A Room Of My Own

Poetry is important to me. When I read poetry, my mind is at peace. I liken it to a form of personal meditation as I find myself quite focused. I am able to be quiet. There are few things in life I do where I can say that. Once during a skiing lesson, my instructor stopped me, held my gaze and simply said ‘Try to keep your body quiet.’ This may sound strange to some, but I knew exactly what he meant and then I proceeded down that mountain unintentionally making a lot of noise. More practice required there. Thankfully, staying quiet comes quite naturally for me while reading poetry. I have read a few poems of late by Octavio Paz. In his lecture Poetry and Modernity he speaks of his passion for poetry and expresses “Poetry has been for me not only an everyday task and an invincible affection but also a vice, a fate, and ultimately, a cult, a personal religion.” I feel his passion in his words. A wonderfully beautiful poem of his worth reading is titled Sunstone – it is quite lengthy an...

Last night after sending my best mate off for the last time, I turned the radio on for company on the ride home. I was not sad. Alex Cuba was playing a live concert somewhere in the world (somewhere in Canada which was why CBC was playing a live concert) and that made me happy. Although I do not know any of the words, I tried to sing along for my heart. I stopped at a red light. The lanky, downtown, messy haired man crossed the road. I have seen this man often downtown. At times I have been afraid of him. I have seen him walking about with a bloodied face. Most times I feel sorry for him. Tonight, I admired him. He walked in front of my car and the world slowed down. I watched. His hands were in the pockets of his too-big-for-him jeans. His long, messy hair was back in its signature pony tail – but it looked neater tonight. He was not smiling per say, but his face was. His walk was executed in long, slow steps. He was in no hurry, but his long stride would get him there on time. Maybe ...

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more . ~George Gordon, Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Celebrations for this day are unearthing all across Canada, the United States and if you check your local listings, somewhere in your neck of this World too. Book Launch This Wednesday, April 22 7:30 p.m. at Books & Co. 289 Main Street, Picton, Ontario, we are commemorating Earth Day with the launch of a new book " Stand up women: Heal Mother Earth ". This project, spearheaded by Roz Bound, began with written contributions of local women in and around Prince Edward County. It was introduced at the Town Hall in Bloomfield, Ontario in March on International Women's Day, and now the book is borne. Books & Co. is a beautiful, welcoming and bustling gem in the downtown core. There will be refreshments provide...

Laughter lading in the labyrinth of lust The lucent ladybird lands for luck Lamenting low labial love Love abundant Lovelorn Lovesome Leaving Loved Loquacious languid lyricisms by Janet Jarrell We two are to ourselves a crowd. Ovid

April is Poetry Month Acid In Jakarta, among the vendors of flowers and soft drinks, I saw a child with a hideous mouth, begging, and I knew the wound was made for a way to stay alive. What I gave him wouldn't keep a dog alive. What he gave me from the brown coin of his sweating face was a look of cunning. I carry it like a bead of acid to remember how, once in a while,you can creep out of your own life and become someone else- an explosion in that nest of wires we call the imagination. I will never see him again, I suppose. But what of this rag, this shadow flung like a boy's body into the walls of my mind, bleeding their sour taste- insult and anger, the great movers? Mary Oliver

Sometimes when I look in the mirror and my hair hangs curled under I look distinguished That is a nice way of saying older I like the look but I am not yet ready to see it It is at these moments when I wonder what my young lover sees Does his head cock to the side in question Doubts seeps in I mention the age gap to a friend She dismisses it with “who cares?” I am relieved but push on I suggest maybe I should give my young lover up let him mature for a few years, let him ‘sow some wild oats’ “Isn’t that what he is doing with you?” She apologizes A good truth told Janet Post poem; A mirror helps one reflect... Postscript; Thank you to all of my family, personal friends and blogger friends whom have read, supported and contributed to my blog. Thank you to Dave whom encouraged me to get started. I have enjoyed this experience and I look forward to exploring the myriad of blogs, bloggers and communities I have encountered with similar passions. With many emotions, my smile simply says ...

Our perfect August Our lambent time The hour, month, season Hast thou passed so Suddenly Nay, in time You have naught but slept Wake now thee love See how it has suffered Under your euphoric spell Comfort creates the nest Complacency settles in (…poem interrupted by life) With Love On Love Janet

COURTESY MORTIMER RARE BOOK ROOM Sylvia Plath works on her typewriter perched on a stone wall in Yorkshire, England in 1956. Someone has been calling to me as of late, and that person appears to be Sylvia Plath. Her voice is much more assertive than I imagine she would have used during her short life and it insists I read, love and share. (So you know, she is not concerned with the order in which I pursue these). Currently, The Death and Life of Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar rest by my bed waiting for me to take them in each night. I find the biography difficult, revealing and troubling. The Bell Jar reads like silk through my hands. Loving it, I am. ‘I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.’ ~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, Chapter 20 These two books do compliment one another. Although unnerving, the biography gives the reader a good insight to the novel. Ironically, The Bell Jar is a mirror of a time in Sylvia’s young personal life. Plath uses the ...

Found in the beautiful Bruce Peninsula National Park, these rare cedars are so flexible they actually bend with your body when you climb them. “They feel like Gumby” one camper noted. Local park rangers spend countless hours every camping season removing campers from the tops of these wild arbors when campers get carried away and climb too high. Much like Tigger, they just cannot get down on their own. The ‘Bruce’ has become a place of global significance and has attracted teams of botanists, biologists and dendrologists from around the globe to study these remarkable trees. They believe that the warm current from the Georgian Bay may be the cause of this flexible phenomenon. OK, far enough. The April Fool bug always gets me excited. I love listening to CBC in the morning and having a chuckle at what gets announced nationally. Like the value of Pi has now been recalculated; it will no longer be known as 3.14159, instead it has officially been rounded down to 3.0. Oh, the uproar. Furthe...