Love is bittersweet. L'amour et la mort, coincidence?

Nietzsche, Parmenides, Euripedes, philosophia, subdue.

sometimes inelegant responses are all one can muster.

the wounded heart bears its afflictions, grows in reverse; the slow slow mind attributes this growth as a given mechanism. The truth: all functions continue, all things renew.

‎"The disruption posed by technology is even voiced by one of his characters, Walter Berglund, in Freedom. "'This was what was keeping me awake at night,' Walter said. 'This fragmentation. Because it's the same problem everywhere. It's like... the internet, or cable TV – there's never any centre, there's no communal agreement, there's just a trillion bits of distracting noise … All the real things, the authentic things, the honest things, are dying off.'"

Jonathan Franzen, on ebooks corroding values


TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
... The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Yeats, The Second Coming

poem, revisited

dissecting the goods

there is an antidote
in the melancholy of a seed

the effect of rising
or a finale

the statements we make
or suffer through

we eat stones, fish
for compliments

eat the fish we kill

Master of Arts

Graduation day is the 22nd. Hard to believe it, but I now have a Masters Degree in English Literature.

Six years ago, moving to Montreal, I had no idea I'd end up with an MA. I only intended to complete my Creative Writing degree in the two years of coursework remaining. What began as a quick fix to just 'get a damned degree' turned into an introspective journey which led me to another Major discipline of study, which then turned into an outright switch to an Honours program, in Classics. What can I say, I fell in love: 3 years training in Ancient Greek and Latin, poetry, art, drama, theory (may the gods save me--how I love theory), and now I'm some kind of Master of Arts. Seems unreal, I'm in a bit of shock. And I feel incredible.

When one sets out to achieve a goal, the end is never clear it seems. Good life advice: never look to the end. In fact, the end can seem entirely gray, nihilistic. And when that so called end is reached, what is to come? What dreams? It is an interesting time and I'm embracing the excitement and uncertainty with a level of calm, which is followed by moments of pure panic. How colourful, how fun, how terrifying.

And now, considerations on the PhD... the return to poetry... Plato in Greek... a return to yoga, running... and chocolate. May the alchemy continue to enhance.


Oracle seduces the tripod, or is it the other way round...

Pottery Guild EXPO this weekend

WHAT? Come view or purchase pottery and work from local weavers, glassmakers and more: 7 to 10 pm Friday (Vernissage), 10am-5pm Saturday, 10am-5pm Sunday.

WHERE? Maison du Brasseur, 2901 St. Joseph Blvd, Lachine (#173 bus from Lionel Groulx--15 minutes). Will also include wood and copper enamel artisans. Refreshments available. (above Raku pot not for sale--its my favorite)

new poem, fragment

Flu(ent)

Two fires in me
one, afflictions       sweet lights       avalanche in arabesque
Two birds
blue at the cuffs, spun thin
policing
full in their manteaus              near, rubbing in the dovecote.

....

poem in progress

...

we ate late
thin instruments in arms
subtlety held in place with marks, rouged, the skin of things the slit between us.

And what of hands, what of the bareness of hands
      (that night, dressed in hunters outfits)
      Acting on whim, the knowledge that all things must pass through
          We pay our returns

there need be no astonishment only pure margin
articulation of loss
the friend who opens
several themes at once
      the almost there        the devouring of all recognition        the demand

...

One imagined two small windows
cut into his skin. His breasts
look out upon the tree.
The other thought the shape
of his tongue was poetry.
The word, he said
drawn like an arrow,
so fits
into the body of the bird it hits.

Robin Blaser, from CUPS, "3"

Review “Poets Talk"

Review “Poets Talk: Conversations with Robert Kroetsch, Daphne Marlatt, Erin Mouré, Dionne Brand, Marie Annharte Baker, Jeff Derksen, and Fred Wah”
Editors Pauline Butling and Susan Rudy
University of Alberta Press, 2005
_____________________________________________________________________________________


Poets Talk is an accessible reference book of poet dialogues conducted throughout the 1990’s and showcases a variety of Canadian talent in interview cast, the communications focusing on specific segments of a poet’s work and concerning a brief history of both poetics and polis. Editors and interviewers Pauline Butling and Susan Rudy established the book to be guided by means of section titles—Historicizing Postmodernism; Struggle and Community, Possibility; Hybridity and Asianicity, for example—which also serve to support the smart, precise questions posed to the poets from the dual questioners.

This is an important, informative, and captivating book. The interviews characterize modest postmodern beginnings, salvaging, excessivity, sense, and cultural poetics, while still serving up the stuff of intimacy. The project, as noted in the preface, “developed out of a research project on innovative poetry in English Canada” that the editors began in 1991. Both editors were engrossed with contemporary writing, and, puzzling over new contemporary texts, they knew what they had to do: “Let us go talk to the poets.”

