Survivors

Gramm’er uh?

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Gramm’er uh?
Wednesday Workshop on a Saturday

One year I volunteered to teach the Introduction and Welcome to University course that I had helped design. It lasted twelve weeks (a single semester) and introduced students to the basic survival skills needed to study Liberal Arts at the university level. These included reading a single book, planning and writing essays on that book, examination techniques and sitting mini-exams, how to set about research, thinking and analytical skills, all that sort of thing.

I chose to read Room with a View by E. M. Forster, partly because the film would allow students to better visualize and understand what they were reading. We read a couple of chapters a week, and every week I held a mini test on the chapters read. The test included (1) give the meaning of five words chosen from the chapter; (2) a commentary on any 2 from 3-5 single sentence extracts from the chapter; and (3) an invitation to point out (a) what was going right with the course, (b) what was going wrong; and (c) an invitation to request a one on one meeting with me. There were initially 36 students in my section of the course and although half of them had never before read a book in its entirety, 34 of them successfully completed the course.

A dictionary was one of the key components. On day one I outlined the syllabus and exhorted the students to “use the dictionary” every class, every day. In response to my request for “any questions” a young lady raised a tentative hand and whispered … “I know it’s a stupid question, sir, but …” I stopped her right there. “There’s no such thing as a stupid question,” I stated. “Whatever you want to ask, there are probably five other people who also want to ask that question, but who are afraid to raise their hands. You are the brave one. You are the first to ask. Congratulations. Now: what do you want to know?” I cannot remember what her question was, but I do know that many of the students wrote down the answer I gave her.

I followed up this speech with another one. “This is first year university. All of you have questions. Whatever your background, you may feel ignorant and lacking in knowledge. There’s no crime in that. However, if after four years you have never asked a question and you are still ignorant and lacking in knowledge, then shame on you. You have wasted four years of your life.”

The first two tests were dummy runs: no marks, just the answers. Within two weeks you could tell the students from my section of this course: they were the ones with well-thumbed dictionaries in their back-packs. They asked questions, they checked the spelling and meaning of every word, and they got their money’s worth in education.

I want to say the same thing about grammar, spelling, and punctuation. We are bloggers, we are writers, we want to be the best we can be. So: work at it. In the tabs under Review, MSWord has three very useful tools: Spelling and Grammar, Thesaurus, and Language. When I click on Spelling & Grammar, I get a message stating thatmy heading, Gramm’er uh?, is not in the dictionary. Well, surprise, surprise. S&G make several suggestions (none of them useful in this instance) but the tag Check Grammar suggests the direction my heading should be taking. Use this tool. Work with it. It will help you, if you are having difficulties. It may suggest alternatives ways of expressing yourself, one of which may turn out to be useful.

The Thesaurus tool is also very useful. As an active poet and writer I am always looking for different ways to express my thoughts, and synonyms (words of the same meaning) and antonyms (words with the opposite meaning) are most useful since they assist me in my search for better ways to express myself. When I clicked on Thesaurus, better was highlighted and well over fifty different ways of expressing better (and its opposites) were laid out before me. Scanning them rapidly, I thought of various ways in which the sentence that included the word better could be bettered / enhanced / improved / ameliorated / developed / or simply changed for the better.

As for the Language tab, well: I was educated in Wales and England (English UK) but moved to Canada (English Can) and published widely in the USA (English USA). Spelling changes, as do word meanings, and the English I now speak and write just isn’t the English I learned in school. I need to check my spelling across three variants. Auto-correct will do this for me. But I need to be aware of which spelling system I have clicked upon, or all will not be well. MSWord will also auto-correct punctuation for me. I do not like this tool, especially when writing poetry, as I use punctuation for different ends within poetry. However, it does keep an eye on my writing and how I punctuate it. Speaking and writing three languages, English, French, and Spanish can also be a problem, and differentiating between, for example, profesor, professor, and professeur can sometimes be a problem: one –f- or two, one –s- or two? Auto-correct just changed my Spanish into English by adding an extra –s- … not good in a document written in Spanish.

The modern answer to the dictionary in the pocket (hence pocket dictionary, wow!) is Google. Almost anything can be Googled: grammar, punctuation, spelling, doubts, memories, facts. You can check them all out on Google. It takes only a few moments to search for something and, if necessary, to refine that search until you finally get what you are looking for. A word of warning: get your muse-inspired writing down on the page. Only check your words after you have written them. The flow of inspiration is paramount. The second thoughts that come as a result of revision and checking will usually improve your work, but there is no substitute for that initial flow of creativity.

