It's been a while since I've updated this blog. Now that we have Facebook and Twitter as forums to communicate all the quirky sites we come across and interesting ideas that pop into our heads, it seems it takes something extraordinary before I feel the urge to blog.
Well, that something extraordinary recently occurred in the form of a novel: The City & the City (amazon.ca link), by China Miéville. Miéville is known primarily as a fantasy writer, and yet if, as was my case, this is the first novel of his you were to read, you'd never know it. Aside from the novel's setting in a completely fictional city (or cities, to be precise), it is wholly grounded in present day reality. In essence, it's a murder mystery, and yet calling it that is like calling Nineteen Eighty-Four a love story. The mystery is there to drive the story along, but so much else is going on that one almost forgets the novel's basic premise at times.
It's the setting of The City & the City—so original and startling—that makes reading it such an extraordinary experience from beginning to end. I hesitate to describe it further; I would hate to deprive you the pleasure of allowing it to unfold in your mind, of discovering and experiencing its weirdness for yourself, and of marvelling at how quickly and easily the human mind adapts to something so strange. I'm torn because I'm eager to talk about the book, to describe my feelings and reactions to it; but on the other hand, I don't want to spoil it for those who haven't read it. But if a review you must have, read the one by Michael Moorcock in The Guardian. That said, I for one am glad I read it "cold," so to speak.
I suppose the novel is not for everyone. If you can't suspend your disbelief just a tad, then you probably won't grok this novel. I think most readers of SF and fantasy will enjoy it, but I also think many readers of crime fiction will also appreciate it. The main character, Inspector Tyador Borlú is extremely sympathetic, and Miéville hasn't ruled out writing other stories based on this character, although for reasons that become clear at the end of this novel, they would all have to be prequels. In other words, The City & the City is the last Inspector Borlú mystery. Borlú reminds me a bit of Dona Leon's Commissario Brunetti. He's introspective like Brunetti, and he's not afraid to bend the rules, but he's an honest man who takes his job seriously, aware that he's somewhat of a rare breed.
The City & the City is a statement on the amazing human capacity to adapt. It's one of the most interesting and original novels I've read in a very long time. I can't recommend it highly enough. If you have read it, let me know what you thought about it in the comments.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Monday, September 20, 2010
What it takes to be a musician
I have often thought that being a professional musician is a lot like being a professional athlete. Now, I come across an extremely well-written article by a violinist in the Syracuse (NY) Symphony making exactly this parallel. Indeed, it hits home so well that I have been posting it on just about every forum available to me--Facebook, Twitter, this blog, and even e-mail--in an attempt to get as many people to read it as possible. If you've ever felt that musicians have it easy, please click through and read this article. We love what we do, but DAMN, it's hard work.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Vuvuzela: A World Cup Fascination
I don't know about you, but in my circles, it seems that the biggest buzz surrounding the 2010 World Cup has to do with how annoyed people are. "I have to watch the games with the sound turned down," laments one of my Facebook friends. "It sounds like a swarm of bees," complains another. All this wingeing about something I had never heard of a couple of days ago.
Of course, like any sports fan, I was not unacquainted with the "instrument" of torture itself, but I had always thought it was merely called the "stadium horn," a sad, utilitarian label if ever there was one. But thanks to the miracle of wikipedia, I have since learned everything I wanted to know about the vuvuzela, as noble and poetic a moniker as I've ever heard.
But my fascination would have ended with the word itself if one of my Twitter peeps, Céline Graciet (whose excellent translation blog, by the way, is certainly among the best-named in the galaxy), had not alerted me to a piece of music written for vuvuzela.
The composition in question, Breaking balls Sonata, by a certain Soymalau Baptisti Enculado* (KV 423), is a simple yet subtly pleasing work that plays to the instrument's strengths (or should that be "strength"?) rather than forcing it to stretch outside of its comfortdrone zone. (Not having a vuvuzela on hand, I played the piece on my trombone and found that while the tone was perhaps somewhat mellower than ideal, the piece works quite well on brass rather than plastic instruments.)
Of course, like any sports fan, I was not unacquainted with the "instrument" of torture itself, but I had always thought it was merely called the "stadium horn," a sad, utilitarian label if ever there was one. But thanks to the miracle of wikipedia, I have since learned everything I wanted to know about the vuvuzela, as noble and poetic a moniker as I've ever heard.
Image source: Berndt Meyer
But my fascination would have ended with the word itself if one of my Twitter peeps, Céline Graciet (whose excellent translation blog, by the way, is certainly among the best-named in the galaxy), had not alerted me to a piece of music written for vuvuzela.
The composition in question, Breaking balls Sonata, by a certain Soymalau Baptisti Enculado* (KV 423), is a simple yet subtly pleasing work that plays to the instrument's strengths (or should that be "strength"?) rather than forcing it to stretch outside of its comfort
The work opens with an uncomplicated four-note figure followed by a bar of rest, presumably to allow the performer to get a really good breath, given the demands of the rest of the piece. The sonata proper starts in bar six, based quite obviously on the opening material, but with the indication forte.** The work's structure, an AA form (as indicated by the repeat sign), mirrors the thematic material in its straightforwardness, and Enculado gives no dynamic indications other than the opening forte, from which we can presume that he meant to give the performer a great deal of interpretive latitude. The work ends with a bar of rest, just another example of Enculado's subtle compositional style, which few concert-goers will truly appreciate unless they read along with the score.
One very interesting matter of note concerns the actual pitch used in the work. As anyone with perfect pitch who has listened to a football/soccer match knows (or anyone else curious enough to run to the piano whenever they hear an interesting sound and want to find its pitch—not that I know anyone like that…) the vuvuzela's basic pitch is a B-flat. And yet this work's note is A.*** This strange discrepancy suggests two unusual and likely hitherto unknown details about the vuvuzela. First is that the pitch standard used by most vuvuzela players is A=466 (i.e., a whole semi-tone higher than the modern concert pitch of A=440). Hence, we can deduce that, much like the Baroque trombone 400 years ago, the vuvuzela is thought of as being in A at 466; however, at A440, the note that actually sounds is B-flat. Secondly, although the usually reliable wikipedia states that the vuvuzela originated only 40 years ago, the fact that its pitch standard is likely 466 would seem to indicate a much earlier origin, perhaps as early as the 17th century in Spain or Italy.
Of course, this is all somewhat speculative for now and, admittedly, based on the analysis of a single sonata. One can only hope that the recent World Cup spotlight trained on this instrument—beloved by so many yet steeped in controversy—will encourage musicologists bring to light other works for the vuvuzela so that the questions raised here may be settled with more certainty.
N.B.: I would never presume to perform the "Breaking balls Sonata" myself, especially since I don't even own a vuvuzela, which is absolutely essential to do the work justice. However, I did find an excerpt of a very respectable performance on YouTube (and I think we can all agree, that an excerpt is plenty in this case), which I include below.
*I suspect that this is not the composer's real name and, indeed, may be a rather naughty pseudonym.
**The expected dynamic is, of course, fortissimo, but this is likely an example of Enculado's subtle sense of humour.
One very interesting matter of note concerns the actual pitch used in the work. As anyone with perfect pitch who has listened to a football/soccer match knows (or anyone else curious enough to run to the piano whenever they hear an interesting sound and want to find its pitch—not that I know anyone like that…) the vuvuzela's basic pitch is a B-flat. And yet this work's note is A.*** This strange discrepancy suggests two unusual and likely hitherto unknown details about the vuvuzela. First is that the pitch standard used by most vuvuzela players is A=466 (i.e., a whole semi-tone higher than the modern concert pitch of A=440). Hence, we can deduce that, much like the Baroque trombone 400 years ago, the vuvuzela is thought of as being in A at 466; however, at A440, the note that actually sounds is B-flat. Secondly, although the usually reliable wikipedia states that the vuvuzela originated only 40 years ago, the fact that its pitch standard is likely 466 would seem to indicate a much earlier origin, perhaps as early as the 17th century in Spain or Italy.
Of course, this is all somewhat speculative for now and, admittedly, based on the analysis of a single sonata. One can only hope that the recent World Cup spotlight trained on this instrument—beloved by so many yet steeped in controversy—will encourage musicologists bring to light other works for the vuvuzela so that the questions raised here may be settled with more certainty.
N.B.: I would never presume to perform the "Breaking balls Sonata" myself, especially since I don't even own a vuvuzela, which is absolutely essential to do the work justice. However, I did find an excerpt of a very respectable performance on YouTube (and I think we can all agree, that an excerpt is plenty in this case), which I include below.
*I suspect that this is not the composer's real name and, indeed, may be a rather naughty pseudonym.
**The expected dynamic is, of course, fortissimo, but this is likely an example of Enculado's subtle sense of humour.
***Another odd fact is that the piece is written an octave above the instrument's sounding pitch, though it is possible that this is simply convention.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A musician in London
Dusting off the cobwebs here to plug the new blog of a dear friend and fellow sackbut player, Catherine Motuz. She recently started a gig at the Globe Theatre in London, lucky girl. I look forward to reading about her anglo adventures.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Moonrise
I know the title is way hokey, but WTH. That IS what the poem is about, in one sense. Wrote this about a year ago but haven't dared to post it. I guess I'm ready to let the world see it now.
Moonrise
Arisen from our bed, still warm and close,
your presence comforts even as you leave
this place for good, a kindly smile that shows
you’ll always hang around. That look deceives
the innocent but lights my way: I streak
along your wake, forgetting in my haste
to dress--and so I turn the other cheek;
you seem surprised I could remain so chaste.
However chaste, I chase--farther, faster.
Come hither eyes melt into cold white stare,
laugh down on fools--dolts who’d court disaster
to glimpse your dark side. Thus I run. Though Mare
Tranquillitatis always was the goal,
I’ll never land there lest I lose control.
Moonrise
Arisen from our bed, still warm and close,
your presence comforts even as you leave
this place for good, a kindly smile that shows
you’ll always hang around. That look deceives
the innocent but lights my way: I streak
along your wake, forgetting in my haste
to dress--and so I turn the other cheek;
you seem surprised I could remain so chaste.
However chaste, I chase--farther, faster.
Come hither eyes melt into cold white stare,
laugh down on fools--dolts who’d court disaster
to glimpse your dark side. Thus I run. Though Mare
Tranquillitatis always was the goal,
I’ll never land there lest I lose control.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Happy National Poetry Day (if you're a Brit)
In honour of National Poetry Day in Britain, I've dredged up and am posting a poem I wrote a few years back. Go ahead, read some poetry today. You might be surprised at how pleasant you find it.
I Stop and Listen to a Winter Wren
I Stop and Listen to a Winter Wren
Perhaps jealous of the sound—a rivulet trickling
down to wash stones and fallen branches—
the winter wren sings its spring digs,
a tangled rising-and-falling in the brush.
Surely the trill must soon cease its winding
progress through the trees—surely this small
brown creature cannot go on so,
drowning out the stream? It must be all lungs.
It does end, of course, and the unconscious
duet of water and earth emerges in the ensuing
quiet, seeming to pick up where the bird trails off,
dipping up and down over moss and twig.
The wren again inhales damp May air;
it cannot sing forever, though it will die trying.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Why are races so fun?
On the latest episode of my favourite science podcast, Quirks & Quarks, host Bob McDonald interviewed researcher Emma Cohen, who recently published a paper about pain threshold when exercising solo and exercising in a group.
If you don't want to click through, the gist of the research is that people who exercise in groups experience lower pain thresholds than those exercising alone. Cohen theorized that there's something about the social experience of exercising together that boosts endorphin output and, hence, lowers pain threshold.
This story was kind of an "ah hah" moment for me. I vividly remember my very first running race. It was the Park Lafontaine Classic 10k race two years ago. I ran well and was pleased with my time, but what struck me most was the special feeling I had being with all those other runners. There was something euphoric about being with so many other people working toward a similar goal. It made me happy, pure and simple. And I've since noticed a similar effect at other races; there's an infectious spirit you can't help but get caught up in.
And just about any recreational runner will tell you about what I like to call the "race effect," which somehow pushes you to a better result than you ever managed in training. While some of this can be attributed to the competitive jolt of the race context, I could definitely see how some of it also comes from the extra endorphins produced by being around so many people.
This year's Park Lafontaine Classic will be my third in a row and will have to stand in for my marathon goal. Whatever happens, I'm sure it will be a blast.
If you don't want to click through, the gist of the research is that people who exercise in groups experience lower pain thresholds than those exercising alone. Cohen theorized that there's something about the social experience of exercising together that boosts endorphin output and, hence, lowers pain threshold.
