Couple of modern sonnets

I've cut some of the I's out of these, but not all. Do they still make sense?

I walk the silent streets alone at night
And stand bereft on corner islands lit
By graceless rays, while thinking that I might
Attempt to find some quiet place to sit.
In coffee-houses, dark and filled with smoke,
I struggle with ideas that mean nought
And heard the coffee-poets who revoke
Their own poetic licences when caught.
In institutions filled with weary brains
I wrestle with the concepts that are bound
To cause my death. At times there is such pain,
I wonder if my body would be found.
Condemned to highs and lows, this is my plight:
To walk the silent streets alone at night.

The Migraine
Hot pokers sear my mind, and in my brain
The lights -- electric blue and blinding white --
Impede my view. The fireballs in flight
Appear upon the edge of sight, then wane.
The agony has dimmed, to my delight.
But now, in cotton wool, I feel the strain
Of looking through a telescope in vain
Because it's turned around – the oddest sight.
Well finally, when throbs begin to wane
As medication dulls and puts to flight
Incessant thoughts about my head, I'm quite
Relieved to be no longer in such pain.
But now, compulsive chatter's at its height:
Murmuring thoughts, while rushing through the night.

Later hours

Recently, I've been working later hours ... starting at 11 or midnight and working until 7 or 8.

It's very pleasant to serve the morning commuters. They are in a hurry, of course, but they really seem to appreciate the little extras that we do for them ... like having their favourite coffee freshly brewed when they walk in the door.

Even better, I enjoy the company of those who are coming in on the morning shift. They are a lively crew, and funny.

Ivanicki

For those of you who have seen my living room, you'll recognise the painting described here. It's another example of syllabics.

Ivanicki
The mountains counterpoise
the horizontal
ocean, and boulders that
were once part of hillsides
now form a shoreline
suitable for the tides.

The wooden dock's platform
has never known paint.
It warms walkers' feet that
were chilled from their predawn
stroll by the seashore
of pebbles and driftwood.

The once-crimson railings
now faded dull red,
are still bright enough to
find in a light fog when
arriving at the
safety of a mooring.

The cool B.C. breezes,
full of salt and kelp,
press for interior
valleys until, driven,
they restore themselves
to wide ocean spaces.

Saw Lunin yesterday

I saw the comet Lunin yesterday morning; just before dawn. It was glorious. Today and tomorrow are supposed to be the best days to see it, but today it's snowing and who knows what tomorrow will bring?

I'm grateful to my father, for being such an avid birdwatcher and star gazer, that he left me his excellent binoculars.

What time is it?

Last week I spent one glorious day in the company of six intelligent, articulate, witty, and talented people. It's been far too long. Anyway, it started me thinking; why am I spending my time elsewhere? Mostly, I guess, it's force of habit. So, after talking with another friend for about an hour yesterday, I have decided to honour my current commitments, but then focus on my current (and upcoming) schedule.

Next year's 'boat' should be fun, too. We haven't decided, yet, whether to go to Bermuda or the Bahamas for it. Those are the places I'm holding out for, although my friend is also interested in a cruise that will take us to several islands. If money is tight, we may just hop in the car and drive to either Sanibel and Captiva or to the Keys; although returning to Daytona to race up and down the beach on a dirt bike offers that certain nostalgic flavour that I would probably enjoy again. The problem with trying to burn a boat -- even a model one -- on the beach in Daytona is that it's so flat and straight that things can be seen for fairly good distances. The islands would definitely be better for that. The inland waterways are a little too unpredictable for me.

It's definitely time ... to take back my time.

Most dangerous recipe

I just received this from a long-time friend. She wants the rest of us to test the recipe ... the things we do in the name of friendship. (grin)

5 MINUTE CHOCOLATE MUG CAKE

4 tablespoons flour

4 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons cocoa

1 egg

3 tablespoons milk

3 tablespoons oil

3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)

A small splash of vanilla extract

1 large coffee mug

Add dry ingredients to mug, and mix well. Add the egg and mix thoroughly.

Pour in the milk and oil and mix well.

Add the chocolate chips (if using) and vanilla extract, and mix again.

Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1000 watts.

The cake will rise over the top of the mug, but don't be alarmed!

Allow to cool a little, and tip out onto a plate if desired.

EAT! (this can serve 2 if you want to feel slightly more virtuous).

And why is this the most dangerous cake recipe in the world ?

Because now we are all only 5 minutes away from chocolate cake at any time of the day or night!

A Sampling of Syllabics

This style of poetry was popularised by Marianne Moore. The idea is that you write the first verse and, then, every other verse must have the same number of syllables per line as the first one did.

There is no pattern involving stressed / unstressed syllables.