Main message: never surrender. Never give up. We are writers. We are bloggers. We are here to explore language and to get the better of it. We want to make it work for us. There are many ways of doing this. Find the ones that suit you and slowly, bit by bit, inch by inch, turn yourself into the writer you aspire to be. And remember: if you want to break the rules, no problem. But it helps to know them first … then you know what you are breaking and are conscious of the results.

Gifts: Wednesday Workshop

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Gifts
Wednesday Workshop
16 November 2016

Gifts or blessings? I am never sure which is which for many a gift is a blessing and many blessings are gifts and sometimes the ones come disguised as the others.

So here I am, in retirement from a career in teaching. I miss my students. I miss the hurry and scurry of the classroom, the deadlines for essays and exams, the highs and lows, the setting of goals, the solving of problems, the light at the end of the tunnel when, after four years, the students, armed with their degrees, set out to face the world, their world, their  brave new world fit for brave new students.

Nowadays, I feel like the lost man, the forgotten man. The deadlines have gone. There is no more rush and tumble. Peace rules the office in my house and dust and spider webs gather in the corners of my mind. I am reminded of the words of Francisco de Aldana: “lo mejor es estar muerto en la memoria del mundo” / best of all is to lie dead and forgotten in the memory of the world. Then I look around me and see the gifts.

From Megan Strong:

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“Do I have to write an essay?” Megan asked me. “Couldn’t I do something else?”
“What would you like to do?”
“A painting. I’ll explain it in Spanish.”

And she did. There are no essays pinned to my walls, but this gift of a painting reminds me of something very precious: a student’s will to be creative, the presentation of knowledge in formats that are not necessarily the expected ones, the ability to be flexible, to understand, to open one’s eyes to the world around one, to see and encourage talent. These were the blessings, some of them anyway, that came with Megan’s gift and her ability to paint.

From Jane Tims:

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Clare and I visited Jane in her studio home. We drank tea and shared the afternoon sunshine together. Then, just before we left, Jane asked us to choose a painting. Clare chose this one: Apples. We went home and, after much thought, placed it on wall in our kitchen, just beside my chair. I see it everyday and so does Clare. It brings light and warmth to the room and reminds us of Jane’s gifts: her writing, her poetry, her research skills, her drawings, and her paintings. This one above all, for it is so meaningful to us and brings us light, peace, and stillness: such precious gifts.

From Jan Hull:

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I cannot say enough about this stone sculpture gifted to me by Jan Hull in Shediac, New Brunswick, on November 4, 2016. Jan Stoneist has taken one of the motifs from my book Stepping Stones and has placed it on the left hand side of the carving. On the right hand side she has taken one of the verses from the book and added my name. The result is both a gift and a blessing. Jan searched carefully for the right surface on which to carve her offering and finally found it: Welsh Red Sandstone. What better gift for a poet from Wales … and indeed, Jan makes me feel truly blessed.

From Ainsley Swift:

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In the days immediately after my retirement, when I found myself at the bottom of the well, looking up at the daylight through a long, dark tunnel, Ainsley appeared at my door and asked me if I would be willing to mentor her as she was having some difficulty with certain aspects of her studies.  Brightness descended upon me and Ainsley and I have worked together for some time now. One day, she turned up with a brown paper parcel and announced that “This is for you.” I didn’t even know that she painted, let alone that she was a talented artist. Another gift, another blessing, light breaking where no light shone, and that brightness still surrounding me.

From Juanra Sánchez:

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What does one say about the man who persuades the retired stone-cutter in Avila to make one last carving in the style of the verracos that were carved by the Celt Iberians thousands of years ago? Here it is, my own verraco, gifted to me by the best of friends who, every Sunday for four consecutive summers, drove me around the Province of Avila and showed me the love he held for his land. Thanks to Juanra, I saw places and things, too many to enumerate,  that no tourist will ever see. A weighty gift indeed, and a true blessing that will last as long as granite bulls stand firm beneath wind, rain, and snow.

