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.

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

What Emerges from the Snow?

Snow pulls the cedar fence apart, pushes it slant. Grey crossbars, twenty years old, rest on each other, make less than signs. Where spikes once held, there are pale ovals with dark holes.

In the spring melt-water, a red ribbon undulates and rides, then stops to dangle in the grate of a storm drain. The water rushes over the edges, gurgles and flows to the river.

Damp earth and dried oak leaves smell of mold and dog poop. The air tastes warm with a hint of ice.

On the spring wind, pale dry maple leaves rise rattling to trace the walls of the house, twirl and descend again. Bleached, broken bits of wisteria vine crisscross in brittle heaps, on a thawed patch of garden beside the pergola.

The magnolia bark, brown-speckled-grey, has tawny splits, rips where limbs broke with the weight of snow. Wounded branches hang and swing, still attached by wood's fibers. They tug and rub, creak in the wind. Squall-torn magnolia buds, encased in hairy brown, skitter across the crust of snow.

These observations, descriptive and objective are part of a homework assignment from an online course I am following. It is a challenge to keep the observations free of metaphor and added imagery. 

I am enjoying the reminders to be a keen observer, using all of my senses, in order to gather the word materials to create poetry. 

Good reminders. Good self-discipline. 

Thirst

Learning to write well, and growing in my poetry writing mean finding balance between asking for help and trusting my instincts.

Sometimes, I search for water before I have taken the time to know the depth of my own thirst. At those times, my longing outstrips my patience and I make mistakes. It is necessary to gauge both the depth of what I need and what I can hold, before seeking, before opening my mouth to drink.

When I do not trust my instincts, the flood gates burst open. I get in over my head and nearly drown. Tidal waves carry me away from where I really want to go.  It becomes a question of survival and adaptation ... grow gills, swim, develop another row of teeth.

It is hard to accept that it may take more years to acquire a sense of wholeness in my writing, more years than I had hoped. But I have learned this: My writing requires learning to live with the tensions of my own evolution, learning to quiet my doubts, and yet to proceed.

It requires trusting myself to know what I need to quench my thirst.


This blog post is a part of my reflections from an online retreat study I followed with The Prayer Bench offered by Janice MacLean.  You can find out more about her online retreats at:
http://www.prayerbench.ca 

Writing the Uncomfortable

Writing slams me against uncomfortable situations. Sometimes an image I want to use in a poem comes from a dark place inside me. I struggle with myself about whether to haul it to the light.

It is hard to write if I favor only the good parts, happy times, moments of delight. I need to honor the times in my life when things don't go well, the times of bitterness and anger, times when I feel lost.

Writing provides a path and a place to acknowledge my darkness, secrets, fears, anger and pain, to come to terms with them and let them go.

I can choose to share the writing or not. But the writing itself is a catalyst to release what needs to dissipate.

In order to write, to be a poet, I need to bring all of myself to the page, the dark and the light. Both are parts of me. 

Together they make me whole.

I Quit. No, Learn Instead.

On Facebook, I saw, "I quit." It was a post (not entirely serious) by a poet I admire and envy. She had just finished reading a selection of poems written by someone she admires and now, envies.

What happens to us as writers when we see work we appreciate, work we recognize as talented and finely wrought? We allow ourselves to be intimidated, to sense despair, if we feel we don't measure up. If we feel our writing career or our abilities lag behind the next writer's, we berate ourselves. 

What a waste of energy!

There is room in the world for all of our unique stories and poems, our varied abilities. We should allow ourselves to be inspired, expanded by the amazing diversity of voices, rather than diminished by it.

When we learn from writing we admire and yes, envy, our work becomes richer through exposure to another style and voice, this fresh way with words.

Our writing becomes better.

Climbing Roses in Bloom

Everything feels rosy today.  

The climbing roses are in full bloom

and I get to spend hours with my writing group.

What could be better?

A Writing Group

 

“You need to find a writing group.” 

This was the repeated answer to my question: “How can I obtain feedback on my writing, so I can write better poetry?”

Finding a writing group meant searching for a collection of writers and poets who would read their work, and listen to mine, then share comments with one another, share critiques, suggestions, challenges and advice.

For example:  This line works.  This image doesn’t, because….  This isn’t poetry; this is prose.   What are you trying to say?  This has no emotional impact.  This word really pulls this together. This gives an impression of beauty, but so what?  That is a fresh metaphor.  Wow, that’s great.  I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.  You need to take another look at this.  That’s a slippery ending.  Is there something more you want to say here?

