Covid started a long period of isolation for many people of my age. We started by washing everything that came into the house – beware of touching things, they might carry the Covid virus. Then it was wear a mask and avoid crowds. Then it was telephone calls, parcels of groceries left on door steps, groceries ordered online and then picked up by car, no visitors, avoid crowded places…. At times, it bordered on hysteria.
That was 2020. But Covid wasn’t over. I have cut my own hair since 2019 and I still avoid crowds and wear a mask. As I emerged less and less, I saw fewer and fewer people. Old friends faded away, some, the less fortunate ones, permanently. Most ceased to visit. Gradually communications ceased.
2024 – May -01 – I purchased a new Rollator – a Nexus 3. For a week now, I have been out walking with it. Thirty minutes a day. I go round the block. I also visit the local park and walk the trails. Life is still out there, waiting to be lived. When I walk round the block, neighbors come out from their houses and talk to me. I have a little seat on the Rollator and can sit and chat with them for as long as they want. Old friends have returned.
Yesterday, I met some new friends. “We haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new?” A boy and his mother. The boy took a liking to my Rollator – he was three years old. He climbed on it, sat on it, tooted a non-existent horn, rang a non-existent bell, and brum-brum-brummed a non-existent engine. What fun we had. I told his mother I was an author and asked her if she would like a copy of Teddy Bear Tales to read to her boy. She said yes and when I see her next, I will give her one.
So, back to the question – What do you do to be involved in the community? I walk around the block and now I carry copies of my poetry books and short stories in my little carry bag. When I meet people, I offer them gifts of poetry and prose. Sometimes they say yes – and that is how I get myself involved with the community – as the Island View Bard.
What does a broken heart look like? Good question – and I, for one, don’t know. Maybe my artist friend, Moo, does. He painted this image of a Fragmented Heart the other day. Not that his heart was broken. He told me he was interpreting the words and feelings of a close friend (who shall remain nameless) who has been having the feelings associated with a heart that was actually breaking. Tough times, eh?
Rejections get me down and annoy me, but they don’t break my heart. I submitted a short story to a magazine on January 4, 2023 and got a rejection letter yesterday, May 6, 2024. It was a form letter, 16 months after submission, just to say “no”!
Of course, the few acceptances that I actually do get make up for the many rejections, as is always the case. However, there seem to be fewer of these acceptances as my thoughts look inwards and I turn from ‘poetry of play to poetry that expresses the authenticity of being‘ (Johannes Pfeiffer). In this day and age, I fear that readers seek entertainment and distraction and prefer the light-hearted to the heavy hand of deep thought and poetic authenticity. And remember, I do not distinguish between poetry and prose, as many do. For me, poetry is writing, be it in poetry or prose.
But back to the theme of the broken heart. Here are three linked poems.
Old Wounds
“The slow wound deepens with the years and brings no healing.”
The Minister by R. S. Thomas
How deep time’s wounds have cut and carved, not just in flesh and bone, but in the embers of that slow-burn fire they call the heart.
Memory and mind have also played their part.
Some days, those wounds don’t ache at all.
But there’s no real healing, and a moment of madness or a knife-edged finger nail, careless, in the dark, opens them up again to bleed afresh and remind us of the frailty of the flesh.
I Remember
“I remember so well how it was back then. I was lonely, my heart so broken I couldn’t count the pieces, nor put the puzzle together, although I tried so hard to make it whole again.
I still bear scars, trenches dug so deep, lines gouged into my body. I can’t always sleep. Nightmares pave a crooked, cobbled way to day.
Some nights, I wake up suddenly from a dream and scream the way that stuck pigs scream when, hot, their blood comes steaming out. Other nights, in pain and panic, at shadows I shout.
I search for someone to care for me. I want them to understand my grief and help me forget the thief who stole my joy and left me this life of disbelief.”
Signs of Age
What is pain, but the knowledge that we are alive, and relatively well, and still on the green side of the grass.
