Local Scene: Bywords Warms the Night III

What do you get when you add a pinch of love to a cauldron of winter? You get a potent brew of poetry. And, such a concoction can warm the chilliest of days. I entertained myself with such frivolous thoughts while taking notes for the January 16, 2006, afternoon of music and poetry, Bywords Warms the Night III, in support of Cornerstone Women's Shelter and launching Bywords Quarterly Journal and Bywords.ca.

Guitarist and singer Andrea Simms-Karp began the afternoon with the self-penned "Running Shoes," an upbeat melody with solemn lyrics: "I wait like a mother expecting bad news / I have nothing to save me but my running shoes / running from you. All I can see is the back of your head walking away from me . .. Running from your love instead . . . I left you for dead." The singer's observation, "This is a cool, little venue in a nice little corner hidden away," was shared by the crowd that had gathered to hear some great music and poetry.

Starting off the poetry set was Ottawa writer Gary Robinson, who shone some artistic light on stinginess, a characteristic that many people have, but that most fail to acknowledge (at least publicly). Acquiring a cheap radio leads to the speaker's "Grinning like a newborn / proud of the bargain." Then, Robinson's clever "The Affair of the Flowers" (Bywords, Winter 2005), proves that the imagination can vanquish the mundane:

She who used to complain about the
Boredom in our lives now sits in
a wickerchair on the patio, watching
like a old time moralist for evidence of sin.

Ottawa poet Wanda Dellanboch's "Therapeutic Intervention" (Bywords.ca, January 2006), references the mythological and archetypal to juxtapose the desire for salvation with a stark reality. In the poem, Innana, the powerful Sumerian goddess of love, fertility, and war, is debased as "the corpse hanging on the wall"; the Christ, the way to salvation for believers, is "on the cross / with cries unheard"; and the mysterious Hanged Man of the Tarot, "point[s] the way to surrender." The last character in this catalogue of failed messiahs is ". . . me / stripped beneath skin / flayed and raw / showing you only pain." That final, visceral image is partially reconciled because of the possibility of resurrection; even so, the poem ends somewhat ambiguously.

Archivist and "photo freak" Andrea Schlect then read the haiku "Leaves That Refuse to Fall" (Bywords, Fall 2005). The piece collapses the four seasons, exemplified by "the leaves that refuse to fall," into a mere three lines. And, the futuristic "City World" tells of a young man on a search for fields and forests. In a manner reminiscent of the questing knight, Parsifal, the young man asks the enduring question," Where are the fields and meadows gone?" But, the question is never satisfactorily answered, because, by its very nature, it is not the right one. Enlightenment comes only when one realizes that the greenery (the garden), sought by the young man, can be achieved only by using the eye of the heart.

Federal public servant Dean Steadman next read two short poems. The clever mock epic, "Torn Tendrils" (Bywords.ca, January 2006), compares preparing for winter to armed conflict: "we're changing the windows / there will be no negotiations / this is war, baby." But, the martial images dissolve, leaving "snowballs snowmen / our finest hour." And, Steadman's "Letter to Thalia," delivered in a southern accent, "Come now, funny face, you know you know," was unexpected and delightful.

Warren Layberry, owner of Bad Moon Books, continued the seasonal theme with a poetic calendar. In this work, the seasons evoke specific, interconnected images; for example, summer calls to mind "your bare limbs like birch in the moonlight;" fall suggests "the smell of woodsmoke" and the realization that "soon we must fall back"; and, winter, with its "dusty snow," promises to harbour "the longest night of the year." The charm of this poem is that it grants each season its own flavour, while recognizing that the ephemeral is always close at hand.

John Cloutier's "Scapulamancy" (Bywords, Winter 2005), refers to an ancient form of divination whereby the scorch marks and cracks on an animal's charred scapula (shoulderbone) are then studied to determine possible locations of game and future success at hunting. But, in the post-modern setting of the poem, scapulamancy remains a valid predictor, but the oracle is now conflated with the prey:

two beauty marks
on her collar bone
and wings begin moving
the gears.

Following another musical set by Andrea Simms-Karp, including "I Believe What the Radio Tells Me," which tips the hat to youthful naiveté, Ottawa poet and short-fiction writer Adele Graf presented the whimsical poem, "signature," dedicated to her three-year-old granddaughter. With its dazzling word play, the poem pays tribute to the magic inherent in children's stories, within the framework of a toledot. The speaker revels in the little girl's presence: ". . . your high spirits / renamed yourself Willowfrost, me Turteler." And, I especially enjoyed "Arm Wrestle" Graf's dry observation on the battle of the sexes: "Take any guy / a good guy . . . his elbow veers out / and briskly spears the arm rest."

