Saturday, September 29, 2007

Writing on Week Nineteen

This past week was out of the ordinary, as I attended a nude poetry reading at the Solstice Cafe. The event was called "Poetry in the Raw" and was a fundraiser to send a local team of poets to Halifax to compete in the National Poetry Slam. These seven brave poets: Steven J. Thompson, Missie Peters, RadaR, strong.cottonwoods, Jane Bee and shaye avec i grec bared their souls, and everything else, on stage to a warm, understanding and receptive audience. Their performances were so powerful, the nudity was secondary. After a short time, the general focus was taken off their bodies and invested in their beautifully vulnerable words - all recited from memory.
A portion of the audience also showed their support to the troupe by stripping down as well. Myself included. I spent the latter part of the evening comfortably baring 'my girls', and didn't think twice about it or for one minute feel oggled by some disrespectful spectator. The environment was safe, the vibe was good and the context was clear. We were being human, together, and the poetry was set on promoting positive body image and self-actualization. Beautiful. I am sending out my best wishes to these amazing poets - set the competition on fire!!

Monday, September 17, 2007

Reviews

Thorburn Ages in Memory, Body, Poetry and Jazz
by Andrea McKenzie

If only we could step back through a mirror to have a closer look at our younger selves, while cross-examining and contemplating our present, aging bodies; to have conversations with those who are gone, and understand the inevitability of moving forward.

In Russell Thorburn’s book, Father Tell Me I Have Not Aged, the poems are like slide photos or quick glimpses of the past and other places. The reader is taken into a different age, whether it is younger, older or in another geographical setting. Thorburn’s poems explore fear and love, and an underlying danger exists.

There is a struggle between clinging to impermanent snapshots and mental pictures, and the paradox of the poet’s desire to release these memories. The reels of memory continue to reveal what is alive, even in the hint of death, and bring back those who are dead, acknowledge their death and, in turn, bring back life.

The poems are an entranceway into dreams and memory; there is a longing or regret, and a slant of betrayal in the depth of honesty when resurrecting old lovers and weaving them into the poet’s present, waking consciousness, as seen in “First Love”. The reader is left hanging in-between patches of memory, but the images are clear and alive.

Seasons and nature are prominent. For instance, in the poem “February” Thorburn uses the seasonal landscape to create a delicate and suggestive setting. In the poem, “For Those of Us Who Have Lost Our Jobs” the poet employs snow, and the cold weather to lend a harsher element with the cold biting the spirit. Nature often sets the stage for emotion to say what can’t be expressed otherwise.

The second section begins with the title poem, “Father, Tell Me I Have Not Aged”, which allows the poet to step back into the shadows of his childhood. There is also a strong focus on his mother and a yearning to enter her secret, silent world. The poet mirrors himself in his parents, and re-visits his own world and perceptions at various stages of growth.

In the third section, more eros appears and the poet manages to escape into a cinematic world, reflecting real life. The referencing of characters or real actors creates a limitation in these poems. Thorburn is asking the reader to work harder and develop a deeper interest and understanding of specific movies and plot lines. He invites a certain generation of readers. Still, the play by play scenes are melded with the poet’s imagination and interpretation of human themes – love, sex, fear and death.

The last section of the book turns to sophisticated literary references ie. Kafka, Sonnets to Orpheus, and Rilke in “Waiting for the Bus”. The imagery becomes surreal, opening up and slowly leading the reader out of the book, having come through the labyrinth. There is a stronger use of image repetition, such as ‘star-bulbed sky’, as the literary actors exit the stage. Thorburn also experiments with different line structures, such as fragmented couplets, and there is a gradual breaking down of thought and movement. The lines are sparse, creating more space to move, such as in the poems “Last Night on Michigan Street” and “Zeno Remembers”. Throughout the book, the rhythms of his poems ride different movements with a steady heartbeat. There is an unleashing and reigning in, like a jazz tempo.

Thorburn’s poems are about ending, or facing an end; another kind of passage for growing up and growing old, and being thrust into another unknown or kind of death.

