writes.
Lines – Cameron Anstee (St. Andrew Books)
wind – Guy Ewing (Puddles of Sky Press)
a grain of sand – Helen Hajnoczky (above/ground press)
A Number of Stunning Attacks – Jessi MacEachern (Invisible Publishing)
Rain’s Small Gestures – Pearl Pirie (Apt. 9 Press)
Last year the finalist was announced mid-December.
Watch the I Don’t Understand episode with poet and author of “I Love You, Call Me Back” Sabrina Benaim. That’s the slam poet that went viral as a winner of the 2014 Toronto Poetry Slam. She is best known for her poem “Explaining My Depression To My Mother” which was apparently 8 years ago.
She gives a wonderful interview.
I had the pleasure of being on library shift with Wakefield’s Village poet emeritus, Phil Cohen. Phil started in New York City, went to MIT in engineering, and somehow ended up Quebec by 1984.
{…] real people here too on the other side of the man made wall.
Internal Meanderings
Odd
isn’t it,
That whenever I slow down
I find people just like me,
And
they too have a place called home
And friends
Just as I do in my world
Phil’s a big deal in town, with his birthday celebrated as part of February’s Dragonfest. There’s a DVD of his poems in tribute. He has at least 2 books. One of his poems was the source of the name of the TaDa arts fest.
He says there are big P poets who do it for a living, small p poets who do it seriously and no p poets like him. He says poetry is in the living, and in involvement in the community.
A delightful chance to talk. He knows everyone and is happy to share his stories. He found my book and asked me to read ones to him.
I found his book and he asked me to read one of his. Read one over at my instagram.
That as a post title frankly makes me nervous but it is what it is, a pattern of structure for the title.
Confirmation Bias, I knew it would be
My soul is crushed. There is no light.
my own satire of it
I can not see. I cannot fight.
But what I know, must be right, ever only specious.
Okay, as post title suggests, that’s not the original words. I’ve since thrown Baby Jesus out with the dirty bathwater.
I’ve tried in vain a thousand ways my fears to quell, my hopes to raise; but what I need, The Bible says, is ever only Jesus.
My soul is night, my heart is steel. I can
not see, I cannot feel; For light, for life, I must appeal, In simple faith to Jesus.He died, He Lives. He reigns, he pleads; There’s love in all his words and deeds. There’s all a guilty sinner needs, for ever more in Jesus.
Tho’ some should sneer and some should blame, I’ll go with all my guilt and shame, I’ll go to him because His name, above all names is Jesus.
“In Jesus” by Robert Harkness, (music)/James Procter(lyrics) written in 1903
The iambic spin off is a comfort. As is the rhythm itself. And for a decade or more I carried the original poem in my pocket as an antidote to the despair of depression.To it I’m grateful for its help as a bridge.
As I encountered it first in the 80s, it was only the first two stanzas and marked as written by anonymous.
In fact Harkness (2 March 1880—8 May 1961) wrote it. He was an Australian composer, musical genius, and pianist on the Revival circuit. Quoted as adapting his music to where they toured, he said,
The weather has much to do with his adjusting the music to the assembled company. If it is a stormy night the voices of the people as a rule have not got the range that they have on a crisp cold night. In the first instance they will not sing as high as on a cold night. In the morning the voice is lower in range. He explained that if he played in the same key morning and evening, the singing would not be the success that it should be. In the morning the audience will sing up to D, while in the evening it will sing up to F.
If church organists would watch this to keep the music of the hymns within the range of the voices of the people of the audience they would have better singing, and therefore a better tone to the service.In a small hall, or one where the ceiling is low, it is also necessary to keep the voices down as regards the range, otherwise what would sound well in a large hall, would sound like screeching.”
Much like Emily Dickinson poems can be sung to the Yellow Rose of Texas, this can map a regularity like the heart. And how can you unlove anything you once loved?