Bywords: Poetry and Ottawa Literary Events

Local Scene: Bywords, April 1, 2007

On April 1, 2007, Bywords celebrated its 17th afternoon of music and poetry at Chapters on Rideau, and was presented with an anniversary present - a refurbished venue, set off from the rest of the store, freshly painted in soothing pale green. Often, because of the sizeable number of folks that turn out for Bywords, there are not enough chairs to go around. I noticed, however, not gloatingly, but contentedly, that there were plenty of chairs (a sufficient amount, actually) in the new location . . . at least that's what I initially thought.

Bywords host, Amanda Earl, introduced the featured musician, Kristin Bell-Murray, and her unique electric guitar. When Bell-Murray sang "There are so many girls with guitars / sometimes we seem all exactly the same," I wondered if she was "having one on" with the audience, particularly given her buoyant tone. In contrast, the musician's second song questions modernity's attempts to avoid disappointment and loss: "Do they even want to hear sad songs today" within a framework of dislocation: "I've been crashing on couches / and sleeping in sin." Bell-Murray's final offering was a forlorn love song, which implies that a broken heart can sometimes evoke a person's better nature: "I will write back pretending that I'm happy that you are doing fine . . . you can be happy knowing I don't miss you all the time." Bell-Murray has a unique voice and an ability to extend the musical phrasing almost to the point where the stanzas run into each other. This latter feature imparts a poetic, languid quality to her songs, which nicely dovetailed with the atmosphere at Bywords.

Bywords editor Kelly Clark, the first reader of the afternoon, spoke for all poetry-lovers in Ottawa when she said "Bywords gives the gift of great poetry and keeps us connected." She then began her set in style with "Hamilton Journalist," Irving Layton's tribute to writer and poet David McFadden, who was born and raised in Hamilton, the most beautiful city in Canada (according to McFadden). Layton is at his sardonic best in this piece; the speaker, presumably Layton, wonders if people come to hear him read "for the poetry / or to see if I will drop my trousers." Next, "Little Sounds" describes Petra, a pet cat that "puddles in my lap as if it's her birthright" and is "patchouli oil under my palm." Finally, "Amsterdam 2006," which is set in today's global society, exhibits intriguing characteristics of cultural fusion: "Sumatran Juliet" calls down from her balcony, while "Stoned two-wheeler Romeos" are "Lost in black cat Capulet watching and good smoke."

Then, Amanda Earl read two excellent pieces beginning with "her chipped family' which employs an interesting conceit - manufactured materials and items like porcelain, helmet, glass and china are indicative of the collective psychic wounding of family members: "mother is porcelain with eggshell flesh . . . . Father's helmet covers a cracked skull . . . . sister's made of glass." Then, the delightful "just a ltl pome abt perfection," inspired by a stint in rob maclennan's poetry workshop, recounts frustrating efforts to harness the wayward Muse: "damn you girl the meanings have gotten themselves naked and mingle improper / the letters r BArkiNG it's a prison brake you need to chase em / lock them in lock them back they'll soil the carpet." In addition to being a patron and fan of poetry, Earl is also a fine poet.

Andrew Faulkner's "In the Country" describes an urban wasteland, "a still life . . . structure of integrity / the architecture of disaster." And, time spent at university in Havana brought to the poet's attention "1959 Fords held together with spit, string and hope" (but no rust, I bet). To end his set, Faulkner read Charles Recoskie's "Bluebird," a piece concerned with the defenses erected by a wounded heart: "there's a bluebird in my heart / but I am too tough for him . . . . too clever for him."

Bywords Advisory Board Member Heather Ferguson followed with "Sumer Remembered" (Sumer as in Sumeria), a romantic poem with mythic overtones: "I love a Marsh Arab . . . he places a clay seal over my heart . . . my armour falls away . . . I swim like a newborn amid the tender reeds." Next, "The Abused Woman" does not dwell on suffering but, rather, evokes the archetypal imprisoned princess: "She plans escape from towers . . . she dreams of widow's walks and crow's nests." Ferguson then provided background and spoke about her experience in starting Bywords, some years ago, as a two-page (stapled) monthly publication. She also graciously acknowledged the contributions of Amanda and Charles Earl, the "heart and soul" of Bywords, who have turned the chapbook into a multi-media sensation that keeps growing and improving.