This story was kind of an "ah hah" moment for me. I vividly remember my very first running race. It was the Park Lafontaine Classic 10k race two years ago. I ran well and was pleased with my time, but what struck me most was the special feeling I had being with all those other runners. There was something euphoric about being with so many other people working toward a similar goal. It made me happy, pure and simple. And I've since noticed a similar effect at other races; there's an infectious spirit you can't help but get caught up in.
And just about any recreational runner will tell you about what I like to call the "race effect," which somehow pushes you to a better result than you ever managed in training. While some of this can be attributed to the competitive jolt of the race context, I could definitely see how some of it also comes from the extra endorphins produced by being around so many people.
This year's Park Lafontaine Classic will be my third in a row and will have to stand in for my marathon goal. Whatever happens, I'm sure it will be a blast.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Listening to your body
I consider myself a rational person. No touchy-feely spiritual mumbo-jumbo for me, thanks very much. The universe is just a random series of events, of which I am a conscious participant and fortunate to be so. So when I hear the all-too-common phrase "everything happens for a reason," I just shake my head and smile. Coincidence is coincidence; nothing more, nothing less.
So when I broke my foot early this summer, though that phrase might have passed fleetingly through my mind in a moment of weakness, in response to my intense disappointment at having to stop training toward a marathon, I never really believed that there was any rhyme or reason behind my stepping on that rock. It just happened. Deal with the consequences, learn from it, move on.
The latest obstacle is much less dramatic than a foot fracture: I merely caught a cold. But when your training schedule is as tight as mine, there's no room for error, and missing out on almost a week of training has pretty much put the kibosh on any hope I had of achieving the kind of shape required to run a marathon in three weeks' time. I suppose I could still register and just walk part of it, but I want my first marathon to be a good experience, something I can look back on with pride and accomplishment.
I wouldn't be human if this second hurdle preventing me from reaching my marathon goal this year didn't send me reaching for that old security blanket phrase again. But even I must admit that there may well have been a reason for my catching this cold--a perfectly rational reason, in fact: I'm pushing my body too hard.
For an athlete, pushing your body is almost the raison d'être of training in the first place, so it's extremely hard to hear and listen to--let alone accept it--when your body tells you that it has limits. So often have we heard the phrase "no pain no gain" that to give in to the pain, to stop running when your body just wants to lie down by the side of the road and sink into the dirt, is somewhat anathema to the philosophy of running. This is what running a marathon is all about, right? To push yourself beyond what you ever thought your limits would be. Even at the most basic level, part of the pleasure of running is pushing yourself.
But there are limits and then there are limits. Training for a marathon in two months was, by most people's standards, a pretty crazy goal. I knew I was pushing the envelope when I set it. I told myself that I'd give it my best shot but that if I failed, I wouldn't be too hard on myself. The 26k run last weekend was hard, but I thought I recovered pretty well from it. I ran a solid 6k the next day and an excellent 12k last Wednesday. But that evening I started feeling a little raw in the throat. By Thursday evening, I was feeling pretty shitty, and Friday was even worse. No doubt about it; my body was sending me a message.
So this past weekend's planned 30k didn't happen. At best, I might have postponed it for a week, which would then have had me doing a 34k long run the week before the marathon. And that, to me, is simply too close for comfort. If my body was so badly stressed after 26k that I caught a cold. What might happen after 30 or 34k, let alone a marathon?
Which is not to say I don't think I'll ever be able to handle that distance, but I recognize more clearly now than ever that, especially at my age, I have to build up to it more gradually. Going from 0 to 42k in two months just isn't feasible for me.
In his book ChiRunning, Danny Dreyer talks about what he calls "body sensing" and often talks about listening to your body. And while I don't think I was actually over-training, I'm pretty sure that my body was reaching the limits of what it could do, even if it didn't really seem that way.
Am I disappointed that I won't be running a marathon this year? Sure. But as a wise friend of ours once told us, when you're faced with a difficult decision, a good way to figure out if you're making the right choice is to "try it on" for a few days. In other words, make a decision one way or another, with the option to back out if you want to. In my case, I mentally made the decision to not run the Toronto Marathon this year. To my surprise, what I felt most was not disappointment but relief.
So I'm pretty sure I made the right decision.
So when I broke my foot early this summer, though that phrase might have passed fleetingly through my mind in a moment of weakness, in response to my intense disappointment at having to stop training toward a marathon, I never really believed that there was any rhyme or reason behind my stepping on that rock. It just happened. Deal with the consequences, learn from it, move on.
The latest obstacle is much less dramatic than a foot fracture: I merely caught a cold. But when your training schedule is as tight as mine, there's no room for error, and missing out on almost a week of training has pretty much put the kibosh on any hope I had of achieving the kind of shape required to run a marathon in three weeks' time. I suppose I could still register and just walk part of it, but I want my first marathon to be a good experience, something I can look back on with pride and accomplishment.
I wouldn't be human if this second hurdle preventing me from reaching my marathon goal this year didn't send me reaching for that old security blanket phrase again. But even I must admit that there may well have been a reason for my catching this cold--a perfectly rational reason, in fact: I'm pushing my body too hard.
For an athlete, pushing your body is almost the raison d'être of training in the first place, so it's extremely hard to hear and listen to--let alone accept it--when your body tells you that it has limits. So often have we heard the phrase "no pain no gain" that to give in to the pain, to stop running when your body just wants to lie down by the side of the road and sink into the dirt, is somewhat anathema to the philosophy of running. This is what running a marathon is all about, right? To push yourself beyond what you ever thought your limits would be. Even at the most basic level, part of the pleasure of running is pushing yourself.
But there are limits and then there are limits. Training for a marathon in two months was, by most people's standards, a pretty crazy goal. I knew I was pushing the envelope when I set it. I told myself that I'd give it my best shot but that if I failed, I wouldn't be too hard on myself. The 26k run last weekend was hard, but I thought I recovered pretty well from it. I ran a solid 6k the next day and an excellent 12k last Wednesday. But that evening I started feeling a little raw in the throat. By Thursday evening, I was feeling pretty shitty, and Friday was even worse. No doubt about it; my body was sending me a message.
So this past weekend's planned 30k didn't happen. At best, I might have postponed it for a week, which would then have had me doing a 34k long run the week before the marathon. And that, to me, is simply too close for comfort. If my body was so badly stressed after 26k that I caught a cold. What might happen after 30 or 34k, let alone a marathon?
Which is not to say I don't think I'll ever be able to handle that distance, but I recognize more clearly now than ever that, especially at my age, I have to build up to it more gradually. Going from 0 to 42k in two months just isn't feasible for me.
In his book ChiRunning, Danny Dreyer talks about what he calls "body sensing" and often talks about listening to your body. And while I don't think I was actually over-training, I'm pretty sure that my body was reaching the limits of what it could do, even if it didn't really seem that way.
Am I disappointed that I won't be running a marathon this year? Sure. But as a wise friend of ours once told us, when you're faced with a difficult decision, a good way to figure out if you're making the right choice is to "try it on" for a few days. In other words, make a decision one way or another, with the option to back out if you want to. In my case, I mentally made the decision to not run the Toronto Marathon this year. To my surprise, what I felt most was not disappointment but relief.
So I'm pretty sure I made the right decision.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
And now the real running begins
Today my marathon training entered a new phase: the pain.
Last week was the Montreal Marathon and, as part of my marathon training, I ran the half-marathon. I was determined to take it easy and integrate the race into my training regimen, rather than treat it like a normal race. The reason for this reasonableness is that with only five weeks to the Toronto Marathon, I couldn't afford to take 4 days off recovering from a race (which is my normal routine). So I promised myself I wouldn't focus on pace during the race and keep my heart rate in the 155 range. I was aiming for a time of 1:45, which I figured was a good compromise between a decent race pace and a slow-run pace. Of course, when it came time to turn on my Garmin 305 at race time, I realized I had stupidly forgot to charge it. Like it or not, I was running "free," that is, without any toys, just like the pre-humans did on the savannahs of Africa.
So I took it out easy and tried to keep a steady pace. And lo and behold, near the end of the race, I found myself having a fair bit of gas left for a good kick over the last 1.5 kilometres and a furious sprint to the finish. My final time: 1:44:50. I must say I was pretty happy that I managed to judge my pace just right and that I had a good finish, especially considering the fact I had only been training for a month. So while it was my slowest half-marathon result ever, it was in some ways the most satisfying of all.
But that was last week. This week it was back to the regular training grind with a planned long run today of 26 km. I was nervous before today's long run because I have never run over 25 km before, and no more than 21 this year, so I wasn't sure how my body would react.
The run started pretty well and I felt good up to about 15k. But by 19k I was struggling. I suppose the dinner party we had last night, during which I imbibed my fair share of wine, didn't really help the endurance side of things. But in the end, I managed to complete the distance, and with a respectable slow-run pace of 5'30"/km. I was very happy to stop but the good news is that my foot, shins and knees all held up well. I really tried to focus on the ChiRunning techniques, and I think that stood me in good stead. But I'd be sugar coating things if I said it wasn't a really hard run.
Next week, the long run will hopefully be 30k, which is getting into the realm of the dreaded "wall." More uncharted territory and cause for nervousness. But I guess that's the whole point of trying to run a marathon, right? At any rate, I think I'll skip the wine with dinner the night before.
Last week was the Montreal Marathon and, as part of my marathon training, I ran the half-marathon. I was determined to take it easy and integrate the race into my training regimen, rather than treat it like a normal race. The reason for this reasonableness is that with only five weeks to the Toronto Marathon, I couldn't afford to take 4 days off recovering from a race (which is my normal routine). So I promised myself I wouldn't focus on pace during the race and keep my heart rate in the 155 range. I was aiming for a time of 1:45, which I figured was a good compromise between a decent race pace and a slow-run pace. Of course, when it came time to turn on my Garmin 305 at race time, I realized I had stupidly forgot to charge it. Like it or not, I was running "free," that is, without any toys, just like the pre-humans did on the savannahs of Africa.
So I took it out easy and tried to keep a steady pace. And lo and behold, near the end of the race, I found myself having a fair bit of gas left for a good kick over the last 1.5 kilometres and a furious sprint to the finish. My final time: 1:44:50. I must say I was pretty happy that I managed to judge my pace just right and that I had a good finish, especially considering the fact I had only been training for a month. So while it was my slowest half-marathon result ever, it was in some ways the most satisfying of all.
But that was last week. This week it was back to the regular training grind with a planned long run today of 26 km. I was nervous before today's long run because I have never run over 25 km before, and no more than 21 this year, so I wasn't sure how my body would react.
The run started pretty well and I felt good up to about 15k. But by 19k I was struggling. I suppose the dinner party we had last night, during which I imbibed my fair share of wine, didn't really help the endurance side of things. But in the end, I managed to complete the distance, and with a respectable slow-run pace of 5'30"/km. I was very happy to stop but the good news is that my foot, shins and knees all held up well. I really tried to focus on the ChiRunning techniques, and I think that stood me in good stead. But I'd be sugar coating things if I said it wasn't a really hard run.
Next week, the long run will hopefully be 30k, which is getting into the realm of the dreaded "wall." More uncharted territory and cause for nervousness. But I guess that's the whole point of trying to run a marathon, right? At any rate, I think I'll skip the wine with dinner the night before.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Music, language and the brain
I very rarely run while listening to music. For me, running is very much a meditative activity, and listening to music only distracts me. And yet I am one of those people who, on some level, always has some music playing in the back of his brain, and this is especially true of running. So I guess in some sense, I do "listen" to music while I run.
The idea that music is part of what makes us human is fascinating to me. And so I found this link to a series of videos from the World Science Festival very interesting. It features a panel of neuroscientists who study music and the brain, with special guest Bobby McFerrin. If you're at all interested in the science of music, or if you just want to hear some very cool performances by a very, very talented musician, I highly recommend clicking through.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Back on the trails
So after two months off healing my foot, which included a two-week vacation to Switzerland, which itself included several days' hiking in the Alps, I am running again. Yippee!
My first run was actually only a few hours after stepping off the plane. A great way to loosen up after a 9-hour flight, but perhaps not the ideal start to a training program. It was only 5k, and it was exhausting, but it was also exhilarating.
Ten days later and I'm up to 12k, though at the (for me) pretty leisurely pace of about 5'35"/k. My body's still adapting to the stress of running, but I think it's time to incorporate some speed work, at least over the shorter distances.
