Some more poets

Can we human beings legitimately call ourselves poets, or is "poet" a state or title we can only aspire to? I often feel this inner conflict when I find myself referring to myself as "poet". So, I'm sure, do many of these people -- although among them you'll find nominees and even winners of some major totems of distinction (otherwise known as awards, prizes, credits). But, on repeated reflection, I think these can be called poets, such as they are. Many of them have become quite lovely people, at least partly due to their practice -- however flawed, sporadic, or conversely, compulsive -- of this most demanding and difficult art.

On top: Sharon Singer and Susan McMaster
Middle: Marian Francis White, who organized this whole conference/fest (and deserves every credit for making it an excellent one), found herself without a seat on the bus she had reserved for us... so she had to "lap the miles" with several of us, inc. Allan Briesmaster; beside him is his wife, Holly.
Bottom: a whole busload of 'em, going to Marlene Create's in situ reading. Among these, at the back to the right, is Barbara Nickel, a poet I will definitely be reading more of in the coming months; and although he didn't get in this picture, Don McKay. I'd be hard pressed to name the others...except of course that guy on the right. (Who is he, again?)

Iceberg, Witless Bay

(Click through to see large)

Pictures I took as we approached and circumnavigated this medium-sized iceberg in Witless Bay -- mountain of ice, nevertheless, that towered over our boat. I've seen, though, much bigger on postcards. 9/10ths of bergs are, of course, under the surface; this was about as close as we could get, the radar told us, without risking a tear in the bottom of the boat. This berg is actually stuck, lodged to the bottom of the bay. And it will take a good while to melt; in late June, the water temperature was still only 4 degrees Celsius. (Needless to say, the breeze off the water was pretty chilly.) This year, close to a thousand bergs broke off of Greenland and floated down past Newfoundland, a record number due to global warming.

Witless Bay Ecological Reserve (Bird Islands)

Definitely, click thru to see large!

The Witless Bay Ecological Reserve is home for no less than 260,000 pairs of puffins, along with hundreds of thousands of other birds, including a cousin of the puffin, slenderer with a black beak; a certain species of seagull that only inhabits these islands, a number of eagle species, and tourists like me ;-) At top is one of the four islands that make up the Reserve; if you click on it, you can see the air above the island swarming with birds. (It is not Gull island, which we saw up close, but one of the others.) The steep, rugged cliffsides on these islands provide an infinitude of perches. Puffins (second picture down -- a stock shot) can't fly long distances -- the guide described them as having the aerodynamics of a potato with wings. They jump off the cliffs, and plummet as much as 70 meters deep, "fly" underwater and return with their beaks full of caplin, tiny sardine-like fish that still teem in these waters. Like penguins, puffins are monogamous for life. They burrow tunnels as long as three meters deep in the hillsides with their beaks, where they lay and protect the one egg they produce per season. Their beaks are bright and parrot-like only during the mating season. In winter, they molt the coloured covering, to regrow them the next summer. The high winds and waves of the North Atlantic make these islands uninhabitable in winter; a valley in the middle of Gull island (the brown V-shaped depression, 6th picture down) has been swept bare by waves that crash over the island, turning it at times effectively into two islands. The puffins, unlike the other birds, don't journey south in the winter; they fly and swim about a hundred kilometers out from their islands, and float about on the ocean. To appreciate these bird pictures, again, you really should click on them to see them large. The 5th picture down shows an observer's blind, used by the handful of naturalists that are the only humans allowed on these islands. Most of my puffin pictures, unfortunately, came out blurry, due to using the zoom on a so-so camera on a rocking boat; the best one I took is the third picture down. The puffins are relatively silent, but at times, the sounds of all the other birds can be almost deafening.