Writing on Week Eighteen

Last week I held a successful poetry reading during lunch hour at my place of work. There was a good turnout, and everyone seemed to enjoy the mental break from their daily grind of phonecalls and meetings. One gentleman brought his own poems to read, as I had stated in the invitation for the event, and also bought a copy of my book. So, I have befriended another fan of poetry at work. Over the weekend, I enjoyed reading a copy of Hafiz's 50 Ghazals, which this poet friend kindly lent me.
As much as I am writing poetry when inspiration strikes (or I have the motivation to dig down and find a poem), I am concentrating on reading the works of other contemporary and classical writers. I am gaining new appreciation for the common link all poets share - the eagerness to write about our worlds and put it into one world. There is no difference of time. A poem could have been written 200 years ago or 1000 years ago - the human condition doesn't change and our relationship with nature doesn't change.
Back to the reading; I was thrilled to have the support of my colleagues, and even those who were not able to attend showed interest afterwards and shared their encouragement. I tend to vibrate after having an unexpected discussion about the importance of poetry and the arts, and the basic recognition that we are not all simply slaves at our desks, but breathing people with whole passions and universes away from our 8-hour work days. If we are lucky enough to briefly combine our two selves, our worlds unite and new galaxies are formed. I was asked whether I have considered organizing another poetry reading at work. The answer is an enthusiastic "yes".
Random Acts of Poetry is also quickly approaching, and my poet friends are currently hanging out at The Poet Tree outside Munro's Bookstore on Government St. in the afternoons (for you locals!) reading their poems and giving them away on beautiful postcards to passers-by. Poetry is everywhere. It is an entity that is alive and well, and being well-fed, and it is clearly being sought and found by all those in need.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Poetry Chapbooks & Anthologies

http://leafpress.ca/books/Dinner%20Party.htm

http://leafpress.ca/books/Letters%20We%20Never%20Sent.htm

www.leafpress.ca/books/Object.htm

http://leafpress.ca/books/Anecdote.htm

http://leafpress.ca/books/Sparrows%20On%20Snow.htm

Turnstiles - excerpt


1.


Martin opened his eyes. He squinted between his zippered lashes, stuck together with sleep. A small army of shoes marched past his face, half-hidden inside a dingy, blue sleeping bag. His first instinct was to place a limp, protective hand on his nearby knapsack. He was inside a short tunnel that lay beneath a busy London street beside Hyde Park. He didn’t look up. He knew what their faces would convey; their cowardly faces. He was experiencing the real Europe, instead of peering out at it through heated hotel windows or army bunk beds and tour buses. He didn’t have to pay anyone for his space of concrete bedding. He was free. He closed his eyes again. Martin was free.
He ignored his growling stomach. He could smell the subtle waft of French fries from the nearby Hard Rock Café. Tourists - they were all missing the local colour. He would visit Joe, the hotdog vendor, later on for lunch. He got his hotdogs free from Joe. Then he would lie under a tree in the park and watch the tourists get dinged two pounds for using the lawn chairs. He felt as though mindless sheep surrounded him. He had it all figured out. A year ago he had bought a cheap ticket to London and decided to depend on the day to see him through. Martin cherished every consequence. He held on to every face that examined him with curiosity and disgust. He always kept a plain expression. He had no reason to indulge anyone with emotion. In fact, he barely spoke. Except to people like Joe.
When he opened his eyes again, a different army of shoes were marching past. The tunnel was never quiet, and he had long gotten used to the intrusion of echoing sounds and rustling pavement. It was a small sacrifice. He wriggled out of his bed and began to pack up. He would return later that night. Martin had become a familiar sight, and some of the locals knew this tunnel was his home. So did the other shoestring backpackers. Martin marched alongside the army out of the tunnel. The sun was out, and again he squinted. He ran a hand over his stubble head and rubbed his eyes. He turned left.
The sun was already seated royally in the sky as Martin strolled down the wide, crowded sidewalk. He could see the faint shape of an umbrella a few blocks away, and as he came closer he recognized Joe. Martin’s stomach began to growl again.
“Get your hotdogs here! Hello Sir, what a gorgeous day. Would you like a hotdog? Get your hotdogs here! Good day, love! Can I get you a hotdog? Would you like the works?” Joe called to the passing public all day long. He set up his stand on the same corner every day, and everyone who frequented that spot knew him. Some just by his ruddy, round face and others knew him well enough to have a word or two. Martin felt he could relate to Joe because it seemed they were both stuck in London making a living on the sidewalks, and most of the people bustling by chose to ignore them.
“Hey, Joe,” Martin showed a couple of teeth and then retracted his smile. Even though he liked Joe, he was still careful not to let anyone get too close. “Catering to the North American public, are we? It’s amazing you are able to sell hotdogs here. I guess if you had your way, you’d be selling cans of haggis.” (Joe is a Scot – even more unwelcome in London)
“Marty, my boy!” Joe’s face opened wide with good-natured eyes. “How was your night? Those bloody bed bugs didn’t bite ya, ay, lad?” Joe boomed in his rich, Scottish accent, completing disregarding Joe’s offhand remarks.
“Nah, Joe. No rats, neither. Just the bloody tourists waking me up in the morning,” Martin grimaced.
“Bloody tourists?” Joe raised his eyebrows so high they looked comical. “You better button your tongue, Marty. If there were no tourists there’d be no hotdogs! Besides, what the devil do you think you are... a member of the general voting public?
“You’re the worst kind of tourist, Marty. You don’t pay taxes and you don’t leave!” Joe chuckled and flung a hotdog with ketchup and mustard into Martin’s waiting hand.
“See ya tomorrow, Joe,” said Martin without looking at his friend, and began to walk away.
“See ya, Marty,” Joe said quietly to himself because Martin was already out of earshot. And they both knew they meant it. Tomorrow. Chances were they would find themselves in the same skin, and doing the same thing. The two of them were like hamsters trapped in transparent, plastic balls looking out at the world without being able to break free of their bubbles, and constantly bumping into walls.