To be in a writing group, I had to learn to be open to what others said about my work, without comment, without argument, without feeling offended.  Learning to be a better writer, a better poet required tight listening, willingness to change and  to explore different ways of expressing myself.    Like learning any skill, I had to try and try again, to figure out what worked, what didn’t, why a change was needed and how to adjust what I was doing. 

I am still learning and will continue to do so.  It feels like learning to swim.  I can float but want to be able to do more than a dog paddle.

A little over a year ago, a writing group invited me to join them.   I am so grateful for these writers and poets.  They have been kind and honest, wise and funny, and always supportive.   They have pushed my growing edges and kicked me into the deep end of the pool.  Every so often, I write a poem with which I am pleased.  And without swallowing too much water, I can now keep my head above the waterline and am learning to write better poetry.

Thank you to Elizabeth Blanchard, Allan Cooper, Beth Janzen, Kerry-Lee Powell, Lee Thompson and Andre Touchburn.   I appreciate each of you, your differing gifts, your shared talents and wisdom.  Thank you for welcoming me and for the opportunity to be in this writing group with all of you.

Spring and Yellow and Poetry

It’s been a long time; a long time since I’ve written any words in my blog. 

Time has passed, full of worry about my mother and weariness from her care.  Time passed regardless of whether I wrote or whether she grew worse or well.  The months rolled on; time and circumstance changed both our lives.

Mum deals with her new fragility.   She struggles for strength, relishing every day and every accomplishment, pushing her energy forward to healing.   Back in her own home, she manages with help from family and a hired caregiver, a good friend.  She learns to cope with the changes in her body.

I am recovering my own energy and relishing the seasonal changes, the bright places in each day.   My focus on writing, particularly poetry, has returned, and though rusty, is responding to re-writes, polish and hard work.
 

The grey and brown days of spring give way to splotches of fresh green, flashes of colour—the goldfinches at the feeders, the dime-sized yellow crocus, the larger purple ones, the hint of red and gold on a blackbird’s wing. 

I welcome these signs of colour, renewed vigor and fresh life.    It’s been a challenging winter.  I am grateful for the lessons of love and the wisdom hard won, as I move into a transformed thankfulness for each new day.

Spring and yellow and poetry and purple fill the sweet breezes.  I am ready.

Photo and words are ©copyright 2009-2014 Carol Steel

Cleveland Place Bookshop

 

 

 

What's better than a bookstore?  A bookstore selling used books.  Yes.  But what's even better?  A bookstore selling used books with a proprietor who will take my list of wants and track them down, then order them for me.

I'm talking about Cleveland Place Books, a unique bookshop on Main Street in Alma, NB; a bookshop owned by Jane and Steve Chrysostom.  www.cleveland-place.com

My want list of nearly thirty books is prohibitive, if I buy new books.  Steve found many of these books used and in like new or good condition.

On Sunday, we drove to Alma to pick up nine books; the first bunch that arrived at the bookshop.  I cradled them on my lap all the way home, leafing through, reading bits of poetry.  It was like my birthday, like Christmas, like the two together.

I know Steve will email soon when another group of books arrives.

The odd thing about my list...despite my removal of nine new-to-me books from my want list, I've added seventeen more; books recommended to me by people kind enough to suggest poetry that will help me learn about writing and improve my own poetry.

So, for Steve and for Cleveland Place Books and for me, it looks like we'll share a long term commitment to the book hunt.

Thank you, Steve and Jane.

Summer Reading

New Brunswick Public Library Service
This is the library closest to me.
It is at Honour House Court, Riverview.

 

 

Summer reading has been summer studying.  I've switched from writing for hours a day to reading for hours a day over the past six weeks.  I'm studying the poetry I admire, to learn about how and why it works. 

Of course, I'm reading initially for enjoyment.  But when I see a poem or rather feel a poem reverberating within me, I go back to it to discover the why and how of it.  Every poet has a style and a voice, sometimes many; often changing over the span of their work.  I'm searching for those whose works have resonance with my life, my voice, my style, my work; or I with them.  And, too, exploring those different from mine.

After the initial burst of recognition and pleasure with a read, the studying begins.  It is quiet, sometimes lonely work and limited, as I don't know what I don't know.  I learn what I am able to learn and pay attention to what new areas the learning opens for me. 

I am lucky that there are generous writers and poets in my world, who have shared lists of poems and poets helpful to them in their own learning processes.  Lists have introduced me to work by my favourites writers, previously undiscovered work, and to new writers; not always new but new to me.  For that guidance, I am grateful.

Most of the books recommended are available through the New Brunswick Public Library Service.  The few which aren't, I am searching for in a store that sells used books.