This verraco comes with a story. It is very heavy and very solid. I placed it in my carry-on bag and hoped that nobody would think to weight it. Tired of carrying it on my shoulder at the airport in Madrid, I stood in line, then placed the bag upon the ground. The line wasn’t moving, so I walked a few paces to the wall and leaned up against it. Lines shuffle and flex, as we all know, and that’s what happened. Gradually a small space opened up between my bag and the man in front of me. The man behind me was impatient to close that gap. He looked at me as I leaned against the wall. I half-closed my eyes and watched him. The line shuffled forward. He brought his leg back and gave my bag a mighty kick, right on the rear end of my granite bull. I can still see that man hopping on one leg, cursing, and my bag sitting there, having moved not an inch.

Gifts and blessings, along with kind words and actions, move the heart and soul. I will write more on this subject at another time. Meanwhile, remember the old song: if you can’t sleep, “count your blessings instead of sheep.” I just did and five of them are listed right here.

Desaparecidos

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Desaparecidos

Last year, in Fredericton Mall,
a mother lost her little girl.
They found her in the women’s washroom
where two old ladies were cutting off her hair
and dressing her in a young boy’s clothes.

Wanted in Winnipeg.
Vanished in Vancouver.
Cheap alliterations in tabloid headlines
disfigure each tragedy.

Sometimes we think we recognize their faces.
This young girl with an old woman’s body
standing at a Yorkville window.
That other girl on Yonge Street
selling her body for drugs.
That flash of underage flesh
mounted by strangers
and glimpsed in a pirate video.

Do you call for call girls when you travel?
That midnight knock on your hotel door
is someone’s missing daughter.
You saw her once before on an airport advert
or on the carton of milk you opened
for your family’s breakfast.

What traveling salesman would you trust
to take your only daughter’s body and treat it well
while she promised him the sexiest time
he would ever have?

But in Goya’s Spain
it’s the males who disappear
usually during the night.

Most times, their families never see them again.
Sometimes, as in this etching,
their bodies are found, nailed to a tree
or dumped in a side street with the garbage.

Planners, Pantsters, and Thinksters: Wednesday Workshop

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Planners, Pantsters, and Thinksters
Wednesday Workshop
9 November 2016

Two new writers (John King and Amy … ) have joined our writers’ group (Chuck Bowie, Kevin Stephens, John Sutherland, and Roger Moore) and now we are six (with apologies to Winnie the Pooh). In addition, we have a virtual member (Allan Hudson) and a potential member (Victor Hendricken). Amy has joined on a first name basis. Alas, there were only four of us last night: Amy, John K, Kevin and Roger; Chuck and John S were both indisposed. We wish them good health.

This leads me to the question: what is the best way to integrate new members into an already established group of writers? I have no answer. Last night’s activities seemed quite successful.  First we introduced ourselves, first names only (oh dear!) and then we invited Amy to tell us about her writing. What an adventure. She has completed one novel, 110,000 words, and has two more planned in the series. She is questioning her opening chapter: is it the right one or should she begin after chapter three? Without having read the work, I personally find it difficult to give advice.

We explored some of the themes Amy presented to us and discussed a series of images that recurred and seemed to link the novel together. The idea of iterative thematic imagery serving as a leitmotiv came forward and we analyzed how repeated images can tie a novel (or a poem, or a short story) together. We spent some time on triggers that motivate actions and reactions from the characters. What is the trigger or the hook that draws the readers in, makes them look to the future, and persuades them to want to continue finding out more about the characters?

We also discussed Kevin’s favorite topic: planners and pantsters. Kevin is a planner who works everything out in advance. His charts, photos, character guides, outlines, and plans are an exemplary work of art in themselves and are highly admired by the group members. Many writers are pantsters; that means to say they pick up their pens or sit by their key-boards and write by instinct and fly by the seat of the pants. I find myself in between these two extremes, for, like Fray Luis de León and Juan de Valdés long before me, I think most of my writing out and keep it in my head until it comes time to put it down on the page. Perhaps this makes me a thinkster; I would like to think it did.

We also discussed the importance of The First Five Pages (Noah Lukeman’s book, sub-titled: a writer’s guide to staying out of the rejection pile). We invited Amy to send us her first five pages for an online critique. Our next step will be to look at the first five pages of the chapter with which she is proposing to start. It was an exciting conversation. I hope it was not a scary one for Amy’s first time out.

John K has been to one of our previous meetings, plus we had a long series of discussions with him at the WFNB meetings last weekend in Shediac. He and I helped close the hotel bar in Shediac at 1:30 am, so we are very proud of our efforts there. He presented us with the outline of a ‘tale’ that he is developing. Good man: he writes with a pen in a notebook, jotting down his ideas as they come to him and elaborating them in pen and ink, just as I do. Kevin and Amy had their tablets and their computers while John K and I had our pens and notebooks.