I'm pretty sure that barring any further injuries, I'll be able to run the half of the Montreal Marathon in three weeks. As for the full marathon in Toronto a month after that, well, time will tell, but I've pretty much given up hope of qualifying for Boston. I need to just enjoy running again after so long a period off. Trying to BQ would be too much pressure. So at this point, my goal is simply to run a marathon this year. BQing will have to wait.
But MAN is it great to be back!
My first run was actually only a few hours after stepping off the plane. A great way to loosen up after a 9-hour flight, but perhaps not the ideal start to a training program. It was only 5k, and it was exhausting, but it was also exhilarating.
Ten days later and I'm up to 12k, though at the (for me) pretty leisurely pace of about 5'35"/k. My body's still adapting to the stress of running, but I think it's time to incorporate some speed work, at least over the shorter distances.
I'm pretty sure that barring any further injuries, I'll be able to run the half of the Montreal Marathon in three weeks. As for the full marathon in Toronto a month after that, well, time will tell, but I've pretty much given up hope of qualifying for Boston. I need to just enjoy running again after so long a period off. Trying to BQ would be too much pressure. So at this point, my goal is simply to run a marathon this year. BQing will have to wait.
But MAN is it great to be back!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Where the hell have I been?
And the answer is: "Not here." Obviously. Blogging has lost a lot of it's appeal of late, especially with the rise of Facebook and Twitter, which allow me to express myself in writing, with the added advantage that I know at least some people are reading what I write, even if it is only snippets of 140 characters.
But I admit that the blog does have its advantages too, and sometimes the status update feels a little like literary fast food. Perhaps it's time to start doing some real writing again. The question is, as all writers ask (or at least they should), "what do I have to say?" And the (short) answer is: "I love to run."
It seems my life is a series of infatuations, each of which, while continuing to hold a certain sway in my existence, nevertheless eventually loses its hold over my imagination. I could name many such infatuations but I'll just mention science fiction, beer making, bird watching, single-malt scotch, and (wait for it) blogging as a few subjects that have deeply interested me at one point in my life but that are no longer front and centre in my consciousness; I still enjoy them (well, for beer, it's more beer drinking than beer making nowadays), but they're no longer serious hobbies. The one major exception is music, which, while holding various levels of importance in my life at different times, has deeply engaged me ever since I can remember. Poetry came a long later in life and is still important, though it too has lost some of its fascination for me, but I'll throw it in the music pot, since I believe that on a certain level, they are the same thing.
All of this is a long-winded prologue to the fact that my current "passion" is running. I have always loved to run but only started taking it seriously in about 2000 and then really caught the running bug in 2006. I have run two half-marathons and, until recently, was training for my first marathon. And I have been toying with the idea of using this blog to chronicle that experience. Then three weeks ago, while out running some intervals, I stepped on a big rock and broke the fifth metatarsal of my right foot. As I hobbled the three kilometres back home, I had ample time to reflect that my marathon plans, at least in the short term, were in as much trouble as my foot.
I am now walking again but won't be running for another three to four weeks, so there is no way I will be in shape for the Montreal Marathon on September 13. Assuming I am able to start running again in mid-August, the plan now is to run another half-marathon in Montreal and maybe, just maybe, run the Toronto Marathon on October 19. Perhaps if I can start running again I'll start writing again too. But don't hold your breath.
But I admit that the blog does have its advantages too, and sometimes the status update feels a little like literary fast food. Perhaps it's time to start doing some real writing again. The question is, as all writers ask (or at least they should), "what do I have to say?" And the (short) answer is: "I love to run."
It seems my life is a series of infatuations, each of which, while continuing to hold a certain sway in my existence, nevertheless eventually loses its hold over my imagination. I could name many such infatuations but I'll just mention science fiction, beer making, bird watching, single-malt scotch, and (wait for it) blogging as a few subjects that have deeply interested me at one point in my life but that are no longer front and centre in my consciousness; I still enjoy them (well, for beer, it's more beer drinking than beer making nowadays), but they're no longer serious hobbies. The one major exception is music, which, while holding various levels of importance in my life at different times, has deeply engaged me ever since I can remember. Poetry came a long later in life and is still important, though it too has lost some of its fascination for me, but I'll throw it in the music pot, since I believe that on a certain level, they are the same thing.
All of this is a long-winded prologue to the fact that my current "passion" is running. I have always loved to run but only started taking it seriously in about 2000 and then really caught the running bug in 2006. I have run two half-marathons and, until recently, was training for my first marathon. And I have been toying with the idea of using this blog to chronicle that experience. Then three weeks ago, while out running some intervals, I stepped on a big rock and broke the fifth metatarsal of my right foot. As I hobbled the three kilometres back home, I had ample time to reflect that my marathon plans, at least in the short term, were in as much trouble as my foot.
I am now walking again but won't be running for another three to four weeks, so there is no way I will be in shape for the Montreal Marathon on September 13. Assuming I am able to start running again in mid-August, the plan now is to run another half-marathon in Montreal and maybe, just maybe, run the Toronto Marathon on October 19. Perhaps if I can start running again I'll start writing again too. But don't hold your breath.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sherry Baby
For S. on the occasion of our 20th anniversary.
Sherry Baby
This orchid is no hothouse bloom,
no annual who won’t be here come fall.
Her roots run deep, her leaves may sprawl,
but twenty years has she been monarch of this room.
And when she deems the time is right,
she awes you with her fireworks display
and draws you close with her bouquet.
Yet flower or no, she’s always my own delight.
Sherry Baby
This orchid is no hothouse bloom,
no annual who won’t be here come fall.
Her roots run deep, her leaves may sprawl,
but twenty years has she been monarch of this room.
And when she deems the time is right,
she awes you with her fireworks display
and draws you close with her bouquet.
Yet flower or no, she’s always my own delight.
Monday, September 15, 2008
1/2 marathon of the 2008 Montreal Marathon
This was my first time at a big race. I've run some 5 and 10k races, but nothing with as many participants or events as this. I must thank my friend Erik, who enticed me to take part after he did last year's marathon in a blistering sub-six-hour pace. ;-)
Not wanting to be shown up by that inspiring performance--and I mean that in all seriousness: my hat goes off to anyone who has the guts to enter and finish a marathon (and this year, Erik broke 4:30 for the marathon, bettering last year's time by well over an hour!)--I decided I should start training in earnest. My main concern, however, was that had I injured my knee at the end of last season and, not wanting to aggravate it, I embarked on a very gradual training program this spring.
By the beginning of September, I had worked my long run up to 24km and felt pretty confident that as long as my knee held out I could put in a pretty respectable time. Earlier in the season, I set my goal at 1 hour 45 minutes, which works out to a pace of just under 5 minutes per kilometer. But my training had gone so well that two weeks before the race, I revised that to 1:43, and secretly I hoped that even 1:40 was possible.
The race itself was wonderful and extremely well organized. Over 2000 volunteers helped out, and they should be commended. Race day was grey and rainy but warm, so aside from having to dodge puddles, conditions were almost ideal. I was running with my friend Jeff, with whom I had trained on a couple of occasions and whose pace and conditioning is very similar to my own. We had decided a few weeks before to run the race together.
Almost 2000 people ran the half-marathon. That's a lot of runners to cram into a start area. One thing I've learned in the few shorter races I've run is that positioning at the start line is important. You don't want to be too far in front so as to hinder faster runners; nor do you want to be too far back and have to pass a lot of slower runners. Big races like this one often have "pace bunnies": runners who are paid to run the race at a certain pace. Jeff and I looked for the 1:45 pace bunny but couldn't find her, so we settled for a spot well ahead of the 2:00 pace bunny. It turns out we were WAY too far back in the pack. It took us four minutes just to cross the start line! We spent the first 5km weaving in and out of traffic, passing slower runners. (Incidentally, I don't blame the slower runners for this; it was our responsibility to start farther up.) We finally ended up passing the 1:45 pace bunny at the 15km mark, so obviously, she started quite a ways in front of us.
The course starts in the middle of the Jacques-Cartier bridge, which spans the mighty St. Lawrence River. It then winds through the streets of Montreal, finishing up at Olympic Stadium. The course is relatively flat, with only one short uphill at about the 5km mark and a longer but less steep uphill section at about 16km. Because we spent the first half-hour dodging traffic, I found it really hard to get into a rhythm, so I felt more tired at the half way point than I expected, but by 14km, I was feeling pretty good and we were keeping up a pretty decent pace. Then we hit that last uphill section, and I really started to struggle. This is where I'm really glad I was running with Jeff. Jeff is an excellent and natural runner who seems particularly comfortable on uphill sections. I focused on the back of his jersey and kept pushing, but by the top of the hill, I was really pooped. At this point, Jeff could have taken off, but he yelled at me to keep going. Luckily, what goes up must come down, and the next few klicks were gently downhill, so I was able to rest a bit while maintaining a decent pace. By the last 2k, however, I was starting to play head games with myself. I knew I was on a sub-1:40 pace but started saying to myself that 1:41 wouldn't be so bad. "I'll just slow up a bit and catch my breath." Then Jeff started picking up the pace! I forgot all about resting and did my best to follow his lead. In the end I couldn't catch him, and he finished 10 or 15 seconds ahead of me, but I credit his run for my sub-1:40 finish (my "chip time" was 1:39'48").
After the race I was simply elated--and this may sound funny, but I was emotionally moved by the event--on an endorphin high that lasted 3 or 4 hours. My knee had held up beautifully, and obviously, I was thrilled to break 1:40! We walked around the stadium, picking up food and fluids and soaking in the joyous atmosphere that always permeates races--all these ordinary people so happy at accomplishing a goal, whether it be a certain time or simply to finish. We eventually found our respective cheering squads before heading home, tired but happy.
Last night I was awoken by the remnants of Hurricane Ike spending itself against our bedroom window, and I was glad the storm didn't pass through yesterday. But I'm sure even Ike wouldn't have stopped the thousands of runners to took part in yesterday's race from having a great time.
Not wanting to be shown up by that inspiring performance--and I mean that in all seriousness: my hat goes off to anyone who has the guts to enter and finish a marathon (and this year, Erik broke 4:30 for the marathon, bettering last year's time by well over an hour!)--I decided I should start training in earnest. My main concern, however, was that had I injured my knee at the end of last season and, not wanting to aggravate it, I embarked on a very gradual training program this spring.
By the beginning of September, I had worked my long run up to 24km and felt pretty confident that as long as my knee held out I could put in a pretty respectable time. Earlier in the season, I set my goal at 1 hour 45 minutes, which works out to a pace of just under 5 minutes per kilometer. But my training had gone so well that two weeks before the race, I revised that to 1:43, and secretly I hoped that even 1:40 was possible.
The race itself was wonderful and extremely well organized. Over 2000 volunteers helped out, and they should be commended. Race day was grey and rainy but warm, so aside from having to dodge puddles, conditions were almost ideal. I was running with my friend Jeff, with whom I had trained on a couple of occasions and whose pace and conditioning is very similar to my own. We had decided a few weeks before to run the race together.
Almost 2000 people ran the half-marathon. That's a lot of runners to cram into a start area. One thing I've learned in the few shorter races I've run is that positioning at the start line is important. You don't want to be too far in front so as to hinder faster runners; nor do you want to be too far back and have to pass a lot of slower runners. Big races like this one often have "pace bunnies": runners who are paid to run the race at a certain pace. Jeff and I looked for the 1:45 pace bunny but couldn't find her, so we settled for a spot well ahead of the 2:00 pace bunny. It turns out we were WAY too far back in the pack. It took us four minutes just to cross the start line! We spent the first 5km weaving in and out of traffic, passing slower runners. (Incidentally, I don't blame the slower runners for this; it was our responsibility to start farther up.) We finally ended up passing the 1:45 pace bunny at the 15km mark, so obviously, she started quite a ways in front of us.
The course starts in the middle of the Jacques-Cartier bridge, which spans the mighty St. Lawrence River. It then winds through the streets of Montreal, finishing up at Olympic Stadium. The course is relatively flat, with only one short uphill at about the 5km mark and a longer but less steep uphill section at about 16km. Because we spent the first half-hour dodging traffic, I found it really hard to get into a rhythm, so I felt more tired at the half way point than I expected, but by 14km, I was feeling pretty good and we were keeping up a pretty decent pace. Then we hit that last uphill section, and I really started to struggle. This is where I'm really glad I was running with Jeff. Jeff is an excellent and natural runner who seems particularly comfortable on uphill sections. I focused on the back of his jersey and kept pushing, but by the top of the hill, I was really pooped. At this point, Jeff could have taken off, but he yelled at me to keep going. Luckily, what goes up must come down, and the next few klicks were gently downhill, so I was able to rest a bit while maintaining a decent pace. By the last 2k, however, I was starting to play head games with myself. I knew I was on a sub-1:40 pace but started saying to myself that 1:41 wouldn't be so bad. "I'll just slow up a bit and catch my breath." Then Jeff started picking up the pace! I forgot all about resting and did my best to follow his lead. In the end I couldn't catch him, and he finished 10 or 15 seconds ahead of me, but I credit his run for my sub-1:40 finish (my "chip time" was 1:39'48").