At one time, when I was still working at paid employment, I would have methodically searched out these books and bought them, as funds permitted.  I love books and enjoy owning copies to remove from my shelf and read again and again.  But that extravagance is no longer possible and the library system will allow me to borrow books as often as I need.  The hunt through used book stores is a delightful tour of well loved books given up by other readers.

The summer has been about reading poetry and studying poetry.  It has been about learning to live lightly on this earth and giving up the need to own every book I read. 

It is also about the joy of discovering the intricacies and hard work that go into creating really fine poetry.  And discovering that people, whose poetry I admire to the point of feeling intimidated by their talent and craft, their hard work, are generous and kind in offering suggestions and reading lists, and their thoughts on my work.

I am thankful for these poets, for the library and for used book stores.  I have learned from each of them.  And while I will continue to read each day, it's time to return to my writing.

Thank you to every person who has helped me along the way.  You know who you are.

Who Looks Back From the Mirror?

 

 

Who Looks Back From the Mirror?

Who looks back from the mirror?  Some days, it is the Green Lantern or Flash, Superman, Wonder Woman or Batman.  A child dreams potentials, sees prospects and wears possibilities.

Who looks back from my mirror?  Some days, it is a weary grandmother but others, a wise woman learning to write poetry.  Perhaps it might be easier to own my dream if I wore a costume that said, “I am a poet.”

Everyone would see it and know.  “Oh!  This is who you are.”  For now, it is enough, for me to recognize that a poet is who I am, deep inside.

But, what would a poet’s costume or attire be?  Open heart, acute observation and attention to details, skilled use of imagery, metaphor, precise descriptions of sights, sounds, tastes, smells, touches, and tools, pencil and paper,  over it all a gifted resonance with the world, as a way to understand the world and others.  All very abstract; well, most of it.

Perhaps the real ensemble of the poet consists of jeans, birkenstocks, field guides, a heavy thesaurus, a heavier dictionary, paper, pencils, a faded pink shirt faintly fuzzed with cat fur and a curiosity so large it could be worn as a cape … a cape which invites the whole world into its folds.  Perhaps.

I’ll work on it.

Writing Reviews

 

 

Writing Reviews

My writing desk is a hamster’s nest.  Books sit in heaps on either side of the writing space (ever shrinking), and on the chair next to the desk, as well as on a bureau.  This small room doubles as a guest bedroom with a bed and two large bookcases, my desk, two chairs and lamps, and the bureau.  Cozy?  Yes, if you’re into books.  My husband warns if the stacks aren’t balanced, they could topple, injuring guests as they sleep.  My worry is I’ll lose the bookmarks and sticky notes marking important “stuff”, if the piles fall.  C minus for hostess attitude.

 

 

What to do?  I will return the borrowed books to friends or to the public library and tidy the towering dangers and squeeze a few more into the book cases around the house.  Perhaps I’ll write book reviews on those which have been helpful to me, teaching me about poetry and writing; then pack those away.  Somewhere … under the bed, in a closet; there has to be a space somewhere.

Last week, I attended a workshop entitled “Reviewing 101” with Laurie Glenn Norris.  It was part of the week-long Maritime Writers’ Workshops organized by University of New Brunswick College of Extended Learning in Fredericton.  Laurie is a regular contributor to “Salon”, the Telegraph-Journal’s arts and culture supplement, as a book reviewer.  She has also written reviews for Atlantic Books Today, Arts East, the Daily Gleaner, the Telegraph-Journal, the Journal of the NB College of Craft and Design and MUSE.

Laurie is the author of Cumberland County Facts and Folklore (2009) and Haunted Girl:  Esther Cox and the Great Amherst Mystery (2012) both through Nimbus Publishing.  Haunted Girl was shortlisted for the 2013 Atlantic Book Awards – Democracy 250 Award for Historical Writing.

The workshop provided an introduction to book and visual arts reviewing.  Laurie shared how to research and write reviews for fiction and non-fiction books, and for museum and art gallery exhibitions.  She offered supportive information about current markets and how to pitch reviews to potential markets.   Following the workshop, Laurie sent her power point presentation (35 slides) to each participant by email. 

One slide gave general guideline questions, though there were many others with detailed instructions about how to write the reviews.

                        Keep asking yourself

                        What do my readers want to know?

 What do I want my readers to know?

 What are the theme, purpose and scope of the book?

 What were the book’s strengths and weaknesses?

The workshop encouraged me to think of my mounds of books, not as mess but as potential information to be shared, information which might help others and might help me to be more focused on what I have learned.  I was grateful to Laurie Glenn Norris for her efficient presentation, her expertise and her enthusiasm.

