A quote:

I thought once that poems were like words inscribed in rock or caught in amber. I thought in these terms so long, so fervently, with such investment in images of preservation and fixity, that the inaccuracies of the metaphor as description of my own experience did not occur to me until very recently. What is left out of these images is the idea of contact, and contact, of the most intimate sort, is what poetry can accomplish. Poems do not endure as objects but as presences. When you read anything worth remembering, you liberate a human voice; you release into the world again a companion spirit.

I read poems to hear that voice. And I write to speak to those I have heard.

–Louise Glück, Proofs and Theories


… poetry can be edited, maybe it can even be enhanced at an initial stage, but once a poem is printed, it’s printed. What I’m wondering most about lately are the impressions an author/artist leaves on an audience and what makes an audience object to an artist’s work.

Once a is poem written down and published, it’s published–or so it seems to me. I really don’t understand what joy some people get out of rehashing an already finished product. I don’t understand this method of critique. Sure, I can change a poem to suit my own sensibility, but where would that get the poem? What does that do for an already published piece? Maybe a workshop poem could stand some treatment, but published?

Although, I suppose from any reader’s standpoint, perhaps the reader could’ve done better–they could’ve changed the poem to suit the reader. Don’t we all see ourselves as writing things better? Personally, I think that writing better entails writing poems different, and writing different poems better. It entails taking what we read, learning from what is before us, and interpreting, hopefully improving on what we read and learning from what we read, thus enhancing a product that we can place before the reader. Or not.


…Annette Bower, after finishing her novel, caught languishing in her bug (which is much more friendly than a blood-sucking mosquito any day–and way cuter). Having recently returned from St. Peter’s Abbey, where she completed the novel, Annette is set to globetrot through North America promoting blue bugs, novels, romance, and Saskatchewan writing.

Here’s me a small time poet thinking about making a run for it in the bug (I’m hampered from a smooth getaway by traffic and someone with a camera).

Annette’s visit to St. Pete’s was productive in other ways, and the Muenster consignment store and the Humboldt Goodwill store coughed up two sets of my favourite luncheon plate/cup sets for next to nothing. Both sets were gifted to me by Annette. Thanks Annette. To see them (and Annette) you’ll have to visit.

I suppose

…most people would say that age is a factor in allergies. I, preferring to be ageless, think there seems to be more allergens around (what with all the hybrid-breeding happening–who knows what they’re creating in pollen). Whatever the cause, I’ve had a headache for the past two weeks straight and this weekend I’ve lived on heavy doses of coffee and ibuprofen. I’m not able to take an antihistamine so I must rely on what is available. I thought maybe I should try something more herbal, more natural (what is natural these days?) or homeopathic, so I looked up some remedies on the net. This remedy seems a little easier to carry out, but this one confused me, what kind of match do they want, two thumbs? My father tried the match trick once to remove a tick from the nape of my hairline (although luckily for me, I had a short curly fro when I was young)–he lit the match, thought he’d put the match out, and then put the match to the tick (this was supposed to cause the tick to back out of the fleshy burrow of my head without any fuss); however, the match was still lit and whoosh… well, you get the picture. I suppose that says something about home remedies–or not.

The black and white flower is the Siberian iris. It blooms in slim 2 in blossoms in late spring. This one I salvaged when I moved around 10 years ago, and its really only begun to bloom again in the past few years, although there had always been foliage. Now it really seems to be productive.

The top flower is a painted daisy. On May Day I posted some small poems about the painted daisies. Unfortunately, May Day is now over; it was a great deal of stimulating reading, writing, and responding, all of which I enjoyed immensely and thanks to everyone who took part, and to Ariel and Polly for organizing the blog. But back to the flowers, I adore the colour of my painted daisies–I believe they are of the Robinson variety (I’ve always called them the Mrs. Robinson); I also believe they come in different shades (in Watrous the diner had artificial blue). The mosquito popluation has increased dramatically in the past few days–rain or a storm everyday, while great for the newly sprung garden (although something strange has happened to the watermelon and it is now flopping its leaves in disgust) and annuals and perennials, is also the best thing for the breeding of bugs. I’m lucky in that they don’t really like the taste of me, but even so, I’ve been bit too much in past few hours so this is my excuse for parking myself in front of the computer and pretending I’m a writer.