"Eggshell Variations" (Bywords.ca, January 2006), written and read by graduate student and poet Jamie Bradley, speaks of an intriguing intertwining of art and artifice, associated with the beloved of the poem. The speaker makes a "loving," if unconventional, gesture - "For her bruised lips and tired eyes, I turn / down the toilet seat and ignore the grit . . ." The glimpse of tenderness, however, is immediately undercut by the final line: "as I leave for the definite snow / and the long trip to the liquor store."

On that stark insight into modern courtship, prize-winning poet Maureen Glaude read "After" (Bywords.ca, October 2005), an ostensibly straightforward piece, which, when deconstructed, is reflective and mythic. In five lines, the poem moves from the everyday, to the complex, connected by the seemingly straightforward phrase "wet dark after the rain." Glaude clearly has a talent for drawing tantalising, yet curiously disturbing, images, which leave the reader longing for context.

Student David Emery then introduced his poem "The Olive Branch" as "another one written in the Elgin Street Diner." Well, the Muse must certainly frequent that establishment, as the following subtle images show: "the unseen leaves are flawless / everlasting . . . shivering in the wind without yielding." And, "A Twister" (Bywords.ca, January 2006) marries form with function. In anticipation of the twister's arrival, the animate and the inanimate are sick with anxiety: "The weather vane / spins and vomits east / in a stupor." Emery then read "Puget Sound," a poem in prose (is that an oxymoron?) that chronicles a passion for music and pop culture, from the chapbook of the same name.

Gwendolyn Guth, a founding member of Bywords, began her readings with "Museum Day" inspired by a visit "to the reptile and bug floor" with her children. Rather than document the visit, however, the poem is a parent's musing on that most profound of human mysteries - the creation and giving of life: "Bounded by choices / your body made without your knowledge . . . there is no poetry here / in this neon stretch." Guth's final presentation, "The poem turns its back" (Bywords.ca, January 2006), questions and indeed challenges art's ability to capture the intensity and richness of life: "I can not hope to imagine / their lives." In this instance, Guth ingeniously uses the poetic genre to explicitly question, and implicitly answer, the value of poetry.

Clearly, art imitates life in Stephen Rowntree's body of work. Poet and social worker Rowntree recently had his shoulder replaced, and the image "Lead pellets cut swaths of bone," from his first reading, "Jack Screws," made me wince. Still, Rowntree's titles are memorable and he confidently and briskly read through "The Taking," "Omphal's Whore," "Quince Bitter" and "Shoats and Razors." And, Rowntree's two final readings were short, effective, elegies. The first, "Weaver Cloth," he wrote for a friend's father who had committed suicide, and the second, "For Alan," is dedicated to a friend who succumbed to bipolar disease. Rowntree is to be applauded for publicly presenting these dignified and respectful poetic memorials.

Freelancer Guy Simser's love of place comes through in his literary reminiscences of growing up in the small fishing village of Port Credit in the early 1940s. I was particularly moved by "The Rope" a poignant piece about a mentally challenged abused child: "Every day, he was put out like a dog . . . the kid who babbled a mumbo-jumbo . . . He charged us, bowed legs and all / running full tilt through the gauntlet." Then, bravado aside, the speaker asks the unimaginable, "What if the old rope ever broke?" And, "English Flat" (Bywords.ca, January 2006) turns on its head the notion of romantic love with its images of a "wire-sprung bed," "grimy floor," and "draughty door." One wonders which of the two is more distasteful to the speaker -- the sex or the environment.

The last reader of the afternoon was Adam Petrashek. When falling asleep people sometimes hear lullabies or sheep bleating; but, in the nightmarish world of the poem the speaker hears instead "a choir of crying children . . . The hymn of begging orphans." Then, Petrashek's final poem, which wrapped up the afternoon, is a paean to the ability to survive, and even thrive, in winter: "Look up, the tops of those conifers still point the way, even in winter." In an attempt to embrace romantic lyricism and cast off the exalted tone common to many seasonal poems, the speaker complains "I am tired of being Shelley / I want to be Keats."

Each poet added his or her dash of spice to the potent brew bubbling in the cauldron of poetry that was Bywords Warms the Night III. And every poetry lover present had a chance to sample and savour the concoction, and reflect on its possibilities before heading out into the chilly January afternoon.

© Catharine Carroll Imbolc, 2006