The editors begin with probing questions on the why’s of unconventional punctuation, repetition, and fragmentation. The interview with poet great Robert Kroetsch discusses form and place, and how, as Pauline suggests, “Canadians are almost embarrassed about place, or place of origin, because it isn’t valued.” Kroetsch considers happening upon a Roland Barthes book while in England in ’63, he begins the interview, and refers to reading a text closely. He notes when he first started teaching graduate school, no one was “talking about the poems (of Williams and Stevens) the way I was reading them. I mean this notion of “gap” and what we now would call deconstruction.” He speaks of teaching Olson, and Williams providing inspiration early on, discovering Jack Spicer and reading bpNichol. Pauline asks, “You’re always subverting the form… what your relation to the material… to what extent is it writing you?” Kroetsch responds, “Well, I’m very compulsive about secrecy and concealment… it’s almost a paradox that I publish, because my real ambition is to write and never be seen.”

Pauline and Susan take turns posing intelligent questions, working through past and present narratives in the poet’s work, “what do you pay attention to when you’re working with contradictions? You’re unraveling in some ways, but you’re also partially putting things together.” Robert decides, “Insofar as I’m a postcolonial writer, I have a dread of systems, because I’ve felt victimized by them, or erased.”

Influenced in part by Gertrude Stein, the first thing Kroetsch seeks to do is to revisit foundational elements of writing he renders insufficient, to “destroy grammar right off the bat. I just want the reader to know grammar won’t say what I have to say.” The poet speaks of the process of writing an incredibly painful poem, and how words would start to come apart; yet through his use of the couplet, of fricatives, of a sense of organized rhythm, a sense of comfort and reassurance is gained. “I found the couplet very generative. Using the verse form was a way to contain my grief.”

The second interview concerns author Daphne Marlatt who discusses technique; “I really want to let each poem begin to show me where it’s going. If I know what my intent is before I start writing, I’m bored; the piece just dies, so I’m the kind of writer that needs to let the writing slowly manifest itself.”

Pauline aptly notes, “I find your use of the prose poem forces more attention to the horizontal language axis and puts words into metonymic relation, in contrast to the lyric form which torques the line in interesting ways but mostly on a vertical (metaphoric) axis.” Daphne replies thoroughly, summing up that “an English sentence has a tremendous capacity for detour, and that’s what’s pulled me further and further into prose.”

Through an alternating discussion between language, feminist and personal aesthetics, Marlatt considers negotiating line lengths, posturing the Zukofsky, Creeley, and Corman short line, and filling out the arbitrary length of a conventional margin.

Pauline asks Marlatt about structure, “You said earlier that in the prose poem you work mainly with the sentence. Do you have a definition of a sentence?” She replies, “I have more of a sense of what a sentence isn’t. I’m more interested in undermining the conventional notions of sentences, so I use a lot of sentence fragments,” these fragments adding to a feeling of her work as “more organic, it’s always connected, no matter how loosely”.

The book continues to uncover where these authors derive their inspiration, how they formed and reformed structural elements, and their positions on canonical authors. Pauline asks Erin Mouré, “what about canonical writers, the overcoat of dead poets?” Erin discusses her time at university, that she studied philosophy during her short stint, “I figured I would read literature by myself, but philosophy—like formal logic, epistemology, and metaphysics—I figured I wouldn’t just bring it to the beach and read it so I’d better take courses.”

Susan comments on the sometime complexity of Mouré’s work, “So your work requires alternative ways of reading. But few of us have learned how to read carefully and attentively at all, much less in relation to such complex texts.” Erin suggests, “perception is about absorbing only what you’re attentive to. And most people are only attentive to the expected.”

Dionne Brand’s interview concerns community and how a certain center would host events and bring about readings; about how immediate those audiences were, and how she had to “not simply represent but also break, violate” in terms of resisting “only saying what was appealing” to the immigrant Canadian audience. Pauline asks about Brand's writing in long form, “Did you feel the longer form allowed more space for the political work that you were involved in? Or was it more of a craft issue?” Dionne responds, “I just don’t like short poems. I don’t think they’re sufficient. I mean they can be, when people who can do it well do it well. But I wanted much more speech.”

The book is an integrated meeting between poet and poem, providing examples of each author’s work to fuel discussion. Writer Marie Annharte Baker, after discussing a playful piece, is questioned by Pauline, “You obviously enjoy playing around with words.” Baker responds, “I think there are so many imprecise meanings in the English language and that’s why you have to play with the words.”

In terms of process, each writer is given the chance to detail a sort of linear ideology, and an opportunity to play within those boundaries, just as Jeff Derksen arranges, “maybe I fall into being a mystic Marxist in some sense, in that the revelation will have to be ideology revealed.”