After the race I was simply elated--and this may sound funny, but I was emotionally moved by the event--on an endorphin high that lasted 3 or 4 hours. My knee had held up beautifully, and obviously, I was thrilled to break 1:40! We walked around the stadium, picking up food and fluids and soaking in the joyous atmosphere that always permeates races--all these ordinary people so happy at accomplishing a goal, whether it be a certain time or simply to finish. We eventually found our respective cheering squads before heading home, tired but happy.
Last night I was awoken by the remnants of Hurricane Ike spending itself against our bedroom window, and I was glad the storm didn't pass through yesterday. But I'm sure even Ike wouldn't have stopped the thousands of runners to took part in yesterday's race from having a great time.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Tomb of the Kings
I think I've posted a version of this before, but I went through and made some fairly major changes. You can read the French original here.
I love this dream poem, with its almost cinematic imagery, by one of Quebec's truly great writers. It's so dark, so filled with sadness and bewilderment, yet, by the end, bears witness to the heart's miraculous optimism.
Tomb of the Kings
-Anne Hébert (Translation, Peter Garner)
My heart is at my fist.
Like a blind falcon.
The taciturn bird grips my fingers,
Lamp swollen with wine and blood,
I descend
Toward the tomb of the kings,
Astonished,
Only just born.
What thread of Ariadne leads me
Through soundless labyrinths,
Each step’s echo consumed as it sounds?
(In what dream
Was this child tied by the ankle
Like a spellbound slave?)
The dream maker
Grasps the thread,
And bare footsteps come
One by one
Like the first raindrops
At a well bottom.
Already, the odour moves in swollen storms
Oozes under doorsteps
To secret, round chambers
Where box beds lie.
Drawn by the reclining figures’ static desire,
I look with astonishment
Set into the black bones
Gleam encrusted blue stones.
A few tragedies patiently worked
Upon the breasts of recumbent kings
In the form of jewels
Are offered to me
With neither tears nor regrets.
Arranged in a line:
Smoke of incense, rice cake
And my trembling flesh:
Ritual, submissive offering.
The gold mask on my absent face
violets for pupils
Love’s shadow disguises me with meticulous strokes
And this bird I hold
Breathes
And laments strangely
A long shiver,
Like a wind that catches from tree to tree,
Stirs seven great ebony pharaohs,
In their solemn, ornate sheaths.
But it is only the depths of death lingering,
Playing out the last torment
Seeking appeasement
And eternity
In a light rattling of bracelets
Vain circlets playthings of another place
Around the sacrificed flesh.
Eager for the brotherly source of evil within me
They lay me down and drink of me;
Seven times I know the vise of bones
The dry hand that seeks to rend the heart.
Pale and filled with the awful dream
Limbs untangled
And the dead gone from me, murdered,
What glimmer of dawn could stray here?
Yet how, then, does this bird tremble
And turn its sightless eyes
Toward morning?
I love this dream poem, with its almost cinematic imagery, by one of Quebec's truly great writers. It's so dark, so filled with sadness and bewilderment, yet, by the end, bears witness to the heart's miraculous optimism.
Tomb of the Kings
-Anne Hébert (Translation, Peter Garner)
My heart is at my fist.
Like a blind falcon.
The taciturn bird grips my fingers,
Lamp swollen with wine and blood,
I descend
Toward the tomb of the kings,
Astonished,
Only just born.
What thread of Ariadne leads me
Through soundless labyrinths,
Each step’s echo consumed as it sounds?
(In what dream
Was this child tied by the ankle
Like a spellbound slave?)
The dream maker
Grasps the thread,
And bare footsteps come
One by one
Like the first raindrops
At a well bottom.
Already, the odour moves in swollen storms
Oozes under doorsteps
To secret, round chambers
Where box beds lie.
Drawn by the reclining figures’ static desire,
I look with astonishment
Set into the black bones
Gleam encrusted blue stones.
A few tragedies patiently worked
Upon the breasts of recumbent kings
In the form of jewels
Are offered to me
With neither tears nor regrets.
Arranged in a line:
Smoke of incense, rice cake
And my trembling flesh:
Ritual, submissive offering.
The gold mask on my absent face
violets for pupils
Love’s shadow disguises me with meticulous strokes
And this bird I hold
Breathes
And laments strangely
A long shiver,
Like a wind that catches from tree to tree,
Stirs seven great ebony pharaohs,
In their solemn, ornate sheaths.
But it is only the depths of death lingering,
Playing out the last torment
Seeking appeasement
And eternity
In a light rattling of bracelets
Vain circlets playthings of another place
Around the sacrificed flesh.
Eager for the brotherly source of evil within me
They lay me down and drink of me;
Seven times I know the vise of bones
The dry hand that seeks to rend the heart.
Pale and filled with the awful dream
Limbs untangled
And the dead gone from me, murdered,
What glimmer of dawn could stray here?
Yet how, then, does this bird tremble
And turn its sightless eyes
Toward morning?
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Wild Ginger
It is enough—enough today it seems—
to stand rooted among these living spires,
knowing the shy wild ginger blooms close by,
leaves unfurled in this very air to breathe.
No need to seek the beech’s shade, to scan
the forest humus for its tell-tale heart-
shaped foliage, to push the leaves apart,
and touch the pungent rhizome with my hand;
or without thought to rip it from the ground,
transplant it to a sheltered garden plot
where it might grow but never flourish—not
enough could come of this to make it sound.
Such phantom-cleaving does no harm and fills
the void when ownership would only kill.
to stand rooted among these living spires,
knowing the shy wild ginger blooms close by,
leaves unfurled in this very air to breathe.
No need to seek the beech’s shade, to scan
the forest humus for its tell-tale heart-
shaped foliage, to push the leaves apart,
and touch the pungent rhizome with my hand;
or without thought to rip it from the ground,
transplant it to a sheltered garden plot
where it might grow but never flourish—not
enough could come of this to make it sound.
Such phantom-cleaving does no harm and fills
the void when ownership would only kill.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Harraps Online
Great news for translators of French and English: the Harrap's French-English dictionary--the best French-English dictionary in print, IMO--is now available on-line. I've been waiting for this for years. No more flipping through pages, poring over tiny text to find the translation for that elusive idiom. A quick search and it's right there on the screen. Hallelujah!
There's a free 30-day trial (an incredibly no-hassle process) and the subscription costs are actually pretty reasonable (£20 per year). I've only used it for a day, but I'm impressed thus far.
Did I say Hallelujah already?
There's a free 30-day trial (an incredibly no-hassle process) and the subscription costs are actually pretty reasonable (£20 per year). I've only used it for a day, but I'm impressed thus far.
Did I say Hallelujah already?
Friday, March 07, 2008
Halley's Comet
I am not the first to set eyes on this scene.
Over the course of life on this planet
some other sentient being has undoubtedly gazed
over the lake at sunset, with the wind just so.
Over the course of life on this planet,
I have come to cherish mergansers flying high
over the lake at sunset. With the wind just so,
I am sure they will come down here, on the bay
I have come to cherish. Mergansers flying high
are a sign of spring, and yes, like wild ginger
I am sure they will come. Down here on the bay,
in the full dark of the new moon, May showers
are a sign of spring. And yes, like wild ginger
flowers, they mostly pass unnoticed, blossoming
in the full dark of the new moon. May showers
fall from the tail of Halley’s Comet; modest
flowers, they mostly pass unnoticed, blossoming
discretely in the night sky, their sole purpose apparently to
fall from the tail of Halley’s Comet. Modest
observers of the heavens turn their heads
discretely in the night sky, their sole purpose apparently to
witness the fiery passage of dust grains in air.
Observers of the heavens turn their heads
now toward sunrise, as pollen dances in the dawn.
Witness the fiery passage of dust grains in air!
Some other sentient being will undoubtedly gaze
now toward sunrise, as pollen dances in the dawn:
I am not the last to set eyes on this scene.
Over the course of life on this planet
some other sentient being has undoubtedly gazed
over the lake at sunset, with the wind just so.
Over the course of life on this planet,
I have come to cherish mergansers flying high
over the lake at sunset. With the wind just so,
I am sure they will come down here, on the bay
I have come to cherish. Mergansers flying high
are a sign of spring, and yes, like wild ginger
I am sure they will come. Down here on the bay,
in the full dark of the new moon, May showers
are a sign of spring. And yes, like wild ginger
flowers, they mostly pass unnoticed, blossoming
in the full dark of the new moon. May showers
fall from the tail of Halley’s Comet; modest
flowers, they mostly pass unnoticed, blossoming
discretely in the night sky, their sole purpose apparently to
fall from the tail of Halley’s Comet. Modest
observers of the heavens turn their heads
discretely in the night sky, their sole purpose apparently to
witness the fiery passage of dust grains in air.
Observers of the heavens turn their heads
now toward sunrise, as pollen dances in the dawn.
Witness the fiery passage of dust grains in air!
Some other sentient being will undoubtedly gaze
now toward sunrise, as pollen dances in the dawn:
I am not the last to set eyes on this scene.
Monday, March 03, 2008
On bagpipes as a metaphor for puns
Well-placed and shrewdly played
(say on a mountainside or battlefield),
The bagpipes’ loud and noble bray
does uplift hearts and heal.
But poorly blown and frayed
(say at a party chic and spiky-heeled),
They end up causing much dismay
And make one’s ears congeal.
(say on a mountainside or battlefield),
The bagpipes’ loud and noble bray
does uplift hearts and heal.
But poorly blown and frayed
(say at a party chic and spiky-heeled),
They end up causing much dismay
And make one’s ears congeal.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Atlantic drops its paywall!
Fans of the journal The Atlantic will be thrilled to learn that the magazine has decided to open up the site to non-subscribers. This includes free access to the archive going back to 1995, plus some access to even earlier articles.
This is great news. Upon looking at the site, however, I can't find the old Forums section. Did The Atlantic do away with them at some point? The old poetry forum was for many years a vibrant place for on-line poets to post works and engage in discussion. But I guess when they put up the paywall, everyone went away. Imagine that!
This is great news. Upon looking at the site, however, I can't find the old Forums section. Did The Atlantic do away with them at some point? The old poetry forum was for many years a vibrant place for on-line poets to post works and engage in discussion. But I guess when they put up the paywall, everyone went away. Imagine that!
Blogged with Flock
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Quebec's Ice Hotel. You've got to be kidding me!
Photo credit: Etolane
This past weekend, I traveled to the Quebec City area to do some skiing. Aside from the fact that the weather was so cold that we might as well have had sandpaper on our boards, it was great to get outside.
Our first skiing stop was the Station Touristique Duschesney. I've always known it as a great place to ski, though I haven't been there in years. But in recent times, it has also been home to Quebec's so-called "Ice Hotel." We drove past this curiosity as we were leaving Duschesney in search of our chalet for the night.
Now I remember as a kid always loving fireplaces. But my grandfather never had a fireplace in his home, though he possessed just about every other amenity a house could have. When I asked him why he didn't have one, he replied that during his childhood in England, the only source of heat most houses had was a stove that constantly had to be supplied with coal. So the idea of a fireplace as a luxury was anathema to him.
I think most Canadians must feel a little bit the same way about the ice hotels, of which there are apparently several around the world. When you spend a good 4 months out of the year making major efforts to keep warm, the idea of paying good money (and lots of it--rates start at about $600/night for two) to sleep in a glorified igloo seems like an idea for people with more money than brains.
That night, the temperature in the Quebec City region dropped down to about -30 degrees Celsius. I fear the poor saps staying in the ice hotel that night may have resorted to burning wads of cash to keep warm.
I wonder what my grandfather would have said.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Rio
Rio
In the movie of your memory
Rio envelops you like twilight
sneaking up slowly until night
falls and you are lost.
Lost in the aroma of roasting meat and passion
fruit juice, of piss and sweat, lost
in Christ’s eternal, concrete blessing.
