I just created a sister blog to FFTMC called Singing the Apple. As you might have guessed, it's a blog about computers (can you hear the groans?). I guess I didn't want to sully this one. Check it out. Or not. Ha!
PS. You may also have noticed that I have come out of hiding. Yes, I am now using my un-anagramed pseudonym, along with a self-portrait cum death mask I made out of clay a while back; think of it as a step toward sincerity (or insanity--take your pick).
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
Cloud 42
I just spent the day listening to Level 42. If you listened to popular music in the 80s, you might remember what I'm talking about. The band had a few hits in North America, including "Something About You" and "Lessons in Love." But apparently they were HUGE in Europe. I was doing my bachelor of music degree from 83 to 87, and I remember these tunes as good, but not outstanding. I was mostly interested in playing my trombone back then, including in the U of C jazz band. My jazz buddies in the band all raved about how good Level 42 was, but I didn't really get it.
NOW I get it. What I didn't know back then was that the tunes making the chart were a watered down version of Level 42--tunes written and produced for the pop charts. But the band was originally more of a jazz/funk band. Yesterday, a friend of mine played a Level 42 song that somehow found its way onto his computer (better not to ask), and I was blown away by what I'd been missing out on for the last 20 years! So I went downtown yesterday and bought a couple of their early CDs, and it was like an epiphany.
The band leader, Mark King, is an unbelievable bass player--up there with Victor Wooten and Marcus Miller to my mind. And the band just grooves, song after song. I even downloaded one of their albums from the iTunes Music Store, something I have never done before. So, in two days, the number of Level 42 songs on my iPod goes from 1 to 38. Talk about an infatuation. But I suspect the love affair will last a good long time.
Anyway, I was just bouncing around the house today. If this music doesn't move you, then you might want to check yourself into the morgue. Level 42 completely lifted me out of the blues that have been drifing around the floorboards since the rain started falling 10 days ago. Take THAT nasty weather. I'm on cloud 42.
NOW I get it. What I didn't know back then was that the tunes making the chart were a watered down version of Level 42--tunes written and produced for the pop charts. But the band was originally more of a jazz/funk band. Yesterday, a friend of mine played a Level 42 song that somehow found its way onto his computer (better not to ask), and I was blown away by what I'd been missing out on for the last 20 years! So I went downtown yesterday and bought a couple of their early CDs, and it was like an epiphany.
The band leader, Mark King, is an unbelievable bass player--up there with Victor Wooten and Marcus Miller to my mind. And the band just grooves, song after song. I even downloaded one of their albums from the iTunes Music Store, something I have never done before. So, in two days, the number of Level 42 songs on my iPod goes from 1 to 38. Talk about an infatuation. But I suspect the love affair will last a good long time.
Anyway, I was just bouncing around the house today. If this music doesn't move you, then you might want to check yourself into the morgue. Level 42 completely lifted me out of the blues that have been drifing around the floorboards since the rain started falling 10 days ago. Take THAT nasty weather. I'm on cloud 42.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Laundry Day
“the still unfolded laundry warm as fresh bread in its basket.” -- Rebecca Loudon
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir ;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige ! -- Baudelaire “Harmonie du soir”
Chopin appears in the room,
conjured leisurely out of steam and ether—
languid waltz, melancholy vertigo,
sound and perfume rise in the evening air.
Conjured leisurely out of steam and ether,
her reflection gleams in the dark window;
sound and perfume rise in the evening air
warm as fresh bread in its basket.
Her reflection gleams in the dark window,
sails away from the still unfolded laundry
warm as fresh bread in its basket,
sways back and forth over the keyboard.
Sailing away from the still unfolded laundry—
melancholy waltz, languid vertigo—
swaying back and forth over the keyboard,
Chopin appears in the room.
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir ;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige ! -- Baudelaire “Harmonie du soir”
Chopin appears in the room,
conjured leisurely out of steam and ether—
languid waltz, melancholy vertigo,
sound and perfume rise in the evening air.