Heading out to Gull Island

(click through to see large)

On top, the boat I took out to Gull Island, the largest of four islands that make up Witless Bay Ecological Preserve, from nearby Bay Bulls. Further down, some of the rocky coastline, including a couple of pillars of rock that the waves long ago carved away from the shore... one of them itself is a nesting place for hundreds of birds. The waves also gouged huge caves in these coasts which, buried in shadow, did not clearly come out in any photos I took. In the bottom photo, we're rounding the point of Bull's Bay; in the distance, Gull Island, the largest puffin colony in North America. More to come...

For those of you who are new to this series, click on the label below, and you'll see it uninterrupted by other posts. Plenty of beautiful images...

Carte Blanche -- remplie

Carte Blanche came out with its 7th issue today, and in it, to my pleasant surprise, are two poems of mine, since their acceptance letter only mentioned one.

So why the critter above? He's my cat, Batman, and it's from the experience of living with him for 12 years that I've gained the wealth of feline experience that went into Purr, a pantoum-like thing that attempts -- and who knows, may even succeed at some points -- to see the world through his eyes.

The other poem, It's Not That I'm Getting Older, concerns the paradoxes of middle age.

Other contributions are by Jocelyne Dubois (my partner -- when her short story was accepted for the same issue, it quite a joyous surprise), Anne Diamond, Bruce Henry, Ilona Martonfi, JR Carpenter, Angela Leuk, Elise Moser, Licia Canton, Maria Giuliani, Claire Sherwood, George Amabile, Julie Mahfood, Katherine Mockleer, K.V. Skene, Melissa Bull, Michelle Barker, Nathaniel G. Moore, and Yaqoob Ghaznavi.

Although this is Carte Blanche's first issue to publish international submissions, only two or three writers this time are from outside Quebec. That number will surely increase in future issues.

More Newfoundland pictures shortly.

Marlene Creates: in situ

(click thru to see large)

On Sunday evening, at the end of the LCP Conference/Fest, those of us who didn't have to immediately fly home took a bus out to Marlene Creates' property near Portugal Cove for an in situ poetry reading. Says the program:

The Boreal Poetry Garden is a project by Newfoundland artist Marlene Creates that uses words in situ. The texts commemorate certain fleeting moments in her interaction with the 6 acres of of boreal forest where she lives in "relational aesthetic" to the land. On Sunday, June 22, 2008 at 7 p.m., Marlene Creates will lead a walk along paths she has been making in the forest and pause at certain points to read site-specific poems.

One of the inspirations for the project is the rich Newfoundland vernacular. Its words reflect a very concrete correlatoin between this language and this landscape. Within these 6 acres there is a multitude of microhabitats: dark spruce and fir thickets; a steep wooded droke; a windblown tolt with goowiddy and tuckamore; a rattling brook called the Blast Hole Pond River; an overgrown bawn; and moss-covered volcanic rock up to 1,000 million years old. Each has a different dynamic, resulting in different details of observation and experience. Marlene Creates says, "I have become more and more aware that my experience of the landscape includes language. I cannot walk this terrain without the local names for landforms and vegetation sounding in my head."

Many of the poems were very haiku-like, and some I quite liked. I was reminded of certain Zen poets who rather than publish poems in a more permanent form, would simply tie their poems to a tree. (What a marvelous meditation that is on the ephemeralness of art and life!) Marlene said that for more than thirty years she had worked as a professional visual artist, much of that time spent marketing, packing and putting her art up for exhibitions. Although still quite active in the visual art world, she has grown quite skeptical of the marketing conventions around art; poetry publishing -- at least professional poetry publishing -- runs of course along similar lines. These particular pieces, she vowed, would never leave the property. Indeed, for her it would seem like sullying them to do so. For people to experience them, they would have to come out and hear them where they had been written. So far, dozens have -- ensuring a larger audience for these poems than a good many literary magazines would have provided! And in a partial reversal of her anti-marketing stance, a video called The Boreal Poetry Garden, featuring excerpts of her in situ reading, was aired on Bravo! TV last April. Nevertheless, the Poetry Garden Walk and Reading was an impressive experience of poetry for the inherent experience of the art itself -- a spiritual dimension we literary ladder-climbers can easily lose sight of. (As a joke I asked her if her forest accepts multiple submissions.)