If I lived in Fredericton, I’d be able to afford to attend the whole week of Maritime Writers’ Workshops each July, as there would no extra costs for travel and accommodations.  But I don't, so I can't.  What I can do is attend those which are possible for me, each summer.  What I can do is begin reviewing some of my volumes, sharing what’s been instructive to me.

What else?  Well, I can stop typing this blog entry and organize the nest of clutter on the desk, the chair, the bureau.  Oh my … but there is a book on hold at the library for me right now.  The email notice just popped up.

What to do?

Words typed in red will take you to another site with additional information, if you click on them.

God of Poetry: A Writers' Retreat

 

 

God of Poetry: A Writers’ Retreat

We break bread, share wine,

a get-acquainted preamble.

Evening relaxes

sun-sweet, after hard rain;

we gather outdoors for your poetry reading.

 

From damp adirondacks, we listen;

a semi-circle of homage

and blackflies.  We lean in,

ignore spasms of itch. 

The lawn, resurrected

as bog, washes our feet.

 

We murmur entreaties:

“May there be

enough grass plastered

on toes to protect them

from feast.”

 

You stand.

A father’s gentle voice

reading stories to children.

You choose four poems;

do not want to overwhelm.

Our fingers reach

to touch the hem of your words.

You finish.  No sound.

Our heads bowed. 

 

Then you swat a blackfly

on the back of your neck

and say,

“We have to suffer for art.”

Laughter, applause;

we run back to the inn.

 

Alone in our rooms,

we each pray before sleep:

“May our stings and spilled blood

become

the stigmata

of poets.”

 

I attended an excellent retreat for writers and wrote this tongue-in-cheek poem about our first evening together, after hearing some participants respectfully and affectionately referring to our instructor as the “God of Poetry.”  He may or may not be a god, but he was helpful to me, taught me much about how to write and gave gentle, direct feedback.  Perhaps, they are correct.  Being god-like encompasses kindness, teaching by example and helping people where they are.  Oh yes, and having a sense of humor.

 

Words and photo are copyright © 2011-2013 Carol Steel.

A Writing Retreat

 

 

Hello again. 

I haven't been blogging as much as usual because I have been preparing to go to the Spring Writers' Retreat offered by the University of New Brunswick.  Each participant has sent in 10 pages of their work, which have been circulated to the other students and the instructor for review and comments prior to the retreat.  I've done lots of writing, reading and note making. 

This week has already given me a couple new opportunities to receive feedback on my poetry: a brief one-on-one meeting with a well-respected writer and editor; and participation in a writers' group meeting.  Both have been rich in advice.

For example, an "expected phrase" or "expected word" means I have used a cliche, like "whirling wind" or "a beautiful day."  These aren't bad words, just not great ways to paint a picture for someone else to see.  Poetry is meant to freshen the world.  "To freshen" means to use words in ways that offer new and different perspectives, on something we see in ordinary ways, or we don't see at all.

I discovered that I need to develop a better reading voice.  I kill my own work by reading it poorly.  I am sharing a story or an experience in a poem;  I am not reading the newspaper out loud.  I read too quickly without stopping to breathe.  This robs a listener of the benefit of the pacing in the piece I've created, and of a chance to process the words.  I am so nervous that I'm choking my words and my poetry.  Others read with a firm and disciplined modulation, with intensity of feeling (though not over done), and with a different timbre from their regular speaking voice.  There is an aura of  "This is important. Listen while I share this experience with you.  This is how I see the world.  Can you see it too?" 

It helps to be told, "This word or phrase or structure does work, or doesn't work" and more importantly, to be told why.  It helps to hear other poetry and to recognize why and how it is working.  It helps to stay away from envy of the poetry written by someone else.  This is a hard bit for me.  I recognize good poetry; I am thrilled and awed by great poetry. I make myself remember that even those writers had to learn, to try, to write bad poetry as well as good in the learning process.

And that's where I am, in a learning process.   

I leave for the Spring Writers' Retreat this afternoon and return on Sunday late in the day, another step on my writing journey.  I am both excited and terrified.  And isn't that the creative combination I need to crack myself open,  to see the world in fresh ways?

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

Writing Poetry is Not for Sissies

Writing Poetry is Not for Sissies

To write clearly

                with simple words

                                is a chore.

 

My pencil wants

                to write words

                                that dance

 

with alliteration

                and adjectives

                                (those dreadful things.)

 

I have to beat my poems

                to teach them

                                to behave, flail them

 

free of adverbs

                and of clichés;

                                clean their teeth

 

of flowery phrases

                they sneak when

                                I’m not watching.