Conjured leisurely out of steam and ether,
her reflection gleams in the dark window;
sound and perfume rise in the evening air
warm as fresh bread in its basket.
Her reflection gleams in the dark window,
sails away from the still unfolded laundry
warm as fresh bread in its basket,
sways back and forth over the keyboard.
Sailing away from the still unfolded laundry—
melancholy waltz, languid vertigo—
swaying back and forth over the keyboard,
Chopin appears in the room.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
I've been living with this poem for a while, trying to get a handle on it through translation. It's so funny, you see pictures of Hébert, and she's always smiling--looks like she was a cute little thing. But man oh man, she wrote some weird, funky stuff. I tried to read her novel Les fous de bassin but I couldn't finish it. I like her poetry though. Dark and strange, but some amazing imagery.
The Tomb of the Kings
-Anne Hébert (Translated by yours truly)
My heart is at my hand.
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 the well bottom.
Already, the smell moves in swollen storms
Oozes under doorsteps
To secret, round chambers
Where box beds lie.
Drawn by the reclining figures’ immobile desire,
I look with astonishment
Set into the black bones
Gleam encrusted blue stones.
A few tragedies patiently worked
Upon the breasts of the 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 have
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.
What remains is merely the depths of death,
Simulating the last torment
Seeking its appeasement
Its eternity
In a light rattling of bracelets
Vain circles playthings of another place
Around the sacrificed flesh.
Eager for the brotherly source of evil within me
they lay me down and drink me;
Seven times I know the vise of bones
and 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 reflection of dawn strays here?
So whence comes this bird, who trembles
And turns towards morning
Its sightless eyes?
The Tomb of the Kings
-Anne Hébert (Translated by yours truly)
My heart is at my hand.
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 the well bottom.
Already, the smell moves in swollen storms
Oozes under doorsteps
To secret, round chambers
Where box beds lie.
Drawn by the reclining figures’ immobile desire,
I look with astonishment
Set into the black bones
Gleam encrusted blue stones.
A few tragedies patiently worked
Upon the breasts of the 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 have
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.
What remains is merely the depths of death,
Simulating the last torment
Seeking its appeasement
Its eternity
In a light rattling of bracelets
Vain circles playthings of another place
Around the sacrificed flesh.
Eager for the brotherly source of evil within me
they lay me down and drink me;
Seven times I know the vise of bones
and 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 reflection of dawn strays here?
So whence comes this bird, who trembles
And turns towards morning
Its sightless eyes?
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Dust Jacket Photograph II (in memoriam J.K.)
Fossils of photons that touched you once then died
on film—a worthy sacrifice, now
captured in printer’s ink and hard stock.
Eyes that left a day dream to focus
on the camera, 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.
on film—a worthy sacrifice, now
captured in printer’s ink and hard stock.
Eyes that left a day dream to focus
on the camera, 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.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Teapot saga (conclusion)
So about three weeks ago, I finally bought a new teapot. After hunting high and low for a Brown Betty I finally relented and got the teapot I had seen months ago at The Bay, even though it was only a 6-cupper. Functional and comfortable, but nothing too exciting.
Then, while S. and I were down in Cape Cod, we went into a shop in Chatham called Plymouth Tea and sure enough, they had a Brown Betty. I almost bought it, but the guy convinced me that if I was looking for a no-drip pot, I should go for a Japanese pot. He said the British pots were terrible for dripping, and that the Brown Betty was notorious for it.
So I ended up getting a Beehouse pot (we got the orange model). Part of me wishes I'd got the Brown Betty, but I must say, I love the new one. It's the end of an era, I guess.
Then, while S. and I were down in Cape Cod, we went into a shop in Chatham called Plymouth Tea and sure enough, they had a Brown Betty. I almost bought it, but the guy convinced me that if I was looking for a no-drip pot, I should go for a Japanese pot. He said the British pots were terrible for dripping, and that the Brown Betty was notorious for it.