Long may it last. For when the pain is gone, we shall soon follow. And this is age, and age is this pain, and the painful knowledge that we are no longer young, can no longer bend the way we bent, or touch our toes, or even see our toes, some of us. The golden arrow pierces the heart. Fierce is the pain. But when that arrow is withdrawn and the heart no longer feels alive, why, how we miss that pain, how we weep to find it gone, perhaps never to come back again.
Pain, like rain, an essential part of the cycle of the seasons, of the days and the weeks, and all the months and years that walk us around the circadian circle, in time with the earth and its desire to open its arms, and welcome us, and greet us, and bring us our rest, from pain.
So much wisdom sewn into the wrinkled skin, the gap-filled grin that glows with humor, the crow’s foot signals of old age, or merely those we associate with ageing, and the knowledge that, yes, many have walked this wobbly way before, and many more will follow in our footsteps.
Take your pick – ‘poetry of play to poetry that expresses the authenticity of being‘ – but I know which I prefer and ‘still I live in hopes to see poems of authenticity.”
The creative process is different for each one of us. I think of three different creative modes.
The Quarry and Treasure Trove – I write in my journal every day. I have done so for nearly forty years. For me, it is a treasure trove of creativity and I can return to it anytime I want to to revive old memories and to research old moods. I think of it as a quarry that contains valuable images and metaphors that can be used in different ways to create and recreate. I also find that, as I journal, I distinguish between that which is mere dust and ashes and can be abandoned, and that which is a genuine gemstone that can be polished and published. Writing regularly helps me to distinguish between the commonplace and that one piece of gold that emerges.
Impromptus – Some people, like the cat above, wait patiently for inspiration to come. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. When it doesn’t, they blame Writer’s Block or something similar. While you can sit and wait for inspiration, using the methods outlined in The Quarry and Treasure Trove you can ‘go out and make things happen’. Seek and you will find. Knock and it will open. Now that’s inspiration for you!
Prompts – The creative writer can also use prompts. I have used those that appear in Word Press, but only in sporadic fashion. I do not use them everyday. In fact, I have been a bit down and otherwise engaged recently, and my visits to social media have been very limited. I apologize to my friends – we few, we happy few, we band of siblings.
One of my best friends has been helping me through this rough patch. She has been putting together a book of creative prompts. She converted that into a webpage called judyandco.comand I highly recommend her work to anyone who, like me, gives up the ghost for a little while, and then wishes to regain the creative spirit. As she wrote to me only this morning – “there’s a bunch of free stuff on there” -.
So, for those who need a kick start for their creativity, try clicking on judyandco.com– I am sure you will find inspiration there.
After a two-week lay-off, the Dance of Colors returns. What caused the lay-off? Absolutely nothing. I grew tired of posting, of writing, of throwing my paint on the waters of the web and waiting to see what, if anything, happened. Well – nothing happened.
Steven King, On Writing, says “Paper your walls with rejections.” And I have done, pages and pages of them. The secret is ‘never surrender’ – ‘never give up’ – or, in the language of the WWII Prisoner of War Camps – Nil carborundum illegitimi. You can Google the meaning, if you can’t read Latin. It is a euphemism for ‘never despair’.
Rejection is one thing. Silence is something else. When I check my notebooks I find submissions, some sent several years ago, that are still unanswered. There is simply no response. It is as if the writer – submitter – does not exist, is not even worthy of a form letter.
I ran into that wall of silence during this two week lay-off. Does it matter? Probably not. The creation of art is as much a monologue as it is a dialogue. Bakhtin calls it ‘a creative artist’s dialogue with his time and place.’ I think of it as ‘this creative artist’s monologue with his time and place.’
Footsteps – I leave them here, I leave them there, you can find those footsteps anywhere. But beware the footsteps left on the beach at low tide. You will not find them on the beach the day after you leave them. The tide will have risen and washed them all away. In spite of that, some footprints are here to stay.
Free fall, then scree on the road to Wolastoq. with the fresh air speaking to the rock face in a long-forgotten tongue, broken words metamorphosing into fragmented scree at rock-foot.
Just for a moment we glimpse the ancient water in the stone, catch the flow of winter words.
The January sun, low in our eyes, heavenly glory glancing off rock to give earthly joy, golden beams highlight damp, glistening slate.