PS. JULY 16: I just received this e-mail from Marlene about this post. It seems that I got some details wrong about her raison d'être for doing these poems in situ. Pay particular attention the third and fourth paragraphs of her letter. Did I mention that I listened to her talk on these walks and her video on about three hours sleep? Of course not. Anyway, I stand corrected, and appreciate the further insight she has provided into her creative process.

Hi Brian,

Thanks for letting me know about your blog, and thanks for your enthusiasm. The pictures look nice too.

In your commentary I think you understood quite well my approach. I especially like the comparison you made to the poets who attached their poems to trees. (And you probably didn't even know that I've been hand writing some of the short poems on card stock, installing them temporarily in the spot that the words refer to, and photographing them.)

There are a couple of things in your commentary, though, that aren't quite what I meant in my introduction to the walking reading. The word "marketing", for example, was not in my introduction at all. I did say I had been framing, crating and shipping my artwork to the outside world for 30 years, and that now I'm trying to work outside the institutions of the art world to some extent by inviting people to experience my work in situ. The institutions I was referring to, broadly speaking, would be public galleries and museums, which are the main kinds of places I have shown my work. I think I've always been somewhat "skeptical of the marketing conventions around art" (as in the commercial side of it), so that's not something new.

I haven't vowed that the poems "would never leave the property," though I plan not to read them out loud anywhere else. Not because it would "sully them" but because I feel the specific material details of this locale -- its tangible textures, its ambient sounds, its visible colours and shapes -- are important parts of experiencing the poems. As Liz Zetlin pointed out to me, there are things I haven't written that are part of the poems.

In fact, some of the poems do leave the property in other forms: as visual art, for example. These are photo-landworks, the ones where I've written poems on little cards and photographed them in the pertinent spots. (Since starting the photo-landworks of the poems, I've found out about Han Shan, the Taoist poet, who attached his poems to trees.) Some of the photo-landworks have been published, and some have been in exhibitions. You can see images of some of them on my website:
http://www.marlenecreates.ca/works/2005boreal.html

And there's another reason for the in situ experience. For many years, much of my work has been an exploration of the different layers of history and changing meanings in specific places. So when I stand in a certain spot and read a poem out loud, the words refer to an ephemeral event that happened right there. And the audience itself becomes another layer in the history of what occurred in that spot.

The film on Bravo! TV was a documentary that included me reading some of the poems in situ. The title of the film is "The Tolt, the Droke, and the Blast Hole Pond River with Marlene Creates." It's part of the series "Landscape as Muse" by 291 Film Company.

Thanks for the attention you paid to my project, and good luck with all of yours,
Marlene
www.marlenecreates.ca

NB, Dennis Reid has put Marlene's introduction to the Boreal Poetry Garden on his website as his "Quote of the Month". Float your curser over his "Home" link; it's there on the drop-down menu. Dennis' website has lots of interesting stuff, by the way; worth exploring.

silhouettes

The only picture I took during League council and member meetings. From left to right, that's the silhouette of Ingel Madrus, Readings & Membership Coordinator, taking minutes; Executive Director Joanna Poblocka; and outgoing President Maurice Mierau standing and speaking. The most significant resolutions related to private fundraising efforts, as well as access copyright issues -- too complicated to get into here. (Or rather, too complicated for my inclination to get into here.) League member National council positions -- all of them voluntary, by the way -- will be increased to 2 to 3 years, in order to ensure continuity and take greater advantage of accumulated experience. That was a resolution put forward by me, as I step down after my two-year stint as Quebec rep, and it passed. (The motion pends final ratification because it's a constitutional measure, but eventually it will be voted into law.) Anyway, that's a nice view of St. John's.