But the truth is an abrupt assault,
a stunning cacophony of brake squeals,
unmuffled engines, taxi horns, the ubiquitous
dual roars of football fans and the Atlantic.
Rio intoxicates you, suddenly, with bittersweet
lime and sugar, orchid scent and warm sea air,
azalea and bougainvillea blossoms.
Bathes you in skeletal yearning, entices with the sense
that any thing can be, that music is all you need. Only
frigate birds and vultures indicate your peril,
but no one here looks at the sky.
In the movie of your memory
Rio envelops you like twilight
sneaking up slowly until night
falls and you are lost.
Lost in the aroma of roasting meat and passion
fruit juice, of piss and sweat, lost
in Christ’s eternal, concrete blessing.
But the truth is an abrupt assault,
a stunning cacophony of brake squeals,
unmuffled engines, taxi horns, the ubiquitous
dual roars of football fans and the Atlantic.
Rio intoxicates you, suddenly, with bittersweet
lime and sugar, orchid scent and warm sea air,
azalea and bougainvillea blossoms.
Bathes you in skeletal yearning, entices with the sense
that any thing can be, that music is all you need. Only
frigate birds and vultures indicate your peril,
but no one here looks at the sky.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Compendium of Lost Words
Compendium of Lost Words
I recently installed the cool FireFox add-on StumbleUpon, which took me to this site. Not sure if any of these words would pass the Scrabble test, but I love it anyway.
I recently installed the cool FireFox add-on StumbleUpon, which took me to this site. Not sure if any of these words would pass the Scrabble test, but I love it anyway.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Resources for writers
I came across this exhaustive web links of resources for writers via Lifehacker. I have used a number of the links listed for years, but there are also a ton I'd never heard of. If you write, there's surely something here you'll find useful.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
DailyLit
I just ran across this very cool site. Basically, you can get daily 5-minute chunks of litterature sent to you via email or RSS. For those of us who have busy lives but who would like to take a break to read some great writing.
There are hundreds of titles to choose from. So if you've always wanted to read War and Peace but never summoned the courage, maybe this is the way to go.
There are hundreds of titles to choose from. So if you've always wanted to read War and Peace but never summoned the courage, maybe this is the way to go.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Sonata in G
Sudden as a broken string, Scarlatti
materialized after you left this afternoon,
shimmering, there, on the claw-footed stool.
Tentative at first, he warmed to our piano,
foot heavy on the sustain pedal, hands
rising like laughter while arpeggios of gold dust
suspended gravity in a sunbeam. Then,
with a quill pulled from the air, and ink
flowing under the nib, he began to scratch out
a sonata in G—losing all notion of time in the allegro three-eight.
You find it on the stand upon your return
and play, perhaps more legato than he;
I listen, secretly pleased, and resist the urge to say
that he is standing behind the door, smiling.
materialized after you left this afternoon,
shimmering, there, on the claw-footed stool.
Tentative at first, he warmed to our piano,
foot heavy on the sustain pedal, hands
rising like laughter while arpeggios of gold dust
suspended gravity in a sunbeam. Then,
with a quill pulled from the air, and ink
flowing under the nib, he began to scratch out
a sonata in G—losing all notion of time in the allegro three-eight.
You find it on the stand upon your return
and play, perhaps more legato than he;
I listen, secretly pleased, and resist the urge to say
that he is standing behind the door, smiling.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Siegfried Sassoon
I was away for part of last week and so wasn't able to listen to one of my favourite podcasts, the BBC's In Our Time. Last week's episode was on the British poet Siegfried Sassoon. Unfortunately, it is no longer available for download, but you can still listen to a streamed version here.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Life(r) in the front yard
S. and I have been birders for quite a few years, so no matter what we do the rest of the year, mid-May is always exciting because it's when the bulk of the migrators pass through.
But old birdwatching hands that we are, we were still absolutely thrilled this evening when, just after supper, a Cape May warbler decided to have its own evening meal in our front-yard Prunus. Since we don't use any pesticides in our yard, the tree was presumably a veritable smorgasbord. At any rate, it stayed around for a good long while, long enough for me to get a few shots, which I include here for your viewing pleasure.
And yes, it was a lifer for both of us.
But old birdwatching hands that we are, we were still absolutely thrilled this evening when, just after supper, a Cape May warbler decided to have its own evening meal in our front-yard Prunus. Since we don't use any pesticides in our yard, the tree was presumably a veritable smorgasbord. At any rate, it stayed around for a good long while, long enough for me to get a few shots, which I include here for your viewing pleasure.
And yes, it was a lifer for both of us.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Body Worlds 2
Last night, I had the great good fortune to attend the official launch of Body Worlds 2 at the Montreal Science Centre.
If you've never heard of Body Worlds, check out the Wikipedia entry for Body Worlds. It is the creation of Gunther von Hagens, an anatomist who patented a process called "plastination," and Body Worlds is an exhibition of real plastinated human bodies, displayed in various lifelike poses and showing human anatomy in great detail.
At first, the idea seems a tad gruesome, and indeed, the various Body Words exhibitions have been protested all over the world. France apparently still refuses to allow it in that country (so the Montreal exhibition is the first time it has been translated into French), and it remains controversial in many places. To cite the Wikipedia entry on von Hagens:
The exhibition went on tour in 1995, and has met with public interest and controversy in numerous cities around the world since. Critics contend that the exhibition is sensationalist and that the artistic, lifelike poses into which the plastinated cadavers have been fixed is degrading and disrespectful.Personally, I found the exhibition to be highly respectful and, far from degrading, a tribute to the truly astounding beauty of the human body. I've been to many of these launches, and the public at these events is largely a glad-handing, PR-oriented, see-and-be-seen type of crowd. After a couple of glasses of wine, they generally breeze through the exhibit (if they view it at all) to get out of there as fast as they can.
But as soon as I entered Body Worlds, I immediately felt a difference. There was a hush over the exhibition hall, even with several hundred people inside. Even the most jaded visitor immediately understood that they were in the presence of real people. And the exhibition itself is fascinating and breathtaking, gently guiding visitors step by step from the tiny bones of the inner ear, through various individual parts and systems of the body, to culminate (from an emotional standpoint) in a pregnant woman with a five-month-old fetus. The exhibition's sheer beauty blew me a way, but it was also an exceedingly touching and thought provoking experience. Above all, it was human. I came away with a profound respect for the human body and the sense that beauty really isn't just skin deep.
If you ever get a chance to see Body Worlds, I would suggest that you not pass it up.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Mark Strand on CBC
The CBC recently expanded its podcast lineup, and its program Writers & Company is finally available as a podcast. The program for April 1st, I have just learned, is a long and excellent interview with Mark Strand. If you're a poetry lover, you'll love this interview.
The CBC only archives its podcasts for four weeks, so if you hurry, you might be able to get it here (direct download). If not, it's available in a streaming version on this page. You can subscribe to Writers & Company in iTunes here, or simply pick up the RSS feed here. The Writers & Company home page is here.
The CBC only archives its podcasts for four weeks, so if you hurry, you might be able to get it here (direct download). If not, it's available in a streaming version on this page. You can subscribe to Writers & Company in iTunes here, or simply pick up the RSS feed here. The Writers & Company home page is here.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Greek & Roman love poetry
That's the topic this week on the BBC's excellent program In Our Time. Melvyn Bragg and his guests start with Sappho and end with Ovid. A really interesting program and well worth the 40 minutes or so it will take from your busy, busy life.
You can get it here and you can thank me later.
[Update: a commenter pointed out that you can also read a summary of the program here. However, both he and I strongly recommend you listen to the podcast. I always find that doing the dishes or some other such chore is much more enjoyable when you're learning something at the same time. Thank you Paul Grieg (even if your blogger profile is maddeningly blocked, so I can't even visit your blog to thank you for the tip).]
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Monday, April 09, 2007
Joshua goes to D.C.
The Washington Post Magazine ran a really excellent article this weekend. The premise of the article was an incognito performance by violinist Joshua Bell in the Washington D.C. Metro. Read the article to find out how discerning Washington commuters are.
From the article:
There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.
My favourite quote by Bell, referring to the $32 he made in just under 45 minutes: "That's 40 bucks an hour. I could make an okay living doing this, and I wouldn't have to pay an agent."
He was joking, of course. I'm bet the insurance premiums on that violin are more than many people make in a year.
From the article:
There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.
My favourite quote by Bell, referring to the $32 he made in just under 45 minutes: "That's 40 bucks an hour. I could make an okay living doing this, and I wouldn't have to pay an agent."
He was joking, of course. I'm bet the insurance premiums on that violin are more than many people make in a year.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Not long ago, I re-joined a live (as opposed to on-line) poetry workshop after a hiatus of a couple of years. I find the immediate and honest feedback a refreshing change from the goings on in some on-line spaces. One of this workshop's members, Maxianne Berger (this isn't the first time FFTMC has mentioned Maxianne's name), recently sent me a few links to some of her wonderful poetry, and I want to pass them on to FFTMC readers. I think you'll find them well worth the click.
Two poems in the Hamilton Stone Review
Two poems in ars poetica
A poem at Les Wicks' Australian Collaboration page for last years Trois-Rivières International Poetry Festival. The poems are in alphabetical order, so scroll down to a bit to read the ver funny Ode to a Round Tuit.
A translation of Maxianne's book How We Negotiate was also recently published by Écrits des forges. The translation is entitled Compromis.
Enjoy.
Two poems in the Hamilton Stone Review
Two poems in ars poetica
A poem at Les Wicks' Australian Collaboration page for last years Trois-Rivières International Poetry Festival. The poems are in alphabetical order, so scroll down to a bit to read the ver funny Ode to a Round Tuit.
A translation of Maxianne's book How We Negotiate was also recently published by Écrits des forges. The translation is entitled Compromis.
Enjoy.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
The International Edible Book Festival
I recently learned about the International Edible Book Festival. I love this sort of thing, which just happens to combine two of m favourite things: books and food.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Satires of Circumstance
From the title of this blog, you might easily guess that I am a fan of Thomas Hardy. I think FFTMC is one of the best novels of the Victorian era, and novels like Tess of the D'urbervilles and Jude the Obscure are also among my favourite novels.
You would perhaps be surprised to learn, therefore, that until today, there was not a single volume of Hardy's poetry on my shelves. I have a few poems in anthologies, but that is the extent of my acquaintance. Maybe it's because his poetry has been so vilified by so many critics over the years.
I haven't read any of those critiques, but certainly his poetry has the reputation of not being up to the standard of other great poets of the 19th century. I am trying to read him with an open mind--trying to let him be who he is. I must say, there's something very likable and approachable about what I've read so far. Yes, it does tend to be dark and morose, but for it to be otherwise would be surprising knowing his prose. And yet I find there is a great deal of black humour also, and I have always felt that the combination of tragedy and comedy the mark of an excellent writer.
So with that preface, I'd like to share the following vignettes of Hardy's that I discovered today. I found them quite compelling. I have two or three favourites among this lot. What are yours?
SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCES IN FIFTEEN GLIMPSES
I
AT TEA
The kettle descants in a cozy drone,
And the young wife looks in her husband's face,
And then at her guest's, and shows in her own
Her sense that she fills an envied place;
And the visiting lady is all abloom,
And says there was never so sweet a room.
And the happy young housewife does not know
That the woman beside her was first his choice,
Till the fates ordained it could not be so . . .
Betraying nothing in look or voice
The guest sits smiling and sips her tea,
And he throws her a stray glance yearningly.
II
IN CHURCH
"And now to God the Father," he ends,
And his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles:
Each listener chokes as he bows and bends,
And emotion pervades the crowded aisles.
Then the preacher glides to the vestry-door,
And shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more.
The door swings softly ajar meanwhile,
And a pupil of his in the Bible class,
Who adores him as one without gloss or guile,
Sees her idol stand with a satisfied smile
And re-enact at the vestry-glass
Each pulpit gesture in deft dumb-show
That had moved the congregation so.
III
BY HER AUNT'S GRAVE
"Sixpence a week," says the girl to her lover,
"Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide
In me alone, she vowed. 'Twas to cover
The cost of her headstone when she died.
And that was a year ago last June;
I've not yet fixed it. But I must soon."
"And where is the money now, my dear?"
"O, snug in my purse . . . Aunt was SO slow
In saving it--eighty weeks, or near." . . .
"Let's spend it," he hints. "For she won't know.
There's a dance to-night at the Load of Hay."
She passively nods. And they go that way.
IV
IN THE ROOM OF THE BRIDE-ELECT
"Would it had been the man of our wish!"