Afternoon frost, water and rock, polished into ice-maiden tears that dance their sparkling way and are held for a moment in a vision that will last forever.
Comment: Such beauty in silent things, ice, rock, sky. But learn to listen and perhaps you will hear them talking, one to the other. One day, you too may share their words of wisdom.
What relationships have a positive impact on you? I think one of my poems answers this question best. I write “one of my poems” but it is really my ‘free’ translation of one of Francisco de Quevedo’s sonnets – Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos. I have changed the poem slightly, but I am sure Don Francisco (1580-1645) will excuse Don Roger’s impoverished effort (2023).
On Loneliness 29 December 2023
Resting in the peace of these small rooms, with few, but welcome books together, I live in conversation with my friends, and listen with my eyes to loving words.
Not always understood, but always there, they influence and question my affairs, and with contrasting points of view, they wake me up, and make me more aware.
The wisdom of these absent friends, some distant from me just because they’re dead, lives on and on, thanks to the printed word.
Life flits away, the past can’t be retained. each hour, once past, is lost and gone, but with such friends, I’m never left alone.
The painting, by my friend Moo, is called Fiat Lux – Let There Be Light. It is reminiscent of Dylan Thomas’s poem, Light breaks where no light shines. Intertextuality – Quevedo drew inspiration from the Stoics. I drew inspiration from Quevedo. Moo drew inspiration from Dylan Thomas. The nature of creativity and its continuing links throughout the ages shines clearly through these wonderful associations.
If the words won’t come, don’t worry. Sooner or later, they will arrive, driving down in flurries. Think wind-driven leaves or the soft white whisper of snaking snow.
There is a moment when all sounds cease and you can be at one with your inner self, there, where summer sunshine twinkles and soft rains bring forth clarity and joy.
What are words anyway, but soap bubbles emerging from an iron ring to rise in child-hood’s skies, soaring, dying, around the cloudy thrones of sun-kissed clouds.
We, their so-called creators, are left below, building cotton-wool castles spun from air.
Comment:
The painting, animales de fondo, comes from a book by Juan Ramon Jimenez in which he describes human beings as ‘animals living at the bottom of an ocean of air’. I have tried to capture the concept both verbally and visually.
This is buy a book by a New Brunswick Author time, sponsored by the Writers’ Federation of New Brunswick (WFNB). Alas, so many New Brunswick authors are almost faceless to the wider world beyond the Province and the Maritimes. It gives me great pleasure, therefore, to highlight one of the books that I dearly love from a New Brunswick author, Jane Tims.
Here is my review of Jane’s book, first published (the review) on Brian Henry’s Quick Brown Fox (14 March 2021). Thank you, Brian, for the work you do in assisting and developing writers all across Canada – and beyond – and a special thank you for all you have done to help me over the years.
Niche, poems and drawing by Jane Spavold Tims, reviewed by Roger Moore
Independently published. Available from Amazon here.
Niche, the fourth poetry book published by Jane Tims, is a neat configuration of six segments that elaborate and illustrate the poet’s original definition of the multiple meanings of her title word niche.
It is difficult to separate the author from the act of narration as her keenly observed and skillfully executed drawings, together with their verbal representation on the page, are so autobiographical and so much an extension of her artistic and professional abilities that the objective separation of writer and text is scarcely possible. It is hard to forget that Jane Tims was, and to a great extent, still is, a highly competent professional botanist. The harnessing of the professional botanist, with her unique drawing skills and scientific knowledge, to the poet and auto-biographer is a key factor in the reading and interpretation of this text in which acute observation blends with an intimate knowledge of the observed botanical world, both flora and fauna, and this allows the poet, in her role of poetic narrator and lyrical voice, to weave a network of poems that are, at one and the same time, objective and intensely subjective.
The author emphasizes this when she writes in the Preface that “In biological terms, the niche is the quality of a space occupied by a living thing, the sum total of physical, nutritional, biological, psychological and emotional needs gathered together in one place.” She also reminds us that in human terms “niche can be a metaphor for home, community or personal space” and it is within these metaphoric spaces that the poetry text is elaborated. The text becomes a linked mixture of visual drawings, iterative thematic imagery and associative fields, all centred on the multiple meanings of niche. These terms are both biological and human in nature and the poet’s named world meets at this juncture between the human and the natural.