 

My husband asks,

                “What are you

                                doing?”

 

And I have to confess.

                “I’m beating a poem

                                to death.”

 

He laughs, but it’s true

                and I’m not done

                                yet.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall*

My knees don’t like the rain, though they now give more accurate predictions of the weather than the meteorologist.   Aging is less fun as I pass the six decade mark; at least the physical aspects of growing older are less amusing.  Gravity is not my friend and some body parts are missing and others, wearing down.  Each day, I grow more curious about what will accompany me into the future and what I’ll relinquish.

And yet aging bears gifts.  I am more patient, more focused on fewer priorities, have a deeper wisdom and have let go of needing to force what I know into the ears of others.  And I have lived long enough to recognize there are cycles in my life.  There is a kind of balance between the dark times when all is painful and waiting and the fecund times when all is green and growing.  Life, all of life seeks balance. 

Me, too.

After passing through four years of depleted energy levels, depleted to dangerous levels resulting in back-to-back illnesses, I have come to a place of stillness and inner focus.  There is time now to spend loving my husband and family and friends, time to cuddle the cats and to garden.  There is time to stop for a while as my life comes back to healthier balance.  There is time for me to write, to stare out the window and to gestate inside.

My family genetics lead me to hope that I might live into my mid-nineties.  How encouraging that is in terms of becoming a skilled poet and writer.  There are still many years in which to learn the craft, to hone the skills, to practise and to write.

I’ve learned I can give myself sweet permission to do what I need and want to do.  So now, I write every day, sometimes wearing my magenta bathrobe until noon.

And I know that no matter what happens in my life, whatever it is, it will begin and it will end, just like the rain. 

 

NOTES:  *“Into each life some rain must fall” is a quote from the poem, “Rainy Day” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.   The line is also the title of a 1944 song performed as a duet by The Ink Spots, featuring Ella Fitzgerald and Bill Kenny.   Words in colour will link you to another website with additional information, if you click on them.

 

Waves of Writing

 

 

It is hard to write this week.

 

My head is full of ideas and my pages full of scribbles and jottings, but nothing is coming together into poetry or story.  So, yesterday, we drove along the coast of New Brunswick to get some fresh air and different perspectives. 

 

We stopped here.  Saw this, breathed spray from the white caps.  The wind was blowing right through us and out the other side. 

 

As I watched, the waves reminded me that coming in, going out, over and over again, back and forth, over and over is one way to discover.  Sometimes it takes time.  Sometimes writing takes time.

 

And, sometimes the writing has its own rhythm.

 

Words and photo are copyright Carol Steel.

 

 

Gets Worse Before It Gets Better

Wordless Wednesday

 

On the Right Track

 

 

On the Right Track

 

Writing is hard, harder than usual.

 

Most of the time, my mind composes lines of poetry and creates fragments of stories no matter what else is happening around me.  I carry a small notepad and a pencil everywhere I go, to capture thoughts, observations, conversations and phrases.  At home, notebooks and pens lie scattered, ready for words.  Most of the time, my mind flows with writing.

But writing is harder than usual because I’ve been ill, had surgery, radiation and an accompanying depression.  These new and nasty experiences are behind me now.  Yet they remain close enough to influence how well my mind works.

This “how well” part isn’t working so well.  I loathe feeling so slow and so stupid, like swimming blind through a river of slush.  My clarity is improving but at the pace of an icicle melting in winter.  I attempt to write each day; the output comes in drips.

To journey through recovery is to wander in a fog of weariness where thoughts and images flicker at a distance, indistinct and muffled.  I reach for them and they retreat.  I can’t bring them to the page.  Some days the fog smothers my way and I am lost.  I can’t write a thing.

I’m told this is normal.  Gosh!  It's not comforting.  I’m finished my treatments, done with the meds and I want to be well.   What my mind wants doesn’t matter; what my body wants does.

I am weary.  I rest.  I sleep.  I am awake and energetic in short bursts, then I am weary again.  Am I improving?  Yes.  Are there longer periods of energy?  Yes.  Will I return to myself?  Yes…eventually.  I am on the right track.

I am grateful for early diagnosis, for medical care, for survival.  I am thankful for moments when mind-fuddle clears, when I can write, when I glimpse feeling at home within myself.

But, I’ll be delighted as a four-year old in new rubber boots on the first puddle-filled day of spring when my mind sheds this fog and this weariness.

Until I can embrace my writing with all of myself, with every bit of myself...until then, I am on the right track...frustration on one side and patience on the other.

 

Words and photo are copyright © Carol Steel.