Open car door or window:
they whisk in with the wind.
Silent they head for light,
crawling steadily up the inside
surface of the windshield.

If you are quick, you can
catch them now. Kill them
cleanly before they gorge
on your blood, spreading it
thin, your own raspberry jam
blocking your line of sight.

When you exit the car,
you see the killing fields,
blackberry jelly spread
thick on number plates,
dimming your headlights
with dark clots of death.

Comment: We drove down to St. Andrews on Monday and visited Kira and the Kingsbrae Gardens. Such beauty, such a wonderful reception, and the food in the garden café was marvelous. On the way home, the pinging of blackfly against the windshield made us think it was raining. When we got out of the car, headlights, hood, and license plate were covered with thick films of dead flies. We kept doors and windows closed, except for a brief moment at the service station, where we filled up with much more than gas.

Metaphor: Wednesday Workshop


Wednesday Workshop
26 October 2016
31 May 2017

Metaphors: What are they? I must be honest: I don’t really know. I don’t understand them. I never have. I probably never will. This morning, I determined to find out what a metaphor really is. So I Googled metaphor and came up with the following definitions.

  1. A metaphor is “a figure of speech in which a term or phrase is applied to something to which it is not literally applicable in order to suggest a resemblance.”
    Well, that is pretty clear, isn’t it?
  2. A metaphor is “something used, or regarded as being used, to represent something else; emblem; symbol.”
    No doubts there.
  3. “Metaphor is a figure of speech which makes an implicit, implied or hidden comparison between two things that are unrelated but share some common characteristics. In other words, a resemblance of two contradictory or different objects is made based on a single or some common characteristics.”
    I know exactly what they mean. Or do I?
  4. “In simple English, when you portray a person, place, thing, or an action as being something else, even though it is not actually that “something else,” you are speaking metaphorically.”
    No misunderstanding here.
  5. “A metaphor is a figure of speech that refers, for rhetorical effect, to one thing by mentioning another thing. It may provide clarity or identify hidden similarities between two ideas. Where a simile compares two items, a metaphor directly equates them, and does not use “like” or “as” as does a simile.”
    Slightly clearer, but not as clear as daylight.

I turn to my blog in search of metaphors that I have created in my poetry and read that “The egg of my skull / shows hairline cracks: / tiny beaks pecking / fine-tuned sparks of song”. “This piece,” Tanya Cliff writes, “offers a unique and beautiful perspective on the theme (of birds).” I think I can do without the dull, dry definitions set out in the definitions above and understand metaphor as “a unique and beautiful perspective”. This functions for me. Thank you, Tanya.

Two more sequences, this time from October Angel: (1) she gathers her evening gown / and walks among ruined flowers (Meg Sorick’s choice) and (2) a snapdragon opens / the frosted forge of its mouth / and sprinkles the sky / with ice-hard shards of fire (Tanya Cliff’s choice). I can understand the first in terms of “a unique and beautiful perspective” since the picture of the October Angel is clear in my mind. In addition, evening / evening gown / ruined flowers are particularly evocative. The second sequence is much stronger as anyone who has seen the snapdragon flowers braving the ice and frost will testify.

After thinking about these three examples, I think I can now understand metaphor a little bit better. I would now define a metaphor as “a brief verbal sequence that creates a new reality that offers a unique and sometimes beautiful perspective on something that we have long known and accepted but now, thanks to the writer / poet, see in a different light.”

This personal definition allows us to distinguish more easily between dead metaphors and clichés like dead as a door nail or avoid it like the plague while allowing us to enjoy the permutations that spring from the innovation of the true metaphoric sequence. The metaphoric sequence also allows us to distinguish between a two word metaphor and a series of metaphors that are thematically linked.

From my own poetry, ruined flowers would be an example of the first while the longer sequence a snapdragon opens / the frosted forge of its mouth / and sprinkles the sky / with ice-hard shards of fire would be an example of the second. Iterative thematic imagery, a form of sequenced metaphor chains, then links the whole work, be it poem or longer piece, within an associative semantic field of parallel meanings. This also illustrates the idea of differentiating between the inorganic and organic conceit, where the inorganic conceit is the example of a single, independent instance while the organic conceit is woven into the fabric of the oeuvre.

In the WFNB Workshop on Metaphor, held in Saint John on Saturday, 27 May, 2017, we had a two hour, in-depth discussion on this topic. We began the workshop with a meet and greet and ice-breaker. Then we offered a pictorial definition of a metaphor. We generated a series of dead metaphors, to be avoided like the plague, except where we use them to define a character, or make fun of them, or use them in a new fresh light that resurrects them and brings them back to life. This was a great deal of fun. We then indulged in a series of creative writing exercises that focused on the creation of new metaphors. We finished the workshop with a “song of craze” in praise of the joys of metaphors. What a day!

