Spirits In Peace Blog

Like almost everyone else, I spent much of the past couple of weeks glued to coverage of the Olympic Games. And like everyone else, I found myself entranced by tales of personal triumphs and tragedies, the stories behind the stories. And like every other Canadian, I was delighted to see Crosby’s gold-medal winning goal  in overtime in the Canada-U.S. hockey game.

But when I think of the monies involved in such an undertaking, I cannot help but think not only of Vancouver’s homeless population, but of those who live in poverty and misery, hunger and disenfranchisement, around the world. That thought inspired the following poem:

Ever The Medallist: A Reverse Double Etherée

Reflecting on the hoopla surrounding
the Olympics and endless tales of
triumphs and defeats, personal
bests and tragedies, I still
cannot help noting the
numbers living in
squalor, sadly
common in
cities,
and
yet
oddly,
I feel some
national pride
despite advocating
full justice and equal
occasion for advancement
for each and every person. So
I pause to sift through priorities,
humankind ever the gold medallist.

© Carol Knepper

 Shimmering Spirit of Thérèse

She filled sad-stormy eyes, tear-trickled cheeks
awash with shock-sick flood of sudden pass.
She lit perfect turns of landing-luminous lutz
and flared and flashed in flight of triple flip.
She sit-spin sparkled, spiral-sequence shone,
in footwork fantasy-effulgent, warm golden gleam
of mother-glow in edge-work dazzle evident.
And as with every jump Joannie grew in craft
and confidence, all could openly observe at work
within her sweet shimmering Spirit of Thérèse.

For Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette, whose mother passed away unexpectedly during the Olympic Games.

Photo Courtesy Of BigFoto

My usual style is free verse with ventures into form poetry such as haiku, tanka, and the etheree. I don’t normally write rhyme, although I have done rhyming etherees. But this piece presented itself more or less in non-metrical couplets, and all I had to do was arrange them in sequence. The Muse was most generous in sending me the lines in their entirety.

When I lived in Montreal, I saw so many lost teenage girls. Behind the heavy make-up of the prostitute was the face of a child of no more than perhaps at most fifteen. Something I recently read in a novel reminded me of that scene. How sad that our society lets this happen to its children - I used to wonder what kind of horror they were escaping at home if this life was perceived as better…

Montrealers commonly refer to rue St-Laurent, a long street which divides east from west, as “the Main.” By day, it is captivating and fascinating, and one can buy groceries or a lunch of any ethnic persuasion and do the usual shopping, etc. After 10 p.m., it turns into a nightmare…

I did not really intend this piece to be strictly metrical but rather rhythmical, and wanted to try some rhyme.

St-Laurent Strut

Little girl lost on rue St.-Laurent
top tugged down her breasts to flaunt,
black vinyl skirt and knee high boots -
she’s all alone, no talk of her roots.

Striding with sharp stiletto’d strut
she spends her nights in hovel and hut.
Arms gray-veined from needle and knife,
on fear and addiction she bases her life.

Prom preempted by pusher-pimp
who walks with a syphilitic limp,
she’s owned, dishonoured, and poorly kept.
How many tears has her mother wept?

On the street where daughter-dreams
are daily dashed amidst the screams
sirens are shrieking once again -
girl-child murdered on Montreal’s Main.

Photograph Courtesy of BigFoto

There is something about spring that, for me at least, gives rise to quick burst of energy. Winter is long and slow, and I sometime set myself to work on time-consuming tasks, but at the first whiff of spring, my energy level kicks up a notch. I want nothing to do with anything long and labourious, and prefer to work with more speed and intensity. Perhaps I simply want to abandon the computer and head outside, even though the air is still a mite chilly. Perhaps, like the nature I see around me, I am reborn in some sense and more childlike in my attention span.

But, in any case, spring always brings forth a burst of poetry. I like to experiment with forms, and one of my more recent forays has been into the area of tanka, with the assistance of Richard Doiron, a definite expert in such matters. I had attempted this form in the past, but from him I learned a great deal.

The changeable weather and emergence of spring flora together with the inevitable backward glimpses of winter at this time of year inspired some recent tanka.

her poem painted
- tanka x 5-

silently cursing
the apparently endless
blizzards this winter
surely an indication
of a planet in distress

her spirits sinking
on noting the ankle-deep
early spring snowfall
as good as fertilizer
for emerging daffodils

her concept of spring
does not in her books include
unwelcome snowfall
considered an obvious
redundancy in her mind

april erupting
in glorious colours she sees
her poem painted
with saffron of crocuses
staining each verse and stanza

colourful darwin
tulips earning her praises
their scarlet cheerful
unlike bloodstains of battle
wherein darker sides revealed

©Carol Knepper