So I ended up getting a Beehouse pot (we got the orange model). Part of me wishes I'd got the Brown Betty, but I must say, I love the new one. It's the end of an era, I guess.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Books I bought while on vacation
Evangeline, by Longfellow: A small volume of this "Tale of Acadie" in verse, with a 30-page introduction.
The search for the North West Passage, by Ann Savours: Though I consider Pierre Berton's The Arctic Grail to be the definitive one-volume description of the quest for the passage, this seemed like an interesting book, so I picked it up in a used book store. I've become wary about it's worth, however, after reading the introduction. At the end of it, she quotes the chorus of Stan Rogers' Northwest Passage but then cites it as "Seafarer's song, provenance unknown to me." I'm not sure how much faith I can put in a "researcher" who couldn't put a title and composer to what is probably the most famous song ever written about the Northwest Passage, and one of the most well-known Canadian folk songs of all time. Sheesh!
Constance, by Jane Kenyon. I've always wanted a volume of poetry by Kenyon. I've read some of her work on-line and have been drawn to it. This is a beautiful but haunting book of poems written shortly before her death from leukiemia.
Geography III, by Elisabeth Bishop. A poet I have always admired. Picked this up (along with the two books that follow) in a great used book store in Provincetown, MA (an otherwise tacky place). The poetry section was fantastic. I would have bought a dozen books if not for heroic self-restraint. Some part of me regrets not being weaker. In any case, what a great book this is; cost me all of $4.50. The neat thing was that right beside it, was a first-edition hardcover of the very same book, with a price tag of $95. Thanks, but no thanks.
One Art: Elizabeth Bishop--Letters, selected and edited by Robert Giroux. This is a huge tome I picked up for $10, and for that price, I couldn't pass it up, even though I'll probably never read a lot of it. But I'm a fan of Bishop's, and I'm looking forward to browsing through some of her correspondence, though it'll probably make me feel vaguely like a peeping tom.
Eugene Onegin, by Aleksandr Pushkin, translated by Nabokov. The most famous (and many say the best) translation of Onegin. Again, cheap cheap cheap and in good shape. Saw it new in Boston for four times the price. Too bad the companion volume of Nabokov's commentary wasn't there too. I've always thought it hillarious that the companion volume is more than twice the size of the translation itself. But I'm happy with the mere translation. The fact is, in this book of 334 pages, the translated poem itself only occupies about 220 pages; the rest is introduction and notes. Gotta love that Nabokov. Talk about obsessive!
And finally...
Birdsong: A Natural History, by Don Stap. Birdsong has always fascinated me, and this looks like a really cool book, part travellog, part popular science.
The search for the North West Passage, by Ann Savours: Though I consider Pierre Berton's The Arctic Grail to be the definitive one-volume description of the quest for the passage, this seemed like an interesting book, so I picked it up in a used book store. I've become wary about it's worth, however, after reading the introduction. At the end of it, she quotes the chorus of Stan Rogers' Northwest Passage but then cites it as "Seafarer's song, provenance unknown to me." I'm not sure how much faith I can put in a "researcher" who couldn't put a title and composer to what is probably the most famous song ever written about the Northwest Passage, and one of the most well-known Canadian folk songs of all time. Sheesh!
Constance, by Jane Kenyon. I've always wanted a volume of poetry by Kenyon. I've read some of her work on-line and have been drawn to it. This is a beautiful but haunting book of poems written shortly before her death from leukiemia.
Geography III, by Elisabeth Bishop. A poet I have always admired. Picked this up (along with the two books that follow) in a great used book store in Provincetown, MA (an otherwise tacky place). The poetry section was fantastic. I would have bought a dozen books if not for heroic self-restraint. Some part of me regrets not being weaker. In any case, what a great book this is; cost me all of $4.50. The neat thing was that right beside it, was a first-edition hardcover of the very same book, with a price tag of $95. Thanks, but no thanks.
One Art: Elizabeth Bishop--Letters, selected and edited by Robert Giroux. This is a huge tome I picked up for $10, and for that price, I couldn't pass it up, even though I'll probably never read a lot of it. But I'm a fan of Bishop's, and I'm looking forward to browsing through some of her correspondence, though it'll probably make me feel vaguely like a peeping tom.