The radio alarm clock began to hum in Willis Hancock’s hotel room. He groaned, rolled over, and slapped an unseeing hand on the off button. He rolled back and stared groggily at the dented pillow beside him. She was already gone, and he tried to recollect the night before. He rolled his eye towards the dresser. There was his wallet, open and most likely empty. His pants lay crumpled beside it. He rubbed his hands over his face and chuckled. Then he began to rise. He was anything but happy. She had definitely served her purpose, but the others had been more professional, and much more discreet. When this happened, he usually didn’t realize he had been robbed until hours later when he found himself at a store counter fumbling for his credit cards.
“You cheeky little bitch,” Willis mumbled to himself as he flipped through his wallet. She hadn’t been discreet, but she had been thorough. Even his lucky Franc coin from his trip to Paris in 1980 was gone. It must have caught her eye. Ignorant street kid.
“She’ll never use it,” he mumbled. “Never in a million years.” And suddenly he felt vulnerable without it. This afternoon he was going to the courthouse to hear his father’s will. His father. He sure as hell had never been a Dad. He hadn’t earned the title. Dads played cricket on summer days. Fathers called from foreign cities to say, again, that they wouldn’t make it to the biggest day of your life. Willis was tempted to throw the wallet in the wastebasket, but he gently placed it back on the dresser with an air of defeat.
An hour later he was showered, sharply dressed, and hurriedly locking the hotel room behind him. He strolled with purpose through the chic lobby and out onto the pavement. He was not rushing to his appointment with excitement or even mild anticipation. He was rushing to get it all over with. He desired the whole matter to be dead and buried. There was a shameful question repeating itself over and over again in his head, and he tried desperately to ignore it… ‘What did the bastard leave me? His only son. What did the bastard leave me? Bastard… bastard… bast…’ he began walking faster.
As he rounded the corner, the large impersonal, grey building loomed before him with its long stone steps. He vaguely imagined guillotines. Willis couldn’t remember the streets he had walked, as though something else had brought him to this place without his knowing or consent. In many ways, it had. He did not want this part of his life to exist. Where was Occam’s razor for moments like these? How wonderful it would be to splice out all the undesirable bits.
Willis threw these encroaching thoughts from his mind and scurried up the stone steps. The engraved wooden entrance doors looked large and imposing, but were surprisingly light and swung open with ease. Willis couldn’t help thinking that perhaps these doors were much like his father. If only he had taken the time to turn the doorknob. Once again he banished his useless mind chatter. None of it could be helped now. His father’s lawyer was waiting for him, perched on one of the many benches placed along the sides of the grandeur hallway. The white marble floor was immaculate. Almost so that if he desired he could see his reflection near his feet, but few dared to look at themselves in a courthouse.
The man rose to meet Willis. Willis knew this man well. Too well. Sometimes the disappointing calls from his father would be telegrammed through this man’s voice.
“I’m sorry, son…” the voice would say, “your father has been held up in a meeting.” Even this man knew his father well enough to know he was only that. A father. A sperm donor. An absent male figure. The dictionary was far too generous with the word. Father. A male parent. God. One who originates, makes possible, or inspires something. The word Dad was merely listed as a colloquial term, or a short-cut for Father. It was all so backwards.
“Hello, Wil,” the man extended his hand, which was taken without hesitation. However, Willis shook hands limply. He was still overwhelmed by this place and these people and papers and things. They were all just things. Was he grieving? He didn’t know. It was all packed somewhere inside his big toe. Everything would take a very long time to reach his mouth, and then his brain.
“Hi, Sam,” he answered in a voice that seemed barely audible. Sam motioned him into another imposing room nearby. There were too many thresholds today. The room was small and dimly lit. The blinds were down and the large desk and tall bookshelves seemed to judge Willis from their standpoints. Willis loosened his tie, feeling the musty tone of the heavy dark brown books and neglected carpets. It was a furnished closet where many unsaid things happened.