Interviewing Fred Wah, the editors sought to question his position between writing prose and poetry, “I wasn’t a prose writer and I had always been suspicious of story because story is something that had been very much controlled by the “mainstream,” by the West, a British inheritance. I had been able to undermine that for myself in poetry because poetry is language-based, whereas story is much more context-based.” Wah goes on to speak of rhythm, ambivalence, options of the “I”, and ethics in a poem, “it’s the kind of ethics I’m talking about and why I found Olson so useful in the sense that belief and ethics were being brought into poetry. Before that, I thought poetry was just this neat thing, this beautiful little thing in our culture. But no. It was the first indication I had that poetry might be for the imagination, and the imagination might be used to bring about worlds.”

Thematically, "Poets Talk" seems to want to leave a particular stamp on these writers, following certain lines of questioning, which presupposes that the poets are limited in their abilities to only explore certain motifs or persuasions. Such categorizations placed on the writers did not always serve to enhance the interviews. This collection nevertheless largely sets out what it desires to do, providing a “forum on poetics, a dialogue on the what and why of poetry during a decade of seismic shifts in poetic thought and practice.”

As Pauline asks Daphne Marlatt, “Does the period mark an ending?” She responds, “It just indicates a momentary resting place, a point of growth.” So too are these interviews; a point of growth from which to further discover the talk of poets.

RIP Haley, 1990-2011. Majestic cat. Fighter, Mouser, Affectionate maine coone monster. you will be missed.

































Memories.
She was one of the smartest cats I've ever known. She understood what I'd say to her and act on it. Walked like such a lady, her back legs always crossing in front of the other. She loved to roll on her back and play, but would bite you if you touched her belly. She often gave love bites as a sign of affection and licks on the nose. She'd sit at the edge of the bathtub with her tail in the water swishing back and forth, and always wanted to be so near to me--sleeping on my chest and wanting to cuddle under the blankets. She just loved attention. It took her awhile to get used to someone, but when she did she'd shower you with purrs and head rubs. One of the most vibrant memories was when she'd lie across the tops of chairs and couches with her legs hanging over the edges. She always had a sharp, knowing look about her and a keen interest in everything. When these sweet personality traits stopped, I knew she had begun to lose her spirit and that her frail body was taking over her mind. I ignored the signs, or didn't understand them--her walking into rooms with no purpose only to turn around and leave, what may have been her seeking out new places likely for her to hide when the time came. I knew that she knew it was close. It even began to hurt her with her weakened legs when I'd pick her up for our regular cuddles, where she'd place both of her large paws over my right shoulder and lay her chin down while we walked around. These last few days were so difficult for me to make the decision--one day she seemed strong, the other so weak and unlike herself. I could not bear her to suffer, and as difficult as this journey has been today, as tough as it was watching her take her last breath, I feel comfort in the fact that her spirit will live on somewhere--her kind, gentle giant spirit. I hope it will live on within me. She was often so strong when I was weak--coming to my side, sleeping almost on top of my head when I was sad. A great comforter. A queen among cats. Will miss her always, such a good companion, such a great, miracle cat who seemed to have many many lives. I rescued her from the Edmonton SPCA back in 1991, and ever since she has been rescuing me right back. Her presence will be a great void to fill. Death is not for the weak, and yet it is precisely for the weak. Strange how that is.

Love you Haley girl, so so much are you missed.

we need to stop resisting our lives and begin to live them.

self-sabotage is like trying to carve a pumpkin from the inside-out,
the skin has holes and life just leaks out, unawares.

Alexandra Paldriana
Aerin Caragh
Fainche Keary
Saraid Morgance
Raelin Vanora
Blair deClermont

future version (visions).

map of tokyo
map of ages
map of falling
map to fill
map of insignificance
map of pooring
map to nowhere
map the going
map my mistake
map the anger
map map mappy
map of danger
map the dosha
map the caring
map of wrists
maps to piss

New Year

I've decided to embark on this new year by following the random advice of Yogi Tea fortunes. Perhaps I'll become a millionaire or cure some horrid disease. Can't wait.

Pascal, Pensées #355

Continuous eloquence wearies.

Princes and kings sometimes play. They are not always on their thrones. They weary there. Grandeur must be abandoned to be appreciated. Continuity in everything is unpleasant. Cold is agreeable, that we may get warm.

Nature acts by progress, itus et reditus. It goes and returns, then advances further, then twice as much backwards, then more forward than ever, etc.

The tide of the sea behaves in the same manner; and so apparently does the sun in its course.

"Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn,
Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand
Unbarred the gates of light. There is a cave
Within the mount of God, fast by his throne,
Where light and darkness in perpetual round
Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heaven
Grateful vicissitude, like day and night;
Light issues forth, and at the other door
Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour
To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well
Seem twilight here"

~ Paradise Lost, Book VI

so much love, perpetual round, so much light from above. miss you still.
Blair O'Connor, beloved father, December 25, 1973.

old poem

In preparation for a book length publication, I'm riffling through and revisiting old songs, old friends:



the cottage


The pens here have all dried out.