Eugene Onegin, by Aleksandr Pushkin, translated by Nabokov. The most famous (and many say the best) translation of Onegin. Again, cheap cheap cheap and in good shape. Saw it new in Boston for four times the price. Too bad the companion volume of Nabokov's commentary wasn't there too. I've always thought it hillarious that the companion volume is more than twice the size of the translation itself. But I'm happy with the mere translation. The fact is, in this book of 334 pages, the translated poem itself only occupies about 220 pages; the rest is introduction and notes. Gotta love that Nabokov. Talk about obsessive!
And finally...
Birdsong: A Natural History, by Don Stap. Birdsong has always fascinated me, and this looks like a really cool book, part travellog, part popular science.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Help
Sorry (Paula) I haven't been posting much of late. Very busy with real life. No time for the virtual world. Recent events include the installation of a patio door (a major operation--thankfully my father in-law is a serious handyman) and a canoe trip down the Jacques Cartier River. How I lived in Quebec for 18 years without seeing this truly astounding, breathtaking part of the world only 3 hours from my home, is beyond me. I'll be going back for sure, though some of the rapids will go un-run next time round :-)
Anyway, the following is for some friends who are getting married on Saturday. It needs a title, so any suggestions would be welcome.
[Edit: Thanks to some friends at a warm, welcoming poetry oasis in the virtual desert, I have it]
Epithalamion for M. and P.
The ghosts of our pasts have surely mingled
before our actual acquaintance
even now
our hospital ghosts translucently patrol
hospital corridors together, push along
see-through IV poles, discretely
peek in the room of the woman released
this morning to see the new arrival
in the Scottish fog, our vacation ghosts tramp
toward Loch Lomond, stop to listen to a piper
playing by the roadside, toss a transparent
pound coin into his dampening hat, hoist
a dram with Rob Roy at a pub in Luss
and on a lonely knoll in the St-Bruno hills
our walking ghosts no doubt arranged
for us to meet that day not long ago
as if deciding it was time to share
the collective wonder of our lives
even now
you are old friends we haven’t known for long
but for all the time we spend together
Anyway, the following is for some friends who are getting married on Saturday. It needs a title, so any suggestions would be welcome.
[Edit: Thanks to some friends at a warm, welcoming poetry oasis in the virtual desert, I have it]
Epithalamion for M. and P.
The ghosts of our pasts have surely mingled
before our actual acquaintance
even now
our hospital ghosts translucently patrol
hospital corridors together, push along
see-through IV poles, discretely
peek in the room of the woman released
this morning to see the new arrival
in the Scottish fog, our vacation ghosts tramp
toward Loch Lomond, stop to listen to a piper
playing by the roadside, toss a transparent
pound coin into his dampening hat, hoist
a dram with Rob Roy at a pub in Luss
and on a lonely knoll in the St-Bruno hills
our walking ghosts no doubt arranged
for us to meet that day not long ago
as if deciding it was time to share
the collective wonder of our lives
even now
you are old friends we haven’t known for long
but for all the time we spend together
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Duet
Water makes its own music
the high hiss of light rain on lake
blood through veins
water striders’ dance on a windless day
shower of applause
for the splake that got away
winter wren laughing with the stream
and snow, piling up on a frozen pond
each flake landing with a cymbal crash
the high hiss of light rain on lake
blood through veins
water striders’ dance on a windless day
shower of applause
for the splake that got away
winter wren laughing with the stream
and snow, piling up on a frozen pond
each flake landing with a cymbal crash
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Hibernation
for a week I was a bear running
running across thick blue
ice brain empty of all but blue
ice
sky seals sleeping on
blue ice
after a week I lay on the ice
dreamt of red seas
running across thick blue
ice brain empty of all but blue
ice
sky seals sleeping on
blue ice
after a week I lay on the ice
dreamt of red seas
Friday, June 10, 2005
Musical purgatory
I've long held the admittedly quirky view that there is something about music recording that is an abomination. I've participated in my fair share of recordings--the lure of lucre strong as it is--and have my favourite CDs like most people. But a part of me has always felt that something essential is lost when music is recorded. As if CDs are to music what zombies are to people: sure, they walk and talk, but whatever it is that made them who they were (and I deliberately avoid the word "soul" here) is missing. As if by capturing ephemeral sound waves and transferring them to a hard medium, whence they can be recreated at will, the music has been sent to a sort of purgatory, never to rise or fall as was its destiny. OK, maybe I'm pushing the metaphor here, but you get my point.