“Would you like some coffee?” Sam offered. Willis thought he could use something a bit stronger, but he politely raised his hand in decline. Sam poured himself a cup and settled in behind the modest oak desk. He folded and unfolded his hands and then laid them flat before him. There was no real sense of sorrow in the room, but the situation was delicate and Sam wasn’t sure where to begin. He didn’t want to touch a raw nerve.
“I have your father’s papers, Wil,” he began. He pulled an envelope out of a large, squeaky drawer in his desk and deftly handed it over. Willis didn’t make any move to open it.
“Shouldn’t mother be here?” Wil stalled.
“Your mother conveyed point blank that she isn’t interested in what he had to say.” Wil nodded solemnly. She was still his widow, but he had been less than a husband to her. She had known the truth behind his unscheduled business trips years ago. However, she had kept quiet and continued to pack his lunch every morning and make pork chops every Tuesday night. It had been a different era then and she probably made herself believe there was nowhere else for her to go. Maybe it would have been easier if he had run off and left her for good. Besides, she had to stay. She had Willis to think about. And now Hancocks Sr. was dead. The freedom of it was suffocating. Wil squirmed in his seat. Sam noticed and decided to move things along. He was starting to feel uncomfortable, too. He jerked the papers impatiently towards Wil and immediately felt sorry for it. Wil glanced at him sharply, warily, as though he’d been wakened from a deep sleep. He didn’t want anything from his father, either. Not like this. But, feeling cornered, he accepted the envelope and toyed with the seal.
“Do I have to open this now?” he asked, sounding like a child who didn’t want to do a chore. “Here?”
“I must be a witness to make sure you understand all the implications of your father’s last wishes,” Sam answered in a distant voice. Wil began to peel open the seal. The package felt quite heavy for a man who had been so empty. He pulled out a stack of papers attached with a paper clip. There was too much print. Large blocks of paragraphed ink that Wil didn’t want to swim through. He passed the document back to Sam with a plea in his eyes for some comprehension.
Sam replaced his reading glasses with an air of formality and began to read:
Here states the last will and testament of I, Willis Hancocks Sr., to be read upon my time of death. To my faithful wife I leave my property estate…”
Faithful! How the bastard could even constitute the word and never know the meaning. Wil felt his innards turn and was relieved for his mother’s absence in this obscene mockery.
“…and to my only son I leave a portion of myself that I can only hope will fill the gaps I have left behind…” the remainder of the document contained instructions for the dividing of his assets, including a generous portion, which was granted to Sam for both his personal and professional services through the years. Wil barely heard the rest of it.
“How much?” he interrupted. Sam stopped in mid-sentence and removed the ominous glasses. His eyes were small and beady. A dusty blue. He had a luke-warm glance that took on a cooler slant if disrupted.
Sam had been a dutiful friend, even when it had gone against his better judgement. He tried to be discreet about the will even now, but the younger Wil knew him too well. He could sense by the way Sam’s voice began to trail off.
“It’s quite a sum, Wil,” he replied in a serious tone.
“How much?”
“Your father wasn’t very good with his feelings. He didn’t really know how to express…”
“How much?” Wil was becoming irritable.
“Two hundred and fifty million pounds, son.” His voice was like a dull thud in the room. Then he added, “I’ve already taken the liberty of depositing the funds directly into your account.” Wil felt immobilized in his chair. The cushion had suddenly become quicksand. He was a millionaire, just like his father. Just like his father.
“What if I don’t accept?” brilliant, he thought. Wil wanted no part of his father’s impersonal, hard cash world.
“Then the money will be given to the city,” Sam looked urgent. His loyalty still lay with his friend. And the last thing Hancocks Sr. ever wanted was to invest one cent in the government. He never trusted the politicians to do the right thing with their liberties. If Wil had known that he would have marched down to the city hall and delivered the boodle himself. But, he didn’t, and the affections he had carried unreturned for his father lay like silt in his stomach. He didn’t want his father’s money to go into a new McDonald’s or a city parade. The men stood up abruptly and shook hands. Wil just wanted to escape. When he emerged from the ominous courthouse doors, he took a long pause on the entrance steps. He drew everything in and the world looked stranger. Even the clouds appeared to be moving faster across an otherwise pleasant sky. The voices around him slowed down. The tempo in the atmosphere was out of step. The mechanics in his brain had been reduced to a hamster in a wheel, overworked. What had just happened?