Next up, published poet and engaging reader Kathryn Hunt presented "Kitchen" (Bywords, Spring 2007), a sensual poem, with a sense of urgency, which cleverly juxtaposes the art of cooking with the art of love:

I want to get you in my kitchen.
I want to talk to you while I
Splash oil into the pan, slide
Tomatoes off the cutting board and
Lick my fingertip.

Because of my interest in ancient Britain, I was taken with the imaginative "Sword," from "Chasing Boudicca," a series in progress. The evocation of the great warrior queen, however, is undercut by the image of a recalcitrant 13 year old ("I was adolescent dark nimbus clouds") trying to comprehend and manage the unruly emotions that are so often a part of adolescence: "and I screamed I wasn't angry / the plates just fell that way." Who doesn't remember being a sullen, sensitive adolescent? I certainly do.

Marcus McCann is a skilled wordsmith, if ever I heard one. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been to compose (let alone read aloud) "Beat the vial till it breaks do us barter," which McCann described as "a disintegrating, multiple-choice marriage vow." Multiple choice "c" of the vow encapsulates the spirit of the piece and gives a taste of its performance potential:

There's that that gives a cause a camera.
Ex snip a Kodak coda twice fade.
With cough a flower derangement.
To lay out three dollar bills the bone china to collect the.
And has a fear from abroad a posted crock pot.
Having sallied the loopy pen a masterful say or typing.

Even the more conventional "Alexial," written for the photographer Alex Eady, sustains McCann's exceptional manipulation of words:

Tempted to say
While this is a zippering,
A hiss as dour as clouding,
His is snaps.

Then, in a change of pace, short-story writer Christian McPherson read "Meeting Capitalism." The poem's extraordinary ending ("and that's when I notice the words written on the inside of your skull - sorry, please try again") evoked some chuckles from the audience. And, "Zombie" could have been inspired by those cheesy horror flicks of the 50s: "whisky won't kill them, clean living won't kill them / Jesus won't kill them." McPherson's third poem, "Oral," recounts several connotations associated with that laden adjective - from the inventive, "these words wrapped around my legs like seaweed," to the visceral, "I woke up, chewing on my pillow."

In "Bear," writer Lesley Strutt evokes a frightening reality, which you can read about almost every day in almost any newspaper in Canada: "Stink of bear / and my harsh breathing . . . then I was fish in his jaw / spine snapped." "Air" (Bywords, Spring 2007), describes the dynamism of the natural world ("A blue joy . . . A dog leaps . . . . A thousand insects rise on wings") and the spiritual rejuvenation of the solitary figure in the landscape: "She tips her mouth to the air / Sips." Finally, "Splendour" is a gentle, sweet poem: "When snow lays its soft hand on your shoulder / when you feel small in the universe."

Victoria Vernell's first two poems recount a painful period when her son, Asher, was hospitalized (including a period over Christmas). Although it must have been difficult for Vernell to read these two pieces, she did an exemplary job. The next piece, untitled, evokes that dark period during the spring of 2003, when SARS contaminated Toronto. Even so, motherhood remains a strong influence; for example, the speaker recounts "fly[ing] by the seat of my maternity pants," while acknowledging that "Some days this journey is harder than others."

Member of Bywords' Selection Committee, Betty Warrington-Kearsely, finished the literary set with readings from a suite of poems inspired by Pablo Neruda's trio of homes in Chile. At "funky colonial Bella Vista," the home described in "Santiago," the already-mythologized Neruda keeps company with "Medusa with wild unruly hair." Then, "Los Sebastiana" is the poet's residence in Valparaiso, a "city of hills / blue, green, orange, ochre . . . Age-old harbour of crossroads." At the third dwelling, "Isla Negra," Neruda's "remains lie buried / in sight and sound of the changing tides." Even in death, Neruda, "lover of women of the sea . . . Neptune, sea wolf, sailor of the estuary" continues his maritime romance by "scanning for figureheads."

As the afternoon wound down, I reflected on Bywords' remarkable evolution and ongoing contribution to Ottawa's poetry scene. When I finally finished my musings and looked up from my scribbling, I noticed that the doorway was crammed with people and the walls were ringed with poetry lovers sitting on the floor. As usual, Bywords had worked its enchantment . . . only, next time, if we could please have a few more chairs . . .

In memory of our beloved family pet, Watson, who passed away on March 30, 2007.