Small Perfect Things: Poetry

This post is inspired by one of Canada's late great poets--Louis Dudek. The title for Dudek's Small Perfect Things is derived from a passage in Friedrich Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra:

How rich is this earth in small, good, perfect things, in well-constituted things!

Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye higher men. Their golden maturity healeth the heart. The perfect teacheth one to hope. (449)

This is the time of year when we get cataloguing, and I've put together my own list of small perfect things:

"Small moments" from Old Winter by Anne Le Dressay

Occasions silence me:
the turn of the midnight hour at the millenium,
the falling towers.

I am the laureate of small moments:
the shiny penny on the sidewalk,
the small talk in the café,
a red leaf or
the brief bond of a stranger's
smile. (9)

"viii floor” from Disappointment Island by Monty Reid

the weight of moonlight
passes

every night the hardwood
turns into something else

and then turns
back again

I know you heard something

but there's no one
there (42)

"La Laguna Beauty" from September Rain by Seymour Mayne

What secret pain and softness
do you hide?
A man could throw
half his life away
just to hold you in his arms
one night through
to the hastening dawn. (30)

"In the Snapshot" from In the Old Country of My Heart by Agnes Walsh

In the snapshot she has her sweater
pinned at the neck,
but her arms aren’t in the sleeves.
This strikes me as unlike her
so I look for more.

It is some sort of courtyard
where she stands, drooping veronicas
lined against a black fence.
Her smile is a question of delight,
like when someone says You are beautiful
and you say What?
because you want to hear it again. (36)

"clearing poem 2" from the breath you take from the lord by Patrick Friesen

... you are a child always you are a child here baffled and waiting for/
the wind
you freeze as if you've been seen you don't breathe all you hear is/
the pulse in your ear
no it is something colder than childhood something unremembered/
and relentless
home ground where you learn to speak in two voices where you are/
never at home ... (13-14)

Listen to the entire poem by downloading the mp3 from the audio section of Friesen's site.

"The Best Cigarette" from Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins

… but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee. (55)

Watch the video poem here. And kids, don't smoke.

Merry Christmas

Listening to: Ordinary Miracle
Munching on: sister C's holiday cookies
Writing: poem about olive groves as far as the eye can see
Drinking: peppermint tea
Remembering: the first grandchild's first Christmas
Proud of: that rock star he's become
Hoping for: fewer questions, better answers, peace.

Literary Mama Needs Editorial Help!

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What Does an Editor Do?

Lately, I've been mulling over this question, in particular, as it relates to what a mother does. Going back to all the theory I learned in grad school (and eventually applied, as needed, in my professional life), certain phrases remain etched in my brain. An editor has been defined as everything from a "handmaiden" (Maxwell Perkins) to a "midwife" to a "Janus figure." I like this last one, since in Roman mythology it means "the god of beginnings, of the past and the future, of gates, doorways, and bridges, and of peace, traditionally depicted as having two faces." (Hey, I'll admit it, I'm two-faced!) From watching the pros do it, and by diving in myself, I've found that there can be a lot of hand-holding, ego-stroking, and quite simply, listening, going on when working as someone's editor. This is not to say that editors don't "edit"; they do plenty of that, and if you'd like a great list of editorial definitions, read this.

But, let's return to my original premise. Think about what a mother or father does (I added "father" to be more inclusive. Really, I can't turn this thing off.) He or she puts band-aids on boo-boos. Cheers on the sidelines at the soccer game. Cleans up messes. Sorts laundry. Stays up late with the baby.

By the way, I'm not calling any writers babies, just their manuscripts.

Snow

The plows have come and gone, and now the ground is a sheet of ice. Despite the Bambina's assurances that 'It will be Spring on Wednesday' (Wednesdays are always full of such promise for her), we're bracing ourselves for one of the coldest Canadian winters in 15 years.

I'm trying to get caught up on all my reading and reviewing. (My review of radiant danse uv being is supposed to post some time this month at PoetryReviews.) It doesn't help that Showcase has been airing re-runs of the last season of Six Feet Under. I have a couple of poetry books from Chaudiere that I'm eager to get to, between finishing up an Ian McEwan novel. And I'm still trying to find a good printer in Toronto for my upcoming chapbook. I love my work with Literary Mama, but miss my magazine chums in the non-virtual office downtown. There's something wonderful about just being able to shout over a cubicle instead of having to type it all up in an email.

And there's holiday shopping, of course. I'm not fond of spending too much time in the mall (especially when someone gets stabbed in front of the elevator we often take downstairs for coffee and chocolate chip banana bread), but I do love browsing online. Photobooks are intriguing (am I giving too much away?)