Martin had been wandering the streets all morning. The sidewalks were wide and crowded. The streets themselves had a smaller ratio of traffic and he was tempted to walk along the painted dotted lines in the road and dodge the cars. At least he would get paid if someone bumped into him. The mobs on the sidewalk lived by the rule of every man for himself. He tried to avoid the shoving and also give it back where he could, and rarely did he make eye contact. He had grown sour and didn’t want to admit his own thoughts, even to himself. But the truth was he was young and ready to accept his creature comforts again. He began to miss pillows, basic warmth, and friendly conversation. Only now he had delved so deep into his notions of the world being dictated by money, politics, and fads, that he didn’t know how to slip back into the norm undetected. His rebellious nature had won him a reputation in the spreading vicinity of his tunnel life. His thoughts pushed behind his eyes as he walked recklessly. What could he do now? He had no money. Suddenly the colourful printed paper and accumulative clinking coins he once detested seemed essential. He kicked the pavement in defeat. There was no use fighting the greedy gods. Could he work? Would anyone hire him? Here? His appearance was almost frightening. He prayed for rain between using the public showers twice a week, which cost two pounds. Martin didn’t want to admit that he had failed in his attempts to rail against the grain, to not be a sheep. He always returned to the underground walkway. He considered it his home – after all, wasn’t home a place you could escape to after your legs grew weary and your head swelled with the pressure of people and words and laborious tasks. Perhaps Marty’s home didn’t provide the best comfort, but it provided him with shelter and a place to submerge from the busy streets. The hum of cars and shoes clanking on the grates above him provided company late in the night when only a few stray souls might join him or pass through, stealth-like, hiding also from the moonlight or police car beams. Marty wandered the streets of London by day and hid from them in the late, dark hours. As he headed back to Hyde Park, he would often see the homeless people cluster together in alleys. They were prohibited from seeking soft grass beds in the parks, even in the warmer season. So, in alleys they lit each other’s cigarettes and spat on the sidewalks. They swayed from the drink, and huddled together to keep warm and upright. They cajoled with each other and laughed with smoker’s lungs. Marty knew none of them and he avoided them. Whatever choices those poor, fading souls had ever made in their lives, they had not chosen to live on the streets with every door closed against them. At least, the choice had not been a conscious one. How the warmly lit windows in every flat on every block must have appeared to them. Marty was painfully aware of his free will in the matter. He wasn’t ready to surrender, yet. He still chose the broadness of the streets over being confined in those brightly lit boxes of windows looking down. Now his smug feelings had turned to jealousy. He suddenly hated the tourists brushing by him cheerfully with their Harrods bags, for a different reason. They had something he didn’t have. They were free. Martin sat down and occupied a piece of concrete.