Sighs her mother. To whom with vehemence she
In the wedding-dress--the wife to be -
"Then why were you so mollyish
As not to insist on him for me!"
The mother, amazed: "Why, dearest one,
Because you pleaded for this or none!"
"But Father and you should have stood out strong!
Since then, to my cost, I have lived to find
That you were right and that I was wrong;
This man is a dolt to the one declined . . .
Ah!--here he comes with his button-hole rose.
Good God--I must marry him I suppose!"
V
AT A WATERING-PLACE
They sit and smoke on the esplanade,
The man and his friend, and regard the bay
Where the far chalk cliffs, to the left displayed,
Smile sallowly in the decline of day.
And saunterers pass with laugh and jest -
A handsome couple among the rest.
"That smart proud pair," says the man to his friend,
"Are to marry next week . . . How little he thinks
That dozens of days and nights on end
I have stroked her neck, unhooked the links
Of her sleeve to get at her upper arm . . .
Well, bliss is in ignorance: what's the harm!"
VI
IN THE CEMETERY
"You see those mothers squabbling there?"
Remarks the man of the cemetery.
One says in tears, ''Tis mine lies here!'
Another, 'Nay, mine, you Pharisee!'
Another, 'How dare you move my flowers
And put your own on this grave of ours!'
But all their children were laid therein
At different times, like sprats in a tin.
"And then the main drain had to cross,
And we moved the lot some nights ago,
And packed them away in the general foss
With hundreds more. But their folks don't know,
And as well cry over a new-laid drain
As anything else, to ease your pain!"
VII
OUTSIDE THE WINDOW
"My stick!" he says, and turns in the lane
To the house just left, whence a vixen voice
Comes out with the firelight through the pane,
And he sees within that the girl of his choice
Stands rating her mother with eyes aglare
For something said while he was there.
"At last I behold her soul undraped!"
Thinks the man who had loved her more than himself;
"My God--'tis but narrowly I have escaped. -
My precious porcelain proves it delf."
His face has reddened like one ashamed,
And he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed.
VIII
IN THE STUDY
He enters, and mute on the edge of a chair
Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there,
A type of decayed gentility;
And by some small signs he well can guess
That she comes to him almost breakfastless.
"I have called--I hope I do not err -
I am looking for a purchaser
Of some score volumes of the works
Of eminent divines I own, -
Left by my father--though it irks
My patience to offer them." And she smiles
As if necessity were unknown;
"But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles
I have wished, as I am fond of art,
To make my rooms a little smart."
And lightly still she laughs to him,
As if to sell were a mere gay whim,
And that, to be frank, Life were indeed
To her not vinegar and gall,
But fresh and honey-like; and Need
No household skeleton at all.
IX
AT THE ALTAR-RAIL
"My bride is not coming, alas!" says the groom,
And the telegram shakes in his hand. "I own
It was hurried! We met at a dancing-room
When I went to the Cattle-Show alone,
And then, next night, where the Fountain leaps,
And the Street of the Quarter-Circle sweeps.
"Ay, she won me to ask her to be my wife -
'Twas foolish perhaps!--to forsake the ways
Of the flaring town for a farmer's life.
She agreed. And we fixed it. Now she says:
'It's sweet of you, dear, to prepare me a nest,
But a swift, short, gay life suits me best.
What I really am you have never gleaned;
I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned.'"
X
IN THE NUPTIAL CHAMBER
"O that mastering tune?" And up in the bed
Like a lace-robed phantom springs the bride;
"And why?" asks the man she had that day wed,
With a start, as the band plays on outside.
"It's the townsfolks' cheery compliment
Because of our marriage, my Innocent."
"O but you don't know! 'Tis the passionate air
To which my old Love waltzed with me,
And I swore as we spun that none should share
My home, my kisses, till death, save he!
And he dominates me and thrills me through,
And it's he I embrace while embracing you!"
XI
IN THE RESTAURANT
"But hear. If you stay, and the child be born,
It will pass as your husband's with the rest,
While, if we fly, the teeth of scorn
Will be gleaming at us from east to west;
And the child will come as a life despised;
I feel an elopement is ill-advised!"
"O you realize not what it is, my dear,
To a woman! Daily and hourly alarms
Lest the truth should out. How can I stay here,
And nightly take him into my arms!
Come to the child no name or fame,
Let us go, and face it, and bear the shame."
XII
AT THE DRAPER'S
"I stood at the back of the shop, my dear,
But you did not perceive me.
Well, when they deliver what you were shown
_I_ shall know nothing of it, believe me!"
And he coughed and coughed as she paled and said,
"O, I didn't see you come in there -
Why couldn't you speak?"--"Well, I didn't. I left
That you should not notice I'd been there.
"You were viewing some lovely things. 'Soon required
For a widow, of latest fashion';
And I knew 'twould upset you to meet the man
Who had to be cold and ashen
"And screwed in a box before they could dress you
'In the last new note in mourning,'
As they defined it. So, not to distress you,
I left you to your adorning."
XIII
ON THE DEATH-BED
"I'll tell--being past all praying for -
Then promptly die . . . He was out at the war,
And got some scent of the intimacy
That was under way between her and me;
And he stole back home, and appeared like a ghost
One night, at the very time almost
That I reached her house. Well, I shot him dead,
And secretly buried him. Nothing was said.
"The news of the battle came next day;
He was scheduled missing. I hurried away,
Got out there, visited the field,
And sent home word that a search revealed
He was one of the slain; though, lying alone
And stript, his body had not been known.
"But she suspected. I lost her love,
Yea, my hope of earth, and of Heaven above;
And my time's now come, and I'll pay the score,
Though it be burning for evermore."
XIV
OVER THE COFFIN
They stand confronting, the coffin between,
His wife of old, and his wife of late,
And the dead man whose they both had been
Seems listening aloof, as to things past date.
--"I have called," says the first. "Do you marvel or not?"
"In truth," says the second, "I do--somewhat."
"Well, there was a word to be said by me! . . .
I divorced that man because of you -
It seemed I must do it, boundenly;
But now I am older, and tell you true,
For life is little, and dead lies he;
I would I had let alone you two!
And both of us, scorning parochial ways,
Had lived like the wives in the patriarchs' days."
XV
IN THE MOONLIGHT
"O lonely workman, standing there
In a dream, why do you stare and stare
At her grave, as no other grave there were?
"If your great gaunt eyes so importune
Her soul by the shine of this corpse-cold moon,
Maybe you'll raise her phantom soon!"
"Why, fool, it is what I would rather see
Than all the living folk there be;
But alas, there is no such joy for me!"
"Ah--she was one you loved, no doubt,
Through good and evil, through rain and drought,
And when she passed, all your sun went out?"
"Nay: she was the woman I did not love,
Whom all the others were ranked above,
Whom during her life I thought nothing of."
You would perhaps be surprised to learn, therefore, that until today, there was not a single volume of Hardy's poetry on my shelves. I have a few poems in anthologies, but that is the extent of my acquaintance. Maybe it's because his poetry has been so vilified by so many critics over the years.
I haven't read any of those critiques, but certainly his poetry has the reputation of not being up to the standard of other great poets of the 19th century. I am trying to read him with an open mind--trying to let him be who he is. I must say, there's something very likable and approachable about what I've read so far. Yes, it does tend to be dark and morose, but for it to be otherwise would be surprising knowing his prose. And yet I find there is a great deal of black humour also, and I have always felt that the combination of tragedy and comedy the mark of an excellent writer.
So with that preface, I'd like to share the following vignettes of Hardy's that I discovered today. I found them quite compelling. I have two or three favourites among this lot. What are yours?
SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCES IN FIFTEEN GLIMPSES
I
AT TEA
The kettle descants in a cozy drone,
And the young wife looks in her husband's face,
And then at her guest's, and shows in her own
Her sense that she fills an envied place;
And the visiting lady is all abloom,
And says there was never so sweet a room.
And the happy young housewife does not know
That the woman beside her was first his choice,
Till the fates ordained it could not be so . . .
Betraying nothing in look or voice
The guest sits smiling and sips her tea,
And he throws her a stray glance yearningly.
II
IN CHURCH
"And now to God the Father," he ends,
And his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles:
Each listener chokes as he bows and bends,
And emotion pervades the crowded aisles.
Then the preacher glides to the vestry-door,
And shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more.
The door swings softly ajar meanwhile,
And a pupil of his in the Bible class,
Who adores him as one without gloss or guile,
Sees her idol stand with a satisfied smile
And re-enact at the vestry-glass
Each pulpit gesture in deft dumb-show
That had moved the congregation so.
III
BY HER AUNT'S GRAVE
"Sixpence a week," says the girl to her lover,
"Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide
In me alone, she vowed. 'Twas to cover
The cost of her headstone when she died.
And that was a year ago last June;
I've not yet fixed it. But I must soon."
"And where is the money now, my dear?"
"O, snug in my purse . . . Aunt was SO slow
In saving it--eighty weeks, or near." . . .
"Let's spend it," he hints. "For she won't know.
There's a dance to-night at the Load of Hay."
She passively nods. And they go that way.
IV
IN THE ROOM OF THE BRIDE-ELECT
"Would it had been the man of our wish!"
Sighs her mother. To whom with vehemence she
In the wedding-dress--the wife to be -
"Then why were you so mollyish
As not to insist on him for me!"
The mother, amazed: "Why, dearest one,
Because you pleaded for this or none!"
"But Father and you should have stood out strong!
Since then, to my cost, I have lived to find
That you were right and that I was wrong;
This man is a dolt to the one declined . . .
Ah!--here he comes with his button-hole rose.
Good God--I must marry him I suppose!"
V
AT A WATERING-PLACE
They sit and smoke on the esplanade,
The man and his friend, and regard the bay
Where the far chalk cliffs, to the left displayed,
Smile sallowly in the decline of day.
And saunterers pass with laugh and jest -
A handsome couple among the rest.
"That smart proud pair," says the man to his friend,
"Are to marry next week . . . How little he thinks
That dozens of days and nights on end
I have stroked her neck, unhooked the links
Of her sleeve to get at her upper arm . . .
Well, bliss is in ignorance: what's the harm!"
VI
IN THE CEMETERY
"You see those mothers squabbling there?"
Remarks the man of the cemetery.
One says in tears, ''Tis mine lies here!'
Another, 'Nay, mine, you Pharisee!'
Another, 'How dare you move my flowers
And put your own on this grave of ours!'
But all their children were laid therein
At different times, like sprats in a tin.
"And then the main drain had to cross,
And we moved the lot some nights ago,
And packed them away in the general foss
With hundreds more. But their folks don't know,
And as well cry over a new-laid drain
As anything else, to ease your pain!"
VII
OUTSIDE THE WINDOW
"My stick!" he says, and turns in the lane
To the house just left, whence a vixen voice
Comes out with the firelight through the pane,
And he sees within that the girl of his choice
Stands rating her mother with eyes aglare
For something said while he was there.
"At last I behold her soul undraped!"
Thinks the man who had loved her more than himself;
"My God--'tis but narrowly I have escaped. -
My precious porcelain proves it delf."
His face has reddened like one ashamed,
And he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed.
VIII
IN THE STUDY
He enters, and mute on the edge of a chair
Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there,
A type of decayed gentility;
And by some small signs he well can guess
That she comes to him almost breakfastless.
"I have called--I hope I do not err -
I am looking for a purchaser
Of some score volumes of the works
Of eminent divines I own, -
Left by my father--though it irks
My patience to offer them." And she smiles
As if necessity were unknown;
"But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles
I have wished, as I am fond of art,
To make my rooms a little smart."
And lightly still she laughs to him,
As if to sell were a mere gay whim,
And that, to be frank, Life were indeed
To her not vinegar and gall,
But fresh and honey-like; and Need
No household skeleton at all.
IX
AT THE ALTAR-RAIL
"My bride is not coming, alas!" says the groom,
And the telegram shakes in his hand. "I own
It was hurried! We met at a dancing-room
When I went to the Cattle-Show alone,
And then, next night, where the Fountain leaps,
And the Street of the Quarter-Circle sweeps.
"Ay, she won me to ask her to be my wife -
'Twas foolish perhaps!--to forsake the ways
Of the flaring town for a farmer's life.
She agreed. And we fixed it. Now she says:
'It's sweet of you, dear, to prepare me a nest,
But a swift, short, gay life suits me best.
What I really am you have never gleaned;
I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned.'"
X
IN THE NUPTIAL CHAMBER
"O that mastering tune?" And up in the bed
Like a lace-robed phantom springs the bride;
"And why?" asks the man she had that day wed,
With a start, as the band plays on outside.