St. John's -- wild nights

George Street -- the street of outdoor cafes and live music bars in St. John's -- is really hopping on Saturday nights, especially in the summer. At Trapper John's, one of the more prominent pubs, they serve Newfoundland Screech -- a strong Jamaican rum -- but to have it you have to go through their traditional "Screeching In". Here's the ritual: the bartender (seen above) puts the shots on the bar, which she orders the participants not to touch, at the pain of a wooden sword with which she'll mockingly strike any hand that ventures near a glass, until the screeching in has begun. Then everybody has to bellow these incomprehensible lines:

Indeed I is the old cock,
And long may your big jib draw!

When she's satisfied everyone has shouted these lines as loud and lustfully as they can, she rings a bell for a few seconds, during which you're to drink the shot "down the hatch". If you've stayed straight -- standing, that is -- you're supposed to kiss a wooden carving of a Puffin, the provincial bird, in the behind -- then she knights you with the sword and gives you a certificate pronouncing you "Honourary (sic) Member of Trapper John's and Newfoundland & Labrador." All rather silly and fun. And if this little rite, adapted primarily for tourists, did indeed evolve -- or devolve -- from some tradition, it may have been drinking bouts where the winner was the only one left standing.

The dancing, by the way, was as wild as I've ever seen. Several girls were celebrating a stagette -- one of them was getting married -- and they dragged men in (me included) to the dance floor to dance with them. They also had this inflatable doll with a huge erection which they were throwing around and with which they were doing all kinds of -- let's put it politely -- suggestive moves. All this to music provided by one lone singer-guitarist with a voice like a serrated knife and very strong strum -- he played a mix of traditional Newfoundland songs, Dave Matthews, Rolling Stones, etc.

The approximate meaning of the "Screeching In" slogan above, I'm told is,

Indeed I am a good guy
And clear sailing to you!

which strikes me still as rather a non sequitur. Of course this translation is bowdlerized of all kinds of phallic connotation. The big jib is the triangular foresail, the one that projects out front. Nellie Stowbridge, author of The Newfoundland Tongue, told me that her grandfather used to greet his old buddies with, "How're you doin', y' old cock?" Reminds me of "salty dog" in old blues songs. Anyway, I'm sure you can get the drift. The use of "I is" is a testament to Newfoundland vernacular, and now remains pretty much a vestige from the past. It also survives in the famous song that goes, "I's the b'ye that builds the boat, and I's the b'ye that sails her".

The people at Vallum in their blog have named this site blog of the week. Shameless plug for me, they say, since they're printing me, but then, who ever heard of a shameful plug? Unless it's your bathtub stopper that just keeps on leaking no matter how much you fiddle with it...

UNDRESSING THE NIGHT -- review

Thanks to those who left congrats on the post below, and to the many more who emailed me.

At the risk of this seeming a gloating-over-ones-own-successes blog (good news with me usually comes in dribs and drabs -- this is quite unprecedented), fellow poet/translator/hispanophile Indran Amirthanayagam has written a rather eloquent post on Undressing the Night, my translation of Francisco Santos' selected poems:

The book satisfies like a clear morning. There is no pretense in the poetry. Santos writes directly from experience and hides his agency in bringing beauty to the reader. There is no dismantling of language so that readers can meditate on broken phrases and dollops of white space. Neither does Santos attempt to dazzle readers with rhetorical catwalks or peacock displays. He shoots straight and is lucky to have a translator who has worked hard to deliver the same transparency in English.

In the same post he has also selected 5 poems with their translations, as examples.

More also can be read about -- and from -- the book here. The book can be ordered direct by writing to beedeecee@videotron.ca It's $20 including postage (Canadian or US).

Soon -- on the weekend, I imagine -- my Newfoundland Slide show will continue. I have pictures of an in-situ reading in pristine boreal forest, ice bergs, Bird Island (the largest puffin island on the globe), and Witless Bay, one of my favourite places on this planet.