Without going into the details of his story and giving anything away, he walked us through the tale as he has it at present. he has great ideas, but at present is in search of a format in which to present his ‘tale’. Is it a short story? Too long and too many episodes. A novella? Could be. A full length novel? We didn’t see why not, and more and more potential episodes suggested themselves as we went along. In many ways it sounded like a film or a televisions series and John K’s active photographic mind, he has done courses in film and script writing, painted an engaging series of linked pictures, all of them with great potential. We are hoping that John K will send us an outline sketch, maybe even a storyboard,  of what he is planning. Perhaps we should also ask Amy for a chapter plan, or would that be too ambitious?

As for Kevin and I, we joined in the conversation, presented commentaries and ideas, outlined some of our own plans and directions, and had a thoroughly enjoyable time. Kevin’s book DiAngelo will be released on 22 February 2017. He is at the final editing stage right now and is busy, busy, busy with the final version of the text. We are all excited for him and are pushing him to keep at it and get the first novel of his planned five novel series out, and up, and running.   He is also planning a series of pre-release advertisements scenarios, all of which are sure to catch the eye of potential readers.

And that may well be the topic for another day: how do we market our books and what is the best way to attract readers?

El Cristo de Carrizo

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El Cristo de Carrizo

For Tanya Cliff

“Contemplate this crucifixion.

Each time you sin
you plant a fresh
thorn in your savior’s
crown.

Each misdemeanor
spears the sacred side
or hammers a nail
in hand or foot.

Christ lives in you.
your daily misdeeds
nail him daily to the cross
he bears for you.

No death, for him,
no resurrection:
just an everlasting hanging
from these nails you daily drive.”

Cave Paintings: Altamira

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Cave Paintings
Altamira
(11,000 BCE)

Cold rock presses on shoulder and neck.
Sunshine dwindles until daylight is a distant star.
A great weight of earth weighs me down.

The tour guide strikes a crimson spark.
Firelight flickers, shadows dance, animals appear:
deer, elk, boar, buffalo.

Magic illusions
created from fat, charcoal, red ochre, ash …
how long have these huddled herds
grazed their way across these walls?

 My spirit sweats as elders anoint
my flesh with bear grease (for strength),
with greyhound hair (for speed),
with wolf blood (for tenacity on the trail).

They brush my eyes with eagle feathers.
Now I am a hunter.

I envision the animal my arrows will pierce.
My backbone arches like a bow.

 I shoot thought arrows:
my beloved dances her death dance on tip-toe.

Butterflies

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Butterflies

We raise our hands:
you sever them at the wrist.

We lift our arms:
you measure us for a cross.
Where do we turn?
Our fingers bleed from scratching
our skulls in bewilderment.
They catch on the thorns
you so thoughtfully provided.

Stigmata?
No, you haven’t nailed us yet.
Great barbed hooks penetrate our bellies,
inflaming our guts.

Like live bait,
threaded to tempt Leviathan,
we squirm.

Like butterflies
awaiting your chloroform jar,
we tremble

Your collector’s pin is poised:
that final thrust will skewer our flanks
and claim us under glass.

Eternally.

Monkey Presses Delete

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Monkey Presses Delete

Monkey loves walking behind the gorillas.
He loves to see fear in faces, tears in eyes
as the gorillas smash and grab and break down doors.

The gorillas break and enter: and when they do,
monkey simply points and gorillas do their thing:
it’s that simple …

Monkey has a code word he took from his computer course.
“Delete!” he says with delight
and the gorillas delete whatever he points to.

He loves deleting parents in front of children,
though deleting children in front of their parents
can be just as exciting.
He also loves burning other people’s books
and deleting their web pages.

The delete button excites monkey:
maneuvering the mouse tightens his scrotum
and he feels a kick like a baby’s at the bottom of his belly
as he carefully selects his victim and “Delete!”

The gorillas go into action:
ten, twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy years of existence
deleted with a gesture
and the click of an index finger pointed like a gun.

Monkey Throws Away the Keys

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Monkey Throws Away the Keys

Monkey is tired of writing reports
that are never read.
He is fed up with frequently asked
questions and their unread answers.
To every lock, there is a key.
Monkey looks at the red and gold
locks of the last orang-utangs
and wonders how to unpick their DNA.