"It's the townsfolks' cheery compliment
Because of our marriage, my Innocent."
"O but you don't know! 'Tis the passionate air
To which my old Love waltzed with me,
And I swore as we spun that none should share
My home, my kisses, till death, save he!
And he dominates me and thrills me through,
And it's he I embrace while embracing you!"
XI
IN THE RESTAURANT
"But hear. If you stay, and the child be born,
It will pass as your husband's with the rest,
While, if we fly, the teeth of scorn
Will be gleaming at us from east to west;
And the child will come as a life despised;
I feel an elopement is ill-advised!"
"O you realize not what it is, my dear,
To a woman! Daily and hourly alarms
Lest the truth should out. How can I stay here,
And nightly take him into my arms!
Come to the child no name or fame,
Let us go, and face it, and bear the shame."
XII
AT THE DRAPER'S
"I stood at the back of the shop, my dear,
But you did not perceive me.
Well, when they deliver what you were shown
_I_ shall know nothing of it, believe me!"
And he coughed and coughed as she paled and said,
"O, I didn't see you come in there -
Why couldn't you speak?"--"Well, I didn't. I left
That you should not notice I'd been there.
"You were viewing some lovely things. 'Soon required
For a widow, of latest fashion';
And I knew 'twould upset you to meet the man
Who had to be cold and ashen
"And screwed in a box before they could dress you
'In the last new note in mourning,'
As they defined it. So, not to distress you,
I left you to your adorning."
XIII
ON THE DEATH-BED
"I'll tell--being past all praying for -
Then promptly die . . . He was out at the war,
And got some scent of the intimacy
That was under way between her and me;
And he stole back home, and appeared like a ghost
One night, at the very time almost
That I reached her house. Well, I shot him dead,
And secretly buried him. Nothing was said.
"The news of the battle came next day;
He was scheduled missing. I hurried away,
Got out there, visited the field,
And sent home word that a search revealed
He was one of the slain; though, lying alone
And stript, his body had not been known.
"But she suspected. I lost her love,
Yea, my hope of earth, and of Heaven above;
And my time's now come, and I'll pay the score,
Though it be burning for evermore."
XIV
OVER THE COFFIN
They stand confronting, the coffin between,
His wife of old, and his wife of late,
And the dead man whose they both had been
Seems listening aloof, as to things past date.
--"I have called," says the first. "Do you marvel or not?"
"In truth," says the second, "I do--somewhat."
"Well, there was a word to be said by me! . . .
I divorced that man because of you -
It seemed I must do it, boundenly;
But now I am older, and tell you true,
For life is little, and dead lies he;
I would I had let alone you two!
And both of us, scorning parochial ways,
Had lived like the wives in the patriarchs' days."
XV
IN THE MOONLIGHT
"O lonely workman, standing there
In a dream, why do you stare and stare
At her grave, as no other grave there were?
"If your great gaunt eyes so importune
Her soul by the shine of this corpse-cold moon,
Maybe you'll raise her phantom soon!"
"Why, fool, it is what I would rather see
Than all the living folk there be;
But alas, there is no such joy for me!"
"Ah--she was one you loved, no doubt,
Through good and evil, through rain and drought,
And when she passed, all your sun went out?"
"Nay: she was the woman I did not love,
Whom all the others were ranked above,
Whom during her life I thought nothing of."
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Jorge Luis Borges
To kick off the new year, the excellent BBC program/podcast In Our Time is featuring Argentine short story writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges. Check it out here. I haven't listened to it myself yet, but I'm sure it will be very interesting; this program rarely fails to please.
I wish all my readers a very Happy New Year, full of the only thing that really matters: love.
I wish all my readers a very Happy New Year, full of the only thing that really matters: love.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Christmas card season
'Tis the season for exchanging Christmas cards. I rarely send them, but we manage to get a few despite our grinch-like card etiquette.
Anyway, I can always count on getting a few from various clients and/or colleagues, and one such card just came in the mail. The message, hand written, was so perfect and poem-like that I thought I'd share and wish the same to my readers:
Pour 2007
De l'air pur,
De l'eau claire
Et de l'encre à profusion.
I love it.
Anyway, I can always count on getting a few from various clients and/or colleagues, and one such card just came in the mail. The message, hand written, was so perfect and poem-like that I thought I'd share and wish the same to my readers:
Pour 2007
De l'air pur,
De l'eau claire
Et de l'encre à profusion.
I love it.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Andy Mckee - Drifting - www.candyrat.com
I often get asked what kind of music I like, and as a musician, I have a hard time answering. Of course I have preferences, but mostly, I like anything played by a "real" musician. And by that, I mean someone who plays as naturally as they breathe. I just stumbled on this guy through the magic of YouTube, and he fits the bill as well as anyone.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Grammar Geekfest
A couple of interesting sites for grammar geeks (and let's face it, if you're a poet, you should be a grammar geek--even, and perhaps especially, if you like to break the rules, you should know what they are first).
Anyway, the first is from the Language Log, an interesting site I recently stumbled upon. Lots of interesting posts in the archives, including a statistical look at one of those silly rules of the English language: "i" before "e" except after "c". Don't let the statistics scare you off; it's surprisingly readable (and actually kind of funny, in a grammar-geek sort of way).
The other is yet another podcast and website (lately I've been thinking I should change the name of this blog to Poetry and Poets in Podcasts): Grammar Girl. Much of what you hear in the podcast is transcribed on the website, but the podcast is quick and painless (or, as Grammar Girl likes to say, "quick and dirty"). The podcasts usually run four to five minutes, so they don't tire your patience, and Grammar Girl has a nice, laid back attitude towards grammar, a refreshing change for a subject that tends to have almost as polarizing an effect as religion. She also talks about both British and American usage, which is refreshing too. I must say that she has cleared up a couple of nagging questions for me (quick, what's the difference between "toward" and "towards"?). Plus there are lots of links and references at the end of each transcript on the site. I highly recommend it.
Anyway, the first is from the Language Log, an interesting site I recently stumbled upon. Lots of interesting posts in the archives, including a statistical look at one of those silly rules of the English language: "i" before "e" except after "c". Don't let the statistics scare you off; it's surprisingly readable (and actually kind of funny, in a grammar-geek sort of way).
The other is yet another podcast and website (lately I've been thinking I should change the name of this blog to Poetry and Poets in Podcasts): Grammar Girl. Much of what you hear in the podcast is transcribed on the website, but the podcast is quick and painless (or, as Grammar Girl likes to say, "quick and dirty"). The podcasts usually run four to five minutes, so they don't tire your patience, and Grammar Girl has a nice, laid back attitude towards grammar, a refreshing change for a subject that tends to have almost as polarizing an effect as religion. She also talks about both British and American usage, which is refreshing too. I must say that she has cleared up a couple of nagging questions for me (quick, what's the difference between "toward" and "towards"?). Plus there are lots of links and references at the end of each transcript on the site. I highly recommend it.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Roald Hoffmann
I have just discovered a marvelous poet named Roald Hoffmann. I learned of him this morning while listening to the Scientific American podcast (go here to listen or subscribe to the podcast; the part about Hoffmann starts at 10:58 into the program for November 15, 2006).
So why was a poet featured on a science podcast? Well, because Hoffmann just happens to be a Nobel Prize laureate in chemistry (1981). His site contains a wealth of his poems that you can browse through. I really enjoyed my reading at his site. His poetry has a simplicity and innocence to it that conveys his obvious wonder in the face of nature. I doubt he'll win the Nobel for literature, but for me, as someone who feels a great sense of wonder in the universe as science describes it, he's worth reading.
So why was a poet featured on a science podcast? Well, because Hoffmann just happens to be a Nobel Prize laureate in chemistry (1981). His site contains a wealth of his poems that you can browse through. I really enjoyed my reading at his site. His poetry has a simplicity and innocence to it that conveys his obvious wonder in the face of nature. I doubt he'll win the Nobel for literature, but for me, as someone who feels a great sense of wonder in the universe as science describes it, he's worth reading.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Podcast on Alexander Pope
This week's BBC Radio 4 program In Our Time is on the 18th century English poet Alexander Pope. You can listen to the program from the website or download the audio file. You can subscribe to In Our Time (a really excellent program that discusses a different historical figure or event each week) on the In Our Time home page, or search for it in iTunes.
Get it while it's hot. The BBC only keeps its programs up for a week. If you miss it, drop me an e-mail. I might still have it. ;-)
[update:] In the comments on Frank Wilson's link to this post, Ed over at The Bibliothecary pointed out that while the podcast is only available for download for a week, In Our Time keeps an archive of all past programs, where you can listen to a streamed version. I stand corrected, but let's face it, streaming audio is sooooo 2004.
Get it while it's hot. The BBC only keeps its programs up for a week. If you miss it, drop me an e-mail. I might still have it. ;-)
[update:] In the comments on Frank Wilson's link to this post, Ed over at The Bibliothecary pointed out that while the podcast is only available for download for a week, In Our Time keeps an archive of all past programs, where you can listen to a streamed version. I stand corrected, but let's face it, streaming audio is sooooo 2004.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Fantastic machine
I first saw this video when friend emailed it to me with the question, I know its mechanically possible, but is it musically possible?
To me, the question should be the other way around. Musically, the piece is possible, but mechanically, I doubt we have the technology to do this.
But what a feat of animation it is. I'm in awe. If anyone knows where this comes from and/or where I can see the whole thing, please let me know.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Fall Geometry
Like a plaid shirt in a pumpkin field,
autumn juxtaposes spheres and cubes.
You are the small box of thoughts
in a crop circle extending out to the horizon.
October sun, box and harvest moon are three
points connecting a line across your world:
the base of a triangle pointing to zenith.
Walk the line carefully to the earthbound
anchor of a white rainbow, grasp the tangible
corners of this moment. From there
you will see the crisscrossing scars
of reapings past and yes, glimpse the gaudy
crosshatching of glory yet to come.
autumn juxtaposes spheres and cubes.
You are the small box of thoughts
in a crop circle extending out to the horizon.
October sun, box and harvest moon are three
points connecting a line across your world:
the base of a triangle pointing to zenith.
Walk the line carefully to the earthbound
anchor of a white rainbow, grasp the tangible
corners of this moment. From there
you will see the crisscrossing scars
of reapings past and yes, glimpse the gaudy
crosshatching of glory yet to come.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Leaving
You stand in the cold like a graveyard monument,
letting wind and rain rip at that pretty yellow
dress and peel it off, shred by shred.
Clearly drawn to winter, you yearn
for the cleansing anti-fire of ice on skin
while snow falls and rises about your delicate waist.
Spindly fingers wave at me, playful and accusing,
shaming me to venture outside and lean my cheek
against your frozen face for one last hour.
Though I ache with the thought of you,
I stay inside, rotting in this dark room,
cool and damp, lit dimly by a December fire.
Spring will be here soon, I tell myself, knowing,
like a forest knows fire, that it will be too late,
that green will clothe your body by then.
letting wind and rain rip at that pretty yellow
dress and peel it off, shred by shred.
Clearly drawn to winter, you yearn
for the cleansing anti-fire of ice on skin
while snow falls and rises about your delicate waist.
Spindly fingers wave at me, playful and accusing,
shaming me to venture outside and lean my cheek
against your frozen face for one last hour.
Though I ache with the thought of you,
I stay inside, rotting in this dark room,
cool and damp, lit dimly by a December fire.
Spring will be here soon, I tell myself, knowing,
like a forest knows fire, that it will be too late,
that green will clothe your body by then.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Insignificance complex
Lately I've been having a hard time writing poetry. I wouldn't say I'm blocked so much as I'm feeling like anything of any significance has already been written. I know in my heart that's not true, but sometimes it's hard to convince yourself.
I have also been listening the the podcast of Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac lately, and on Tuesday, he read a poem that so perfectly expressed how I've been feeling that I am overlooking my normal abhorrence of poems about poetry and linking to it. The poem is called "Rereading Frost", by Linda Pastan.
You can subscribe to the Writer's Almanac podcast via
or in 
I have also been listening the the podcast of Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac lately, and on Tuesday, he read a poem that so perfectly expressed how I've been feeling that I am overlooking my normal abhorrence of poems about poetry and linking to it. The poem is called "Rereading Frost", by Linda Pastan.
You can subscribe to the Writer's Almanac podcast via
or in
Sunday, October 15, 2006
My friend Bud Bloom has just put up a fascinating post on Donald Hall, current U.S. poet laureate and husband of the great Jane Kenyon. His post starts with a touching poem by Hall called "Retriever," written in memory of his wife.