BIG NEWS

I just received an e-mail from the poetry editor of Signature Editions. They've accepted my new prose poetry collection, Field of Gems, and definitely intend to publish it in Spring, 2009. Needless to say, I'm thrilled.

News

I just got a prose poem accepted by Vallum ... another palimpsest of Charles Baudelaire.

Feels good. A few times I've tried to get into that magazine.

Stay tuned; I have more Newfoundland pics (& lore) to show.

Don McKay and Geopoetry

That's Don McKay -- or rather a distant silhouette of Don McKay, in probably the worst photo I will ever post on this blog -- giving the the Anne Szumigalski memorial lecture this year. A most engaging and erudite lecture it was. It took place at St. John's Fluvarium, a pavilion on a river where you could go down and see the river life through glass windows -- reeds bending with the current, fish spawning, etc. A suitable setting for his topic -- geopoetry, or poetry about geography (read nature, earth, non-human cosmos, universe.) Within those vast frames of reference he compared the Romantic poets with the likes of Chris Dewdney, and by implication, himself. Considering the way he framed the issue, it should come as no surprise that the Romantics should come away as, if "seductive", as he put it, rather naive and human-centred in their expressions of awe at the unknowability of nature, while Dewdney and others, with their familiarity with science, are wholly comfortable with a universe so enormous and utterly ancient it makes the entire human enterprise seem an infinitesimal speck. This makes Dewdney et al wiser, and more capable of respecting nature in and for itself.

My problem with that thesis is that both Dewdney and himself are comfortable academics who write out of equanimity. Their work, whatever its merits, is largely cerebral. None of the present-day geopoets I bet have been able to write anything with the passion, verve and lyricism of Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Tintern Abbey, Ozymandias, the Lucy Poems, The West Wind, Kubla Khan, Mont Blanc, let's see, what other flaming masterpieces? Seductive indeed. It strikes me, though, there's something crucial missing in a lot of their work.

But before I go much further out on a limb with my pronouncements, I should actually read more of McKay, Dewdney, as well as Tom Lilburn, Jan Zwicky, recent Roo Borson & Robert Bringhurst, to name those described as "ecopoets" on the Wikepedia site. That would, of course, keep my lips moving for quite a while. And my brain hurts to contemplate it, I'm afraid...

Update, June 8: Well, I have less to be afraid of than I thought. I've read about 30 pages of Camber, McKay's selected, and am quite enjoying it. Clearly my calling him "cerebral" was a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. He does beautiful renditions of birds, and who ever heard of an untranscendent bird? (Unless it's a flightless bird, a chicken, turkey, ostrich or penguin...and penguins are awfully cute, their own kind of transcendence.) There's something to my criticisms above, but it will require a more nuanced critique. Consider the above a critique in progress (in other words: a half-baked critique!).

Last year I started reading Strike/Slip, and found my interest flagged: after reading through Camber, I think I'll give it another go.

Kitchen Party/Ron Hynes

On Saturday evening of the 21st, after a day of meetings, Don McKay's lecture, Gala awards dinner and then even square dancing which some us us tried a hand (hand to hand?) at, all of us were invited to kitchen party at the home of the owners of The Pepper Mill, one of the better restaurants in town.* "Local musicians" provided entertainment -- actually the man to the left playing the accordion is (correct me if I'm wrong) Clyde Rose, founder of Breakwater Books, and the other man may be associated with them too. That was fun, but after a couple of hours there I went on the town to check out St. John's fabled folk music scene.

It wasn't hard to find -- a few blocks down at The Rose & Thistle, as luck would have it, I stumbled on a performance of Ron Hynes, one of Newfoundland's most significant singer-songwriters. What a treat! I didn't really know the man, but immediately recognized the quality through the window, and gladly forked over the $10 cover to take in the last set. He has quite a following on the Rock, apparently -- practically everybody there knows him. It was a fine show -- he mixed fingerstyle, solid rock rhythms, one piece a capella ("We're Dirt Poor!") that everyone sang along with: plenty of passion, humour, introspection. I took pictures of the crowd partly because the scene gave me such a gas. Here you can see all ages -- 18-80 -- crowded into this bar, hanging on every word that a 60ish-year-old man is singing.