This season makes me sneeze.

This time it's really the weather.

***

I drew our lives on my leg this afternoon while you were swimming.

I was going to show you as you were toweling yourself off.

But something came up.

***

Later, my catalyst was this book.

It had your initials inside.

We didn't speak for hours.

Commercial

I filmed this commercial for a Montreal video game company, Gameloft, a couple weeks ago.

Apparently, I'm not into aliens.

Apparently hypothyroidism can accompany kidney failure. Good lord. I forsee more blood tests in my future.

http://www.endoconsultants.com/Lab/Thyroidtests.htm

At least I understand the numerous symptoms I've had for the past 8 years. Funny that a doctor didn't dot together the connections. Damn doctors.

Update:
My hair, which has been falling out at an increasing rate, has now surpassed the 'small amount' I'd anticipated. I am losing my hair. My doctors better do something, and fast. This is not acceptable. Free health care, or free health (minus the care)...

Dancing the Wolf

Dreaming of wolves again (my shamanic animal). Two wolves this time, one baby wolf, white, one mother wolf, tawny. The mother pulls me in with one paw, one sharp powerful pull toward her and the babe-wolf. I take it as a necessary shift in perspective, one in line perhaps with the near completion of my Master's degree, and the parallels of change with regard to aging and starting anew. What paths will the wolf lead me on through the forest this time? Or, might it be time to become the wolf, and lead myself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNK30nwReRQ

my mother sewed my baby teeth into the ground
and up came a race of blood hungry.

"The thyroid gland is an endocrine gland that is involved with temperature regulation and many other vital roles including the immune system. Poor concentration, confusion, memory problems, cold hands/feet, weight gain, menstrual problems, dry skin, thinning hair and low energy levels accompany hypothyroidism (a decline in the secretion of hormones from the thyroid gland). Aging often leads to hypothyroidism and Dr. Dean believes that this is 'an under-diagnosed epidemic.'"

Good lord. The specialist needs to call me back asap before I metabolize into a rock. Although I do have a kind professor who's offered to share some of his meds with me. (interesting scenario)

Das Magnificent.

Das Rheingold.

How lucky I was to have seen the Met production (via HD Live) today. Not being familiar with the music of Wagner (shame on me), I was overcome with its effects, the Lepage set on the Met stage both expanding and contracting with the swells and crescendos of the transformative music. It hits you between the eyes, at the peak of the throat, to the tips and tops.

If only the two upcoming productions weren't sold out at the Met yet... but alas... (this opera is so massively impressive it demands three separate productions--it may even be four--which is to be expected. Sitting through 9 hours of straight opera would be tenuous at best... but an interesting experiment I'm sure the likes of Mozart even contemplated).

Wow-o. I have to buy me a box set of this magnificence. It's times like these when I wish I could simultaneously sing opera professionally, return to making etchings with steel plating that would attempt to capture these epic scenes, and inscribe my passion into words fit enough to cover my body in images of light and moss. And so on.

Last day to attend my pottery sale. That's right, pottery. We all know poetry doesn't pay. I had to add another consonant, rearrange some letters. Kinda like poetry, but with cash.

Poterie Lachine

No, I do not need to read at your parade. Your collective costumes, lean smiles (right hooks), cutting marks into paper like sacrificial lambs: I shall survive keeping my pen in my pocket keeping my word pinned to the outer corners of my mouth keeping the bird in the house. Although you do not feel the waves, the eye flat against the wall, the curved curved curved attack of absence: hardness is imminent. And what a gift.

adulthood: the realization that the cute, charming, idiosyncratic characteristics of oneself that once was integral to note during a 'ritual of love' no longer seems recognizable even to its originator. And, more words than is necessary to describe stuff.

tiny dancer

Awareness, the hyperreal, fragmentation, performing self, reflections, obscure and transparent light, labyrinthine constructions, centering, balance, the breath between chaos and order, alienation, rebirth..... these are just a few of the words that came up today during my visit with my homeopath as we navigate the 'me' that 'is', attempting to decipher what kind of an "organism" I am (her choice of word, and interesting at that) in the process of finding a remedy for my sleepy thyroid. What strikes me, what shocked me, about these terms (of which there were plenty more) is the close resemblance they bear to actual essay topics I've engaged over the last few years. As if I've been writing myself out of a mystery, merely to become entwined again into an alternate universe of mysteries.

We are such fascinating creatures, us turtles, clams and elephants. Such magnificent things.

It also turns out that my love, obsession rather, with miniatures allows me the ideal perspective and additionally calms my soul. Love tiny spoons and books. I could spend all day in this library, tending the fire and running my fingers along the tiny leather spines.



To create a little flower is the labor of ages
~Blake