Which reminded me that last year I wrote one in her memory too, though I of course never met her except through her poetry.
Dust Jacket Photograph II (in memoriam J.K.)
Photons touched you once then died
on film—-a worthy sacrifice, now fossils
set in printer’s ink and hard stock.
Eyes left a daydream to focus
on the lens, lids held open by dark
irises, the corners of your mouth
only just north of indifference.
What a presumption to read you,
though life is one long presumption,
the search for meaning in other faces.
Your head, heavy in your hands, the secret
bee ring on your finger climbing
toward the flower of a face
that never really opened into the sunlight.
Which reminded me that last year I wrote one in her memory too, though I of course never met her except through her poetry.
Dust Jacket Photograph II (in memoriam J.K.)
Photons touched you once then died
on film—-a worthy sacrifice, now fossils
set in printer’s ink and hard stock.
Eyes left a daydream to focus
on the lens, lids held open by dark
irises, the corners of your mouth
only just north of indifference.
What a presumption to read you,
though life is one long presumption,
the search for meaning in other faces.
Your head, heavy in your hands, the secret
bee ring on your finger climbing
toward the flower of a face
that never really opened into the sunlight.
Technorati Tags: Donald Hall, Jane Kenyon, Poetry
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Hiromi Uehara - Kung-Fu World Champion
I'm ripping off this idea from a friend, but this is what I'm listening to tonight. I came across this incredible jazz pianist through the magic of Pandora.
Rarely has a young musician blown me away like this. This tune is just one example. Check out her website for more. If this tune is too funky for you, she does more traditional style jazz too. Search for her on YouTube and check out the great duet on "Spain" she does with Chick Corea.
Now that I've heard her music, I'm dying to see her in concert.
I'm ripping off this idea from a friend, but this is what I'm listening to tonight. I came across this incredible jazz pianist through the magic of Pandora.
Rarely has a young musician blown me away like this. This tune is just one example. Check out her website for more. If this tune is too funky for you, she does more traditional style jazz too. Search for her on YouTube and check out the great duet on "Spain" she does with Chick Corea.
Now that I've heard her music, I'm dying to see her in concert.
Monday, October 02, 2006
A friend reminded me...
...that it is Wallace Stevens' birthday today.
I think we owe it to ourselves to take a half-hour out of our busy lives and reread Stevens' great poem Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction.
I think we owe it to ourselves to take a half-hour out of our busy lives and reread Stevens' great poem Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction.
Technorati Tags: Birthdays, Poetry, Wallace Stevens
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Frustrated with your computer... this should help you let off some steam!
The site is in Spanish, but I think this sort of game, like music, represents a universal language.
Metele al ordenata
I don't get frustrated with my computer, of course, since I use a Mac. ;-)
Metele al ordenata
I don't get frustrated with my computer, of course, since I use a Mac. ;-)
Thursday, September 21, 2006
67º 52’ N (A Song of Å)
67º 52’ N (A Song of Å)
The music of the maelstrom is a mirror.
Reflected in a glassy oval flattened into the sea
by whirling currents and savage tides,
Helle-bound peaks sing a jagged profile
in the slow Nordland twilight.
Standing waves, the lands of our forebears
flow into the sea, crest upon crest,
each cape jutting behind and past
the one that came before
until the tune is lost in the gathering fog.
But turn around and always there is a new melody
rising raw and pink as the sky at dawn—
the cry of a lone kittiwake, the plaintive chant
of a Lofoten gale through rigging, the dull
pulse of a diesel engine from beyond the headland.
The music of the maelstrom is a mirror.
Reflected in a glassy oval flattened into the sea
by whirling currents and savage tides,
Helle-bound peaks sing a jagged profile
in the slow Nordland twilight.
Standing waves, the lands of our forebears
flow into the sea, crest upon crest,
each cape jutting behind and past
the one that came before
until the tune is lost in the gathering fog.
But turn around and always there is a new melody
rising raw and pink as the sky at dawn—
the cry of a lone kittiwake, the plaintive chant
of a Lofoten gale through rigging, the dull
pulse of a diesel engine from beyond the headland.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Ode to a pip
Carelessly discarded, a seed
may find fertile earth, germinate,
mature over time into the flourishing
tree that gives forth fruit—
a pear, for instance, plucked with wonder
by a knowing hand.
in response to...
A sort of inquiry at Frank Wilson's blog Books, Inq.
The poem posted above is revised from the offering I posted in that thread; I never could leave well enough alone.
may find fertile earth, germinate,
mature over time into the flourishing
tree that gives forth fruit—
a pear, for instance, plucked with wonder
by a knowing hand.
in response to...
A sort of inquiry at Frank Wilson's blog Books, Inq.
The poem posted above is revised from the offering I posted in that thread; I never could leave well enough alone.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
In remembrance
Written September 15, 2001, revised September 10, 2006.
Just a Moment
Just now, I am struck by the terrible
significance of my office window:
fragile pane, too-permeable membrane, separating
innocence from sin.
I turn to look at the expanse of humankind,
but a 767 fills the view, its black nose
poised against the glass like a dog
waiting to be let in,
a dog with sad eyes.
I see a crack
form and creep
across the sheet:
an insistent pressure
builds until
it must break
through.
Just a Moment
Just now, I am struck by the terrible
significance of my office window:
fragile pane, too-permeable membrane, separating
innocence from sin.
I turn to look at the expanse of humankind,
but a 767 fills the view, its black nose
poised against the glass like a dog
waiting to be let in,
a dog with sad eyes.
I see a crack
form and creep
across the sheet:
an insistent pressure
builds until
it must break
through.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
What a scream... The Scream is back!
News outlets around the world are reporting that Edvard Munch's paintings "The Scream" and "Madonna" have been recovered.
I was at the Munch museum in Oslo not two weeks ago. You'd think the police could have worked a little faster! I'm pissed... (tee hee)
I was at the Munch museum in Oslo not two weeks ago. You'd think the police could have worked a little faster! I'm pissed... (tee hee)
Monday, August 28, 2006
Lofoten Images III
Note the hand of the cloud monster in the background as it attempts to pull itself up and over the mountains.
Technorati Tags: Norway
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Lofoten
We hear the music of the spheres:
Earth tilts away, and the sun dips
behind the mountains earlier each day,
rises later from the sea.
Gulls fall silent then slip
away in the gathering dark.
Fishermen prepare seines and boats
for the long night-days trailing
fruitful lines in the maelstrom.
Their eyes tell you that soon
the only sunlight they will see
must reflect first off moon and snow.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
On vacation...
Tomorrow, I head out for three weeks in lovely Denmark and Norway, where I will meet up with my good friends Rus, Paula (whom I will be meeting for the first time but who is a dear, dear friend nonetheless), Helm, Carol, hopefully Judy (though we haven't heard from her in a while), and our Norwegian host, Aisha. Every time we get together, it's been a blast, and this time will be no different for sure.
In any case, if I don't manage to blog while overseas, I wish you, my dear readers, a great August. I'll post pictures when I get back.
In any case, if I don't manage to blog while overseas, I wish you, my dear readers, a great August. I'll post pictures when I get back.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Two Years!
Today marks two years of FFTMC. Hard to believe, I know. It's also my nephew's 8th birthday today, whatever that strange little coincidence means.
Anyway, to celebrate (or start you laughing with derision, or simply to drive you away never to return), here is my first post, once again, in all its glory.
Graffiti
Lost in a crowd
I feel the secret thrill
of the middle aged
walking through in the bad
end of town in daylight
"Don't be scared
it's only street art"
scrawled on a wall
bikers and hookers
smiling at me
I'm not scared, oh no
just getting old
so I start a blog
maybe go to a rave tonight
drop some E
(or does "drop" apply only to acid?)
A better and cheaper solution
than buying a Ferrari
maybe buy a can of spraypaint
spray this on a wall
maybe need some editing though
I know I won't anyway
nor drop the E
but starting a blog
harmless fun, no?
Anyway, to celebrate (or start you laughing with derision, or simply to drive you away never to return), here is my first post, once again, in all its glory.
Graffiti
Lost in a crowd
I feel the secret thrill
of the middle aged
walking through in the bad
end of town in daylight
"Don't be scared
it's only street art"
scrawled on a wall
bikers and hookers
smiling at me
I'm not scared, oh no
just getting old
so I start a blog
maybe go to a rave tonight
drop some E
(or does "drop" apply only to acid?)
A better and cheaper solution
than buying a Ferrari
maybe buy a can of spraypaint
spray this on a wall
maybe need some editing though
I know I won't anyway
nor drop the E
but starting a blog
harmless fun, no?
Technorati Tags: Blogging, Poetry, Anniversaries
Friday, July 21, 2006
Robin Robertson
Thanks to my good friend Carol and the Canadian poetry journal Arc, I recently discovered Scottish poet Robin Robertson. Arc is running a series of "introductions" as part of a Scottish-Canadian poetry exchange, and Robertson is the July feature. This is a fine, well-written introduction to his work, but Carol, who is an extraordinarily insightful reader of poetry, has also contributed a fine post on Robertson on her blog.
The Arc article mention's Robertson's poem "Wedding the Locksmith's Daughter", which is a wonderfully musical, dark and erotic love poem. But I guess to describe it as a mere "love poem" is to do it an injustice (even though I have always felt that love, viewed by so many as an inappropriate topic for the modern poet, is still the purest motivation for poetry I can think of), since the poem works on so many levels: the physicality of erotic love; the perfect, complementary mesh of two minds ("Sunk home, the true key slots into its matrix"); the ecstasy of text and music finding their perfect matches ("the the way the sung note snibs on meaning/ and holds"); how the lines of a poem can fit together with such ease to produce such a rich picture (Dactyls, iambics —/ the clinch of words — the hidden couplings/ in the cased machine").
I need to get ahold of Robertson's books and study them. Here is a poet who, in the few poems that I have read, speaks to me in a way that I have only experienced with writers like Robert Frost, Elisabeth Bishop and Jane Kenyon.
Thanks Carol!
The Arc article mention's Robertson's poem "Wedding the Locksmith's Daughter", which is a wonderfully musical, dark and erotic love poem. But I guess to describe it as a mere "love poem" is to do it an injustice (even though I have always felt that love, viewed by so many as an inappropriate topic for the modern poet, is still the purest motivation for poetry I can think of), since the poem works on so many levels: the physicality of erotic love; the perfect, complementary mesh of two minds ("Sunk home, the true key slots into its matrix"); the ecstasy of text and music finding their perfect matches ("the the way the sung note snibs on meaning/ and holds"); how the lines of a poem can fit together with such ease to produce such a rich picture (Dactyls, iambics —/ the clinch of words — the hidden couplings/ in the cased machine").
I need to get ahold of Robertson's books and study them. Here is a poet who, in the few poems that I have read, speaks to me in a way that I have only experienced with writers like Robert Frost, Elisabeth Bishop and Jane Kenyon.
Thanks Carol!
Technorati Tags: Poetry, Poetry Journals, Robin Roberston, Scottish Poetry
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Canoe Quest
People who know me know I'm a canoe nut. So when a friend of mine pointed me to this very cool site--Jay's Great Canadian Canoe Quest--I knew I had to blog it. This guy is paddling solo through Canada's vast Boreal forest along one of the old voyageur routes to raise money for CPAWS, the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society.
The guy is courageous and strong, and he seems to know what he's doing. He built the canoe himself, and it's gorgeous!. He's already travelled well over 2000 km, but still has a ways to go before he reaches the Arctic Ocean. At this point, I think the last part of his trip is going to be cool (as in brrrrrr.).
Jay is keeping a journal, which has an RSS feed (here). I know I'll be following this with interest. It has been a long-time dream of mine to travel Canada's north. This summer, I'll get to at least travel north of the Arctic Circle for the first time, albeit in Norway, but one day, I really want to see some the vast wilderness that is northern Canada.
The guy is courageous and strong, and he seems to know what he's doing. He built the canoe himself, and it's gorgeous!. He's already travelled well over 2000 km, but still has a ways to go before he reaches the Arctic Ocean. At this point, I think the last part of his trip is going to be cool (as in brrrrrr.).
Jay is keeping a journal, which has an RSS feed (here). I know I'll be following this with interest. It has been a long-time dream of mine to travel Canada's north. This summer, I'll get to at least travel north of the Arctic Circle for the first time, albeit in Norway, but one day, I really want to see some the vast wilderness that is northern Canada.
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