All this was brought to the forefront of my mind again after reading Alex Ross's fascinating New Yorker article entitled "The Record Effect", in which he discusses the many and various ways recording has affected not only how we listen to music, but also how it is performed and composed. That article garnered a fair bit of attention, especially regarding the parts where he talks about recording's influence on vibrato. One of those who found the article food for thought was none other than David Byrne.
Byrne, judging by his long and thoughtful response, is a pretty smart guy. His blog post is almost as interesting as Ross's article (though not as well written). But I wanted to cite here a passage that struck a chord with me.
Byrne writes: Probably as a musician I find music either one or the other — completely invisible, inaudible — even sometimes when it’s playing loud — or completely intrusive — impossible to ignore. As a musician there are times when even quiet background music in a bar or restaurant is completely distracting and impossible to ignore. It’s like the effect of having a TV on in room is for most people — it tends to demand attention. All conversation either stops or has to deal with the TV program. Music is like that for musicians.
He also says: "Music is now everywhere. It’s not a special event to hear music as it once was." Which brings me back to the title of this post. Music is everywhere because it's recorded, zombie music. Music has in many ways become merely a soundtrack, creating or enhancing a mood. Most of the time, people don't really listen to it for its own sake. I think part of the reason is that it's zombie music. Yes, a jazz trio in the corner playing lounge music is still considered musique d'ambiance, but I think that's because we've gotten into the habit of not really listening to music. If somehow we woke up tomorrow and all the recordings were gone, I think music--live music, of course, since that's all there would be--would start to demand attention like a TV program does today, and everybody--not just musicians--would find it increasingly hard to tune out because music would be something special, something rare--something that could float up into the heavens, where it belongs.
All this was brought to the forefront of my mind again after reading Alex Ross's fascinating New Yorker article entitled "The Record Effect", in which he discusses the many and various ways recording has affected not only how we listen to music, but also how it is performed and composed. That article garnered a fair bit of attention, especially regarding the parts where he talks about recording's influence on vibrato. One of those who found the article food for thought was none other than David Byrne.
Byrne, judging by his long and thoughtful response, is a pretty smart guy. His blog post is almost as interesting as Ross's article (though not as well written). But I wanted to cite here a passage that struck a chord with me.
Byrne writes: Probably as a musician I find music either one or the other — completely invisible, inaudible — even sometimes when it’s playing loud — or completely intrusive — impossible to ignore. As a musician there are times when even quiet background music in a bar or restaurant is completely distracting and impossible to ignore. It’s like the effect of having a TV on in room is for most people — it tends to demand attention. All conversation either stops or has to deal with the TV program. Music is like that for musicians.
He also says: "Music is now everywhere. It’s not a special event to hear music as it once was." Which brings me back to the title of this post. Music is everywhere because it's recorded, zombie music. Music has in many ways become merely a soundtrack, creating or enhancing a mood. Most of the time, people don't really listen to it for its own sake. I think part of the reason is that it's zombie music. Yes, a jazz trio in the corner playing lounge music is still considered musique d'ambiance, but I think that's because we've gotten into the habit of not really listening to music. If somehow we woke up tomorrow and all the recordings were gone, I think music--live music, of course, since that's all there would be--would start to demand attention like a TV program does today, and everybody--not just musicians--would find it increasingly hard to tune out because music would be something special, something rare--something that could float up into the heavens, where it belongs.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Friday, June 03, 2005
Just one of those days...