* * *

The Voice: Part I

Crisp consonants bite
the air as your clear tenor grabs
my attention.
Smooth vowels rise and fall
in a cadence that eases
my brittle soul.

Clean, and with an edge,
your voice comes surging through the wires
thrusting your words
into my ear and brain
and then withdrawing again
into silence.


The Voice: Part II

Fulsome consonants
emerge in your baritone drawl
rich with love while
your soft vowels bend and
stretch in order to caress
my wretched heart.

Your voice seduces
and then vibrates with a barely
suppressed longing
(that I can almost taste)
before tapering off to
a gentle peace.


The Voice: Part III

Rough consonants in
your gravely bass hang on the
periphery
of the smoky vowels
that lend texture to my thoughts
and to my world.

Sandpapery words
emerge into the atmosphere
and settle in
valleys where exotic
notions wend their way around
my consciousness.

For the choir director

In mid-January, I visited my cousins in Mississauga and we had dinner together. I showed them the package I'd put together for the Random House competition and they immediately latched onto something that I'd not noticed before -- I use the word "I" rather frequently in my verses. In fact, in about 5500 words, I'd used it 287 times. This worked out to about 9 times per page, which wouldn't be bad if the entry was prose and the lines went right across the page.

This is a prime example of what needs to be altered a bit, so that it's not all "I".

You think that I am so in love with you
That I am blind to all your little cracks.
You really think that I don’t have a clue
How you have mocked us all behind our backs.
You think that there are jokes I just don’t get
And still, you seem to miss the point of mine.
I wouldn’t choose the life you lead, and yet
You seem to think that I’m your clinging vine.
You think that I am seeking an affair
When nothing could be further from the truth.
You keep on telling me you never share
Yet you suspect that I’d be so uncouth.
And so I send this greeting out by stealth:
It’s plain your self-esteem is in good health.

You are quite right. The last line should have had an 'is'. Makes me wonder how long it's been missing? Originally, there was another, nastier, last line about the ego. No idea where it's got to.

I love the dead ...

I love the dead - the dead so cold.
Oblivious to hurt and pain
The pageantry of grief unfolds
To people melting in the rain.
With sky that's grey (so like their skin)
Their hailstone teeth soon bite the dust
And tears that strongly smell of gin
Have turned their fingernails to rust.
The legs that could not bear their weight
(While backs that on the beaches bask)
Are shipping bodies home by freight
For faces hidden by a mask.
But arms dismembered from the soul
Are reaching, still, towards their goal.

Why this name?

This name is taken from a book, written in the 1570's, by George Gascoigne. The full title was "A Hundred Sundry Flowers Wrapped Up in One Small Poesie". It was the first collection of Gascoigne's verse and dramatic pieces.

I'm hoping to get feedback from my friends on the poetry (and, occasionally, prose) I put up here. I need all the help I can get.

Things are great ...

I'll be spending the next three days with friends I haven't seen since last May, and I'm really looking forward to it.

It's also interesting that, since the house in Ottawa has sold, I've had no nightmares and am feeling very positive about seeing my ex again -- for the first time in a year and a half. In fact, it's been so wonderful to feel positive for a change, that I've gone through my blog and deleted negative references to our situation. I may still find the odd one or two, but they'll be deleted as I find them.

It helped, actually, going to a few parties recently and socialising without mentioning him.

Enough about that.

Some new pictures of Alex. First, we have the formal portrait.


This one shows him, having answered to his name, wondering what I want, where the food is, etc.

House in Ottawa

The conditions have been met and the house in Ottawa has been sold. It went for a little less than I'd hoped, but at least I'll be able to pay off most of my mortgage.

April 21 can't come soon enough for me.

25 things

I don't mind this '25 things' craze ... much. I even enjoy reading about how my friends perceive themselves and the world around them because, sometimes, there's a surprise or two. On the whole, it just seems like such a complete waste of time.

Most of my friends already know all the things about me that I would be likely to list. If people don't know these things, it's because they don't know me very well yet, or I've been not talking about myself for a reason:

Always leave them wanting more.

Good news

Well, we have a conditional offer on the house in Ottawa. It's less than we wanted, but it's a buyers' market at the moment. Soon, I will be in a much better financial situation. Finally.

I managed to get hold of the winners' entries for the Random House competition for the last two years. After reading the poetry and prose, I felt completely inadequate. They are absolutely brilliant and I stopped working on my entry because of it. I made the error of telling a co-worker that I had stopped, and she walked up one side of me and down the other; ordering me to get myself in gear. She boosted my self-confidence summat, so I'm back to it.

I spent about four hours last night, after everyone had gone to sleep after Boat, working on the poetry.