As Wil rounded the corner he almost tripped over a grungy looking young man sitting on the pavement. The man looked as though he had walked across the continent. The blue of his eyes as he glanced up, startled, looked lost and old. The young man’s expectant hand emerged from his jacket sheepishly, and wavered open before him. Wil hesitated for half a second and then pulled out an executive leather booklet from his inside pocket. He then pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and began scribbling furiously inside the booklet.
“Here chap, here’s a big fat cheque and all you have to do is sign it,” Wil said. Wil roughly stuffed the content into the man’s waiting hand and hurried off, jamming both his empty hands into his deep pockets.








Thursday, September 6, 2007

Writing on Week Seventeen


A Writing Room of One's Own

I am posting this blog entry from my first writing room, and it's been a long time a-coming. I am also posting this from my first 'stand alone' house. Who says a writer has to be starving? Well, after the mortgage payments we might be, but that's alright. I have a writing room --and it is far away from the television set. I have been used to balancing my laptop on my lap, on the couch, in front of the TV for so long... now sitting at a real writing table, being flanked by my stocked bookshelves and inspirational decor is, well, heaven... if you believe in that sort of thing. Next, paint. A warm colour that will draw me in, but not give me an additional headache (writers tend to rub their foreheads a lot).

My co-homeowner has also donated his beloved reading chair to my room... a simple reclining chair with blue padded fabric from IKEA. Ah, the poetry books I'll savour there... Okay, I know I'm going on a bit. It is all I can do to stay in my desk chair, writing, and not dancing around the room like Natalie in West Side Story.

At work, it is sometimes mildly distracting, thinking of my room and the ideas hatching...

I have already been more productive in this room over the past week, then I have been all summer. In my defense, house-buying, -selling, and -moving is a labour.

I have completed and sent off another poetry review to a certain online and print magazine (I will reveal more details if, and when, the review is published), and I am gradually preparing for my commitment to Random Acts of Poetry in October. Already, I am scoping out likely, less-intimidating people on the bus to share my poems with.

Today, my official announcement for a lunchtime poetry reading at work was sent out. The internal Communications Coordinator was kind enough to create a snazzy event poster for me. I feel encouragement all around, and I know it will be a great time.

For now, the reality of my day job looms and the evening has disappeared, yet again, so I will end here... happy to dream about my writing space, knowing I will find it is still here in the morning.

Morning Couplets


I tend to forget my breath during the day,
to expand my lungs as though first coming out of sleep.

One bird with a sprained wing under a tree, another dodges tires
for morsels on a busy street. We, too, take great risks to thrive.

A day to discover the world again, to break out
of this hum-drum bubble we can only stretch so far to burst.

I inaugurate this new season with a journey, one foot in front
leads the other to some hopeful destination; the sun, a bright compass.


These days when dogs chase the waves back to the mountains,
I retreat, too, into babies on blankets of rock broken into fine ground.

A trill of bird song drowns the tired sound of city work;
I strain to hear the dialect of such small, winged creatures.

I watch the vines as they twine around my patio,
knowing no plateaus, only opportune room to grow and bloom.

In this quiet, half-naked noon, I cure his ailment;
a night of little rest bending to a day of massive hope.

A night in bloom as colours resonate in scented dreams;
a changed landscape from stretched limbs reaching out to light petals.

Dragged back into the sensual, less lucid world; I leave
one of intuition and boundless flight not given by chance.

Monday, September 3, 2007

Random Acts of Poetry - 2007


VICTORIA POETS TO COMMIT ‘RANDOM ACTS OF POETRY’

Random Acts of Poetry, a celebration of poetry and literacy, begins its fourth year during the week of October 1st to 7th, 2007. Random Acts of Poetry is a project of the Victoria READ Society, a non-profit literacy organization, established in 1976. Random Acts of Poetry is funded by The Canada Council for the Arts.

During the week, 37 poets across Canada, from Victoria to Newfoundland, including three of Canada’s Poets Laureate, will commit Random Acts of Poetry in their cities. On buses and subways, in donut shops and cafes, police stations, grocery stores, shelters, curling rinks, on city streets and country lanes, poets will read poems to strangers and give them their books. Poets will also read their poems in ESL and Adult Literacy classes across the country.

In the Greater Victoria area five poets will offer poems to passersby: Victoria’s Poet Laureate/road kill inspector/Sunday school teacher Carla Funk; Random Acts of Poetry founder/private eye/raven watcher Wendy Morton; Barbara Pelman, teacher at Reynolds Secondary School/wannabe tango dancer; Susan Stenson, teacher at Claremont Secondary School editor of the Claremont Review/bodytalker and Andrea McKenzie, daydreaming journalist.

“Poetry,” says Wendy Morton, “is the shortest distance between two hearts. I have read poems to people who hadn’t heard a poem in thirty years, and watched their eyes fill up with tears. Some burst into laughter or laid a hand on my shoulder, hugged me, took my hand. Poetry can connect us with each other as humans as no other art form I know. Poetry is a gift that we can create from whatever life has in store for us.”

Across Canada poets will commit random acts in: Victoria, Vancouver, Nanaimo, Kelowna, Calgary, Edmonton, Moose Jaw, Winnipeg, Stratford, Markdale, Brantford, Toronto, Collingwood, Ottawa, Windsor, Hamilton, Montreal, Fredericton, Sackville, Saint John, Charlottetown, Halifax, Antigonish, St. John’s.

http://national-random-acts-of-poetry.blogspot.com/2007/08/andrea-mckenzie.html

http://www.victoriabookprizesociety.ca/doc/Book%20Prize%20Showcases%20Literary%20Arts.pdf