 

(An old proverb)

Gagetown Ferry NB

At the Gagetown Ferry,

long-horn cattle wade

to stay cool

and ignore the ferry 

with its picture

snapping passengers.

The humidity, the heat

hold the river and the land.

Even a sunny day

is hazy.

A red dragonfly rests.

The calm river

is not peaceful.

Engines and shouts of laughter

break the quiet

rock the water meadows.

The photos and words are mine. If you want more information, click on the coloured words to go to another site.

What's Left?

After the petals fall 

from the clematis vine,

what's left?

What's left is changing,

rearranging 

in its quiet, 

spectacular way.

Kayaks on the Bay of Fundy

We spent a day wandering near Fundy Park. 

While lunching at a picnic table 

near the Molly Kool Centre in Alma, NB, 

we watched a "how-to" lesson on kayaking, 

across the river from us.

After they got into the kayaks, 

they had to stay close to shore 

and learn left-turn, right-turn.

This is the building where they first learned 

to work life jackets and paddles.

It took some time to get organized, to make sure everyone was comfortable, could paddle, 

could stay in the kayak.

They were supposed to line up single file to exit into the Bay. 

Not everyone understood the concept of single file.

Eventually, they were one behind the other ... nearly.

We left as the cluster of kayaks sat in the foggy 

Bay of Fundy, waiting for the stragglers.

I hope they had fun and made it back safely.

Photos are mine. Words in coloured print will take you to another site for more information, if you click on them.

To Bike or Not to Bike

To bike or not to bike? That is the question.

Gary has had motorcycles off and on, all his driving life. Fifty years of riding and now, after a shoulder injury, and a decision to downsize, the Harley sells to a new owner ... today.

The decision was and continues to be extremely difficult. 

There's nothing like driving by the fragrance of fields of clover in summer, the breeze, warm as a massage, feeling every nuance of the road. Nothing like the scent of moisture in the wind, the sudden downpour and sitting it out under a highway overpass or beneath a cluster of maples, just talking until the sun dries the road.

Selling the Harley is rough for each of us but particularly for Gary. Driving is Gary's favourite form of meditation. He forgets his worries and the to-do's, the bills and the challenges when he is on the bike.

Gary went out for a ride yesterday. These pictures are of him getting the bike ready and leaving the driveway. He enjoyed the time by himself, one last trip.

But, it's time. "Not to bike" is the answer.

It's been a good run.

Men in the Trees

BEFORE

AFTER

“It gets to me; some days, it feels never-ending.”

 

Gary says this at least once a week, referring to all the “to-dos”, and the repairs needed on the house. This rant is always followed by a discussion with me (or with himself) about the merits of selling over owning our home.

That’s a hard decision. And, is one with which we struggle. But, no matter if we stay or if we go, home maintenance must be done. And this summer, it seems like more and more needs to be done.

THE OFFENDING TREE

Gary has accomplished many repairs himself; he is a capable, efficient man. He needs to focus on what he has completed, instead of cursing and listing all the chores which remain. 

Some of the maintenance has been too overwhelming for us to manage. 

We had our roof re-shingled in late June. Last week, we had an arborist come to remove an enormous maple which had grown too close to the house, and was overhanging the roof and the northwest corner of our home.

For a few hours, we were entertained by men in the tree with chain saws and limbers and tree saws. What an efficient group they were! The men took down the tree with patience and care, and no cussing.

But the work doesn’t end. We have frequent-flyer points at the waste management site from weeks of shrub trimming, damage repair on our hedges and smaller trees, and the subsequent trips to the dump.

There are still more small repair and paint duties waiting for us, outside and inside ... the work that needs to done whether we stay or sell.

THE HOLE WHERE THE TREE ISN'T

Even selling and moving are challenges. The real estate market is tricky, (a buyer’s market, we’re told) and we would need to sell our house before offering on another or renting. So, in the meantime, we work at keeping our house in the best shape possible. 

The discussions continue.