...when I feel extraordinarily privileged. I'm sitting out on my back deck, "working." It's one of those summer days that you wish would last all summer, I'm listenening to the Eroica (up next: Cecilia Bartoli singing Mozart arias) on my iPod. The garden is just starting to bloom, and I know that when I start to sweat a little, I can take three steps and I'm in the pool. Sometimes it's hard to prevent guilt from spoiling the feeling...
Monday, May 30, 2005
GLG (gotta love google)
Though I don't get out that much, working from home and all, I wouldn't exactly say I lead a sheltered life. I mean I may be over 40, but I can still talk the jive with the kids, if you know what I mean. But today, in casual conversation with a buddy who is all of four years younger than me, the term "bitch slapping" arose (don't ask). Now, while it may be fairly self-explanatory to many of my dedicated, RSS-feed-junkie readers (you know who you are), and though I've heard the expression before, I--being the meticulous type--wanted a specific, OED-type definition, just in case I had to use it in one of my translations. One must sound like one speaks from authority in these situations.
Google to the rescue: bitch slap. Not exactly the OED, but now I know. I also now know the term "pimp slap," which I had never heard of before my quest for enlightenment. I suspect the young folk are using other new-fangled idioms that I'm not yet aware of, but two is enough for one night.
Teapot update: still nothing. Went to The Bay tonight with moderate hopes. Turns out, they have the same brand I had before--James Sadler--which I would have bought if the biggest model they carried hadn't been a measly six-cupper. I mean, what am I going to do with such a minuscule teapot when me Mum comes over for a cuppa? I ask you!
Google to the rescue: bitch slap. Not exactly the OED, but now I know. I also now know the term "pimp slap," which I had never heard of before my quest for enlightenment. I suspect the young folk are using other new-fangled idioms that I'm not yet aware of, but two is enough for one night.
Teapot update: still nothing. Went to The Bay tonight with moderate hopes. Turns out, they have the same brand I had before--James Sadler--which I would have bought if the biggest model they carried hadn't been a measly six-cupper. I mean, what am I going to do with such a minuscule teapot when me Mum comes over for a cuppa? I ask you!
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Don't listen to the weather forecast
It'll only get you down, and it's all LIES!
Anyway, today, despite the negative vibes put out by Environment Canada, was quite a beautiful day, and the first one in weeks (it seems). S. and I went for a walk in the park and, for all you birdwatchers out there, it was warbler city! Eleven species of warbler in all, including a blackpoll, which we hadn't seen since moving back from Winnipeg 14 years ago. All told, we tallied 38 species today. I guess the birds were as happy about the weather as we were.
In other news (albeit late news), last Friday, I broke the spout off the teapot I've owned since I moved to Montreal in 1987. I don't normally put much faith in such things, but my friend Aisha recently made a post on the Brown Betty teapot. I've always thought mine was a Brown Betty, but it says Stadler on the bottom. I guess I subconsciously wanted an authentic BB. Anyway, I'm off to see if I can find the most English of teapots in this most French of North American cities. Wish me luck.
Anyway, today, despite the negative vibes put out by Environment Canada, was quite a beautiful day, and the first one in weeks (it seems). S. and I went for a walk in the park and, for all you birdwatchers out there, it was warbler city! Eleven species of warbler in all, including a blackpoll, which we hadn't seen since moving back from Winnipeg 14 years ago. All told, we tallied 38 species today. I guess the birds were as happy about the weather as we were.
In other news (albeit late news), last Friday, I broke the spout off the teapot I've owned since I moved to Montreal in 1987. I don't normally put much faith in such things, but my friend Aisha recently made a post on the Brown Betty teapot. I've always thought mine was a Brown Betty, but it says Stadler on the bottom. I guess I subconsciously wanted an authentic BB. Anyway, I'm off to see if I can find the most English of teapots in this most French of North American cities. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Finally!!!
With the mail this morning, along with International Musician (time to feed the recycling bin), was a very fat padded envelope with my two contributor's copies of In Fine Form, an anthology of Canadian formal poetry in which my pantoum "Lucy, Lucie" is published. This is my first (and so far, only) appearance in print. The book is published by Polestar, an imprint of Raincoast Books, which, incidentally, also publishes the Harry Potter books in Canada.