The section occupying space (1-19) bears the subtitle satisfying need and begins with a setting out of what this means in the following 12 poems and 4 accompanying drawings. The poem ‘apples in the snow’ with its companion drawing stands out for me.
The section strategy, subtitled solidifying position (21-43) outlines in poetic terms, how plants, animals, and humans ensure their own survival.
The section praying for rain, subtitled, avoiding danger and discomfort (45-68), offers views on discomforts and dangers. It also opens the discussion—relocate or stay where we are?
The section mapping the labyrinth or places I have occupied (69-83), which contains the wonderful sentence “When I get lost on the road ahead, I look to the road behind me,” throws open the multiple meanings of home.
The section new ways for water, subtitled coping with change (85-98), offers a double landscape, first, external, the things seen, touched, examined, remembered and described, and then the internal landscape that reflects upon them and is reflected in them.
Finally, forgetting to move, with its subtitle getting comfortable (99-111), presents an autobiography that links observer (the twin personage of author and narrator) to observed (nature, both flora and fauna, and the added element of autobiography and self) via the symbiotic relationship of botanist to botany.
Two moments stand out for me. (1) Sadness is in seeking the space that is never found. (2) Loneliness is in trying to return to a space once occupied but no longer available. The whole concept of the Welsh word hiraeth is summed up in these two lines. Carpe diem, Jane Tims’ poetry indeed seizes the day and, with its minute, intense observation, it preserves so many precious moments. It also pays attention to that which has been lost, those moments that are irretrievable. They will vary for each reader, but hopefully, like me, you will take great pleasure in discovering them for yourself.
Jane’s interview with Allan Hudson, another excellent NB author, can be found by clicking this link – South Branch Scribbler. The work of all NB authors should be celebrated over the first weeks of this month. Allan, thank you for supporting us – and you, too, Brian Henry. Living in NB, we need all the enthusiastic support we can get.
My friend Allan Hudson re-posted this blog entry yesterday. It is always wonderful to be remembered by my friends. Allan does a great job with the South Bank Scribbler – and he is one of the best. Long may he and his blog work continue to support New Brunswick writers.
I look forward to working again with both Allan and Jane. Best wishes and many thanks to both.
Click on the link below for Allan’s interviews with Jane and I. And don’t forget to go down all the rabbit holes that appear in Allan’s articles. There is a great deal of information within those little burrows.
I love it when a special friend reads one of my books and then takes it to the place where it was composed, and sends me a wonderful photograph of the book cover and the exact spot, at Hopewell Cape, where the cover was drawn. Wow! That is so special. Thank you, Sara, my friend and accomplice, for making even more art out of art and involving nature in the process.
Other friends have done similar things. Here is a collection of my books on the sea shore at Holt’s Point. And yes, Fundy Lines is in there as well. Can you spot it? Another very good friend, Geoff, contributed this very meaningful photo. So much of my life, there, upon the sea shore, waiting for the tide to come in.
This book, and its cover, are also very special indeed. And here’s why.
Still Life with Hollyhock Geoff Slater
How do you frame this beaver pond, those paths, those woods? How do you know what to leave, what to choose? Where does light begin and darkness end?
Up and down: two dimensions. Easy. But where does depth come from? Or the tactility, the energy, water’s flow, that rush of breathless movement that transcends the painting’s stillness?
So many questions, so few answers. The hollyhock that blooms in my kitchen is not a real hollyhock. Intertextuality, visible and verbal: this is a poem about a painting of a digital photograph of a hollyhock, a genuine flower that once upon a time flourished in my garden.
A still life, naturaleza muerta in Spanish, a nature morte in French, a dead nature, then, portrayed in paint and hung alive, on display, in this coffin’s wooden frame.
So, what do I enjoy most about writing? Everything – for whenever creative people create they draw in others into a web of intertextuality that spins its way from mind to mind and, especially in Canada, links shore to shore to shore.
rogermoorepoet 