Monkey would give his kingdom
for a key, a key, a little silver key:
the key to a situation, the key to a heart,
the office key, the key to the door,
at twenty-one, the keys of fate,
the Florida keys, the key to San
Francisco’s Golden Gate,
a passe-partout, a skeleton key,
the key to Mother Hubbard’s
cupboard, where she hides dry bones …

On the last day, when monkey leaves work
he takes a lifetime of keys
and throws them down a deep dark well.
As they halve the distance to the water,
he listens to the sound of silence
and wonders if they’ll ever hit the bottom.

In Absentia 6

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In Absentia

6

Bad Hair Day

It all started when I rolled over at 4:00 am and heard the grandfather clock in the hall strike three. I double checked my watch with the alarm clock. It was definitely four o’clock. The grandfather clock, older than me, had to be wrong.

I sat up in bed and blinked. The light of the telephone flashed on and off. Someone had left me a message. The message machine was downstairs along with the grandfather clock. No way I thought I’m not going down there, not even for two birds with one stone. I rolled back the other way, stuck my head under the blankets, and tried to go back to sleep. I could sense the flashing light, even if I couldn’t see it and the Westminster Chimes played false notes, sometimes one too short, sometimes one too many. I counted them instead of sheep and couldn’t fall asleep.

At six o’clock, with the room in darkness save for that ever-flashing light, I struggled out of bed. I had dumped my dirty clothes in the laundry basket and I needed everything clean and fresh. I hobbled to the chest of drawers and pulled out socks and pants. Then I went to the clothes closet and took a clean shirt off the hanger. My pants went on more easily than usual and my shirt just slipped over my head. I hauled up my jeans and placed my first sock on the sock machine. It felt a bit awkward, but went on with no real problem. The same with the second sock.

I removed my pocket flashlight from Teddy’s ear where I keep it overnight and tucked it into my shirt pocket. It fell to the floor. I checked my chest … no pocket. I noticed a bulge on the right hand side where no pocket should be … pocket … but inside the shirt. I reached up to the buttons and they too were inside the shirt. To hell with it I thought I can’t be bothered to change. I slipped my Birkenstocks on and felt a lump under my left foot. The heel had slipped under the arch. My sock machine had failed me. I checked the right foot. I could see the heel all right: it was in the middle of my foot just above the toes.

By now I needed the bathroom so I hobbled across to it. No flashlight in my non-existent pocket, not wishing to turn on the bathroom lights, I fumbled for a moment or two and then for a lot longer. Why, oh why, was there no Y-front to my pants? Ours not to reason why … and it all happened. Clean pants and all.

So, I turned on the light and checked myself out. Socks upside down? I took them off. Clean pants on back to front and twisted and now slightly more than damp? I took my jeans off and my pants with them. Shirt on inside out? Off with it and anyway, it was wetter than it should be and I knew I hadn’t bean sweating that much. I looked at the clothes in their little pile on the floor and I kicked them as hard as I could. Of course, I stumbled and only saved myself from being part of the bathroom accident statistics by lurching for and grabbing the towel rail which came away in my hands, towel and all. Luckily, I kept my balance and I didn’t fall.

I got into the shower, washed myself down, got out again, toweled myself dry and climbed back into bed. I stuck the flash light into Teddy’s ear and then I took it out again and hurled Teddy at the still-flashing telephone. Bull’s Eye … or should that be Bear’s Eye? Anyway, the darn thing stopped flashing and I was able to go back to sleep for about an hour.

When I woke up the second time, I dressed very carefully. Socks with the heel in the right place, check! Y-fronts with the Y where I need it, check! Shirt the right side out, check! Go downstairs and erase the overnight message, check! Light stopped flashing, check!

I limped to the IMac and turned it on. Then I opened my documents … I open my documents … I ope … but the error message keeps flashing across the screen. I can’t open my documents because I need a new app. This app is no longer functional on the new system the IT men installed just yesterday. I abandon the IMac and go to the PC. I open the documents with no problem at all. I start to work on a poem and ERROR … ERROR … ERROR … Norton needs to be uninstalled and re-installed . URGENT … ERROR … ERROR …

I shut down the PC and walk into the kitchen. The floor is wet and slippery. I think for a moment that, with the willing suspension of disbelief, I am walking on water. But no, sad reality returns: the cat has thrown up.