How unlike Montreal, where everything's trendy, where the live music scene so often seems the exclusive preserve of teenieboppers & 20-somethings!

Here, to a much larger extent, the culture enjoys music and music-making for itself, rather than as part of some massive promotional record-selling hype.

I know what I'm saying reeks of simplification -- but regardless, this was water to a parched throat for me.

Stopping in at a couple of Irish bars with live music -- people of all ages dancing in the wee hours -- confirmed the impression.

Mind you, Montreal has a couple of good Irish bars too, down on Bishop's & Crescent St. I haven't set foot in them for years. Frankly, ye olde Irish music doesn't interest me that much: it's lively and fun, but highly generic.

P.S. Of the Ron Hynes sound samples on this site, the ones I like best are "My Name is Nobody" (the most touching song I've heard in a long time) and his classic, "Sonny's Dream".

*actually, I'm mistaken -- that was on the Friday the 20th, after a day of meetings & seminars.

Above, a pretty well-known photo of three fishermen, in my hotel room; the middle one (glared out a bit by my camera flash) is holding a fish head; below, "Boat Building", a wood sculpture by Kevin Coates in Newfoundland Crafts Gallery. With the decline of the cod fishery and the closing down of many remote villages, a whole way of life is becoming a museum piece: I'm afraid it will be sentimentalized into folk nostalgia.

One of our entourage bought this funny T-shirt over there that said: "Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he'll sit in a boat and drink beer all day."

Petty Harbour; Portugal Cove

Above, docks, fish curing shed and lobster traps in Petty Harbour; below, Portugal Cove. Across from the latter village is the spectacular isthmus seen at the bottom of the previous post. Again, for those of you new to this series, click through the pictures to see large.

Coastline Views (Signal Hill, Cape Spear, Portugal Cove)

I interrupt my slide show for these guys (and gal): about half my class on our final day (last Wednesday) of the spring term... let's see: from L to R, Jean from Cameroun, Choun Ming from Laos/France, Shadi from Syria, Bao Ming from China, Svilen from Bulgaria, Rodman from Costa Rica, Dary from Cambodia, Mohamed from Morocco, and this other guy -- can't remember his name -- from this exotic place called Ontario. We had fun together learning English all year (and yes, I learned from them)... I love you all, and this slide show is partly for you guys!! (Including, of course, those of you who didn't get into this photo.)

It's Canada Day, and summer is definitely upon us. This is the first summer I'll have had off in the last ten years. (Previous summers, I taught ESL immersion at Bishop's University: this year, I decided to change my routine.) Plans? Jocelyne and I are renting a chalet on a lake in the Laurentians for a week ; we'll be taking in some of Montreal's festivals, including the jazz festival; probably take a short trip to Quebec City & take in some of their 400th anniversary celebrations as well (not that I'm big on celebrations, but it happens to be.) As well -- actually primarily -- to write poetry, put together a second manuscript from what I've written, continue taking lessons with this guy & practice new arrangements of my songs, edit & produce a couple of Sky of Ink chapbooks, one by Jocelyne and one by Raphael Bendahan, do submissions and prepare (maybe I'll actually do it this time) a submission onslaught for September. I'll keep this blog active. What are your plans?

St. John's Harbour

In my hotel room, at The Battery Hotel. Hmmm... did they put that quote up just for me? The Battery, for all its Hiltonesque appearance, is, I've been told, rated only a two-and-a-half star hotel. But judging by its service, cleanliness, etc., it hard-earns every one of those two-and-a-half stars. My room itself was pretty non-descript, but from it, a commanding view of the harbour:



...and from another vantage point, the channel called The Narrows leading into the port. (As with all these photos, click through to see large.)