The structure of the workshop was very simple. We had 120 minute (two hours) and broke them into 3 sessions of 20 minutes, a 5 minute break, 2 sessions of 20 minutes, and  a grand finale composed of 3 sessions at 5 minutes each. The twenty minute sessions broke down into 5 minutes writing, 7 minutes small group discussion (4 participants per group), and 8 minutes full room participation. The five minutes writing centered on each person writing to a topic. Each member of the group then shared what they had written with the other group members. This helped develop individual voices (the theme of the conference) and showed how each individual approached a single topic in a multitude of different ways. A representative piece from each group was then chosen and the writer read the creation to those gathered in the full room participation.

As a result, everybody was actively engaged in the thinking, writing, creating, reading, and critiquing process. A considerable number of what I call “writing starts” were made. Hopefully participants will continue to develop these writing starts and develop something from them, long term.




The wool shop has gone.
It survived the winter storms
that whipped the bay ice
into waves of mashed potatoes
that hardened and crashed
against the quay, splintering
its timbers, tearing it down.

It survived the spring time
freeze and thaw that cracked
the sea wall, split foundations,
and wobbled the shop
as if it were yellow jelly.

It survived the carpenters,
the stonemasons, the police,
the insurers that came
with their cameras and their
oh-so awkward observations.

It survived everything
except the lightning bolt
that lit the fire that reduced
the old shop to dust and ashes
from which, unlike the phoenix,
it would never be born again.




“I have a gift for you,” I said.
“Why?” I had no answer.
Silence built its barriers
between us. “Look,” I said.
“It’s yours.” I held out the book
and she took it in her hands.
“For me?” she asked. “You wrote
this book for me?” “Yes.” The lie
hung in the air for a moment,
a listless, lifeless kite, floating.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. Her smile
ignited the air, sent sparks across
the space between us. She opened
the book, turned the pages, saw
her name. It was indeed her name,
but she was not the person who bore
that name when I wrote the book.




I dreamed last night
that angels lofted me
skywards and wrapped me
in cotton-wool clouds.

The nearest rainbow
was a helter-skelter
that returned me to earth
where I landed in a pot
of golden sunlight.

Red, gold, and yellow
were my hands and face.
I stood rooted like
an autumn tree covered
in fall foliage with
no trace of winter’s woe.

“May this moment last
forever,” I murmured,
as the rainbow sparkled
and I rejoiced in
my many-colored coat.

Reversing Falls


Reversing Falls
Saint John, NB

Quietly, the tide turns,
holds back the river’s flow,
pushes fresh waters
backwards, holds them up
against their will.
The river builds and gains
in strength. The tide water
weakens, its muscles can
no longer support
the river’s weight. The tide
ebbs, flows out of the bay,
slowly at first, then with
ever quickening steps.
The river grows strong,
pushes back against the tide
and renews its seaward flow.

Comment: Just back from Saint John, New Brunswick and the WordSpring meeting of the Writers’ Federation of New Brunswick (WFNB): theme … Finding Your Voice. I gave two seminars, one on Friday night (30 participants) about choosing your text for a literary reading and the other on Saturday afternoon (25 participants) about meeting your metaphor and finding your voice. I had a great time and I hope the other participants did too. We finished the Saturday afternoon seminar with a sing-song, so I guess a good time was had by all. Oh yes, and I did a Blue Pencil Café and several one-on-ones that were wonderful. I attended some very fine sessions, too, heard some great people read, play the piano, and sing. Oh yes, the hospitality and food in the Harbour Hilton was excellent. It was a fabulous weekend and I would like to give a big thank you to all who made it possible, especially my guide, the poet Annette, and the chief organizers, Andrea, Cathy, Gwen, and Rosalyn. If I have missed anyone out, forgive me. The omission is by accident, not design.

It’s Over


It’s Over

The big top’s empty now.
The crowd’s gone home.
The trainer’s put down his whip
and lions and tigers are safely
asleep back in their cages.
Dim are lime and spotlights.
Yellow glow caravan windows
as juggler and clowns wipe
clean their grease paint smiles,
strip off their sequined clothes,
and prepare for bed. One by one,
the lights go out until darkness
rules menagerie and circus.
Only in the heads of little boys
and girls do the dancers still dance,
the ponies still prance, the tamers
still crack their whips and hold up
their chairs to keep wild animals
glued to their perches, while high
above, in the bedroom’s canvas roof
wire walkers strut their stuff, above
white sheets and the safety nets
of Teddy clutched, and mattress.

Going Pro Versus Going It Alone

Wednesday Workshop: It’s a pleasure to re-blog this post from Meg Sorick on Beta Readers and the Art of Editing.

Meg Sorick, Author/Artist

Adventures in editing.

As I begin editing Breaking Bread, I can’t help but think about how I fumbled through the process with Book One: Three Empty Frames. As a first time, unpublished author, I didn’t feel I had the luxury of hiring a professional editor. Professional editing can get expensive. Depending on the length of your document and the level of editing you choose, it can cost several hundred to several thousand dollars. And though I knew an editor could take a good manuscript and make it great, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t so naive as to think I could do this alone. I had to get objective feedback before I published the book. Sure I loved the story, the couple of friends I let read it were enthusiastic about it too. But kind words from a few people close to me were not going…

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