The book looks great, and I must say, has been worth the nearly two-year wait since I first submitted. It's pretty neat to be anthologized with the likes of Leonard Cohen, Margaret Atwood, Irving Layton, and Al Purdy, to name a just few of the Canadian poetic all-stars that appear in this book.
Now all I have to do is figure out what to do with this cheque I got with the books. I'm thinking it might be better to just frame the darn thing. It's not like I can retire now.
The book looks great, and I must say, has been worth the nearly two-year wait since I first submitted. It's pretty neat to be anthologized with the likes of Leonard Cohen, Margaret Atwood, Irving Layton, and Al Purdy, to name a just few of the Canadian poetic all-stars that appear in this book.
Now all I have to do is figure out what to do with this cheque I got with the books. I'm thinking it might be better to just frame the darn thing. It's not like I can retire now.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Thanks Aish!
My friend Aisha and I were chatting on AIM when she said, "give me a line break and I'll give you a poem." Well I did, and she did (it was pretty darn good too, considering it took her about 5 seconds). Then she challenged me to do the same. I'm not nearly as quick witted as she is, so I couldn't send her back a poem that instant, but I did take the challenge seriously. Here's what I had to work with: "straddling a fence Wednesday/ on". Yikes!
Well, here's the result:
A Week in Provence
Two wheels beneath me
since Saturday, I imagine myself
riding the Tour, try to empty
my mind of all but the Champs-Elysée.
But I can’t shake the feeling I’m merely sitting on
—or rather straddling—a fence. Wednesday,
on my way up Mont Ventoux, I
stopped once, not to catch my breath,
but to admire the Rhone flowing single-minded
to the Gulf of Lions. Now, pedalling
slowly through Carpantras, I admire pretty
provençale girls strolling narrow streets
and realize that Friday is almost gone;
tomorrow I fly back to a life pedestrian,
and still, I have decided nothing.
Well, here's the result:
A Week in Provence
Two wheels beneath me
since Saturday, I imagine myself
riding the Tour, try to empty
my mind of all but the Champs-Elysée.
But I can’t shake the feeling I’m merely sitting on
—or rather straddling—a fence. Wednesday,
on my way up Mont Ventoux, I
stopped once, not to catch my breath,
but to admire the Rhone flowing single-minded
to the Gulf of Lions. Now, pedalling
slowly through Carpantras, I admire pretty
provençale girls strolling narrow streets
and realize that Friday is almost gone;
tomorrow I fly back to a life pedestrian,
and still, I have decided nothing.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Rock
Your weight on the page
Your mass sitting on my eyes
Your immovable presence
forcing me to go around
and not straight
to where I want to go.
Your mass sitting on my eyes
Your immovable presence
forcing me to go around
and not straight
to where I want to go.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Lame five-minute pseudo-sonnet. Don't laugh too hard
I think I'm going to go back to my roots
start writing formal poetry, the stuff
that got me into print in the first place, boot
my butt back onto lyric land, huff and puff
my way back into the arms of Erato.
I've been away too long, poor Penelope
waiting on the strand, hoping to
glimpse my barque on the horizon. Me
I've been goofing off, having pretend adventures
"discovering" my cool new computer
but now I'm 40, I've got to wear my dentures
like a man. And if I want her
to stay, I'd better start living up to the hype—
I could lose a hand tomorrow and never again be able to type.
start writing formal poetry, the stuff
that got me into print in the first place, boot
my butt back onto lyric land, huff and puff
my way back into the arms of Erato.
I've been away too long, poor Penelope
waiting on the strand, hoping to
glimpse my barque on the horizon. Me
I've been goofing off, having pretend adventures
"discovering" my cool new computer
but now I'm 40, I've got to wear my dentures
like a man. And if I want her
to stay, I'd better start living up to the hype—
I could lose a hand tomorrow and never again be able to type.
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