Some poets

L-R: Carolyn Marie Souaid, Endre Farkas, Lori Cayer, Maurice Mierau, and Eric Folsom at The Pepper Mill, St. John's. As for me, I'm behind the camera.

Houses in St. John's

(click thru to see large)

Bringing Summer to the Rock

Morning fog in St. John's harbour;
above, street sign for Hill O'Chips, taken on a clearer day
(click thru to see large)

Shortly after I arrived at the Battery Hotel in St. John's, I was asked to be interviewed by host Jeff Gilhooly on the CBC St. John's Morning Show. It was to be about League Conference, but there was also a special request: since the weather had been so miserable of late (fog, rain, highs of 10 degrees C.), could I volunteer some poetic lines about bringing summer to St. John's?

Actually, they had originally asked Maurice Mierau, League President, to do the interview, but he wasn't sure he'd be up for it (he would be flying in after midnight and had to chair meetings all day) and recommended me instead.

I gladly accepted the offer, but with some trepidation: what would I dream up over the next few hours about that? The subject seemed rife with trite possibilities. I was reminded of the demands by certain Persian potentates of their court poets to come up with some suitable lines for an occasion, or off with their heads. I went to a reading at Breakwater Books that began our fest with some vague notions flying around in my mind of laying down of sacramental flowers, of everyone having a summer inside them and those flowers within them, something like that.

At the reading, I was exposed to some of The Rock's better poets -- Tom Dawe and Mary Dalton were standouts, expressing par excellence that Newfoundland verbal flair everyone remarks upon who comes here. Coming back, the fog was so thick you could cut it with a knife -- thicker than any I had ever seen: you couldn't see much past 20 feet down the road. I enjoyed the streetnames -- maritime names like Topsail and Water, dumpy Anglo names like Duckworth and Gower, oddities like Quidi Vidi, quaint & Victorian like Temperance, and then, oddest of all, at the crest of a hill overlooking the harbour, Hill O'Chips... back in my hotel room, a look at the map revealed all kinds of fantastic names for the fishing villages (many abandoned) along the rugged coasts. Indeed, the rooms at the Battery were named after them. My own was Indian Tickle, across the hall was Happy Adventure; also there was Shambler's Cove, Nameless Point, Heart's Delight, Nipper's Harbour, Nicky's Nose Cove, Witless Bay...

Fortunately, a student of mine who happens to subscribe to Canadian Geographic had passed to me its most recent issue; in it was an article on Newfoundland expressions. What a rich vernacular! Among them were these two which I ended up using (obscure, it turns out, even to most Newfoundlanders, but there they were):

A noggin to scrape: a difficult task.
All dressed up with scurvy ankles: she's well dressed by not clean.

By 3 in the morning, this is what I came up with. It was fun reading it over the radio 4 hours later. (Needless to say, I had to sleep through most of the following afternoon...)

BRINGING SUMMER TO THE ROCK

The fog’s clammy snout
wets my cheek, brushes my brow
as I gaze down from the crest of Hill O’Chips
into this dour harbour --
bringing summer here is a noggin to scrape,
I’m all dressed up with scurvy ankles but I’ll try:
hyacinths, bramble rose
even that fistful of dandelions
I gave my first grade teacher
two score years ago or more as a bouquet
I lay, in this place that gives tongue
to the outcrops,
Happy Adventure, Indian Tickle, Witless Bay --
whimsical wordsprouts that
bloom for us all
their own feverish summer.

back from the rock...

Me in jaw-droppingly beautiful Newfoundland. At Cape Spear, just outside St. John's, to be exact. (Click thru to see large.) The League of Poets' Conference/Fest was perhaps the best one ever -- good seminars, great side trips, excellent night life, and, for me -- some CREATIVITY! More later...

George Carlin RIP

Thanks to Pris for this one. He'll be missed. (He'd probably have something caustic & witty to say about that bromide.)