Spirits In Peace Blog

Beginning in the 1840’s, there was an outbreak of leprosy (now known as Hansen’s disease) in the Tracadie region of New Brunswick, Canada. Many of the ill were rounded up and shipped off to l’Ile-aux-Bec-Scies (Shedrake Island) where they were treated with no regard for any form of human dignity. Some fled or escaped, and remained hidden by families for entire lifetimes. A lazaretto opened in Tracadie, and the stigma destroyed the economy of the region for a time. It closed in 1974.

Sadly, Hansen’s disease has yet to be eradicated in the world, and that includes the Americas, where there are roughly 32000 cases (2006 statistics), with hundreds of thousands of new cases diagnosed each year worldwide.

Thank you to forensic anthropologist Dr. Kathy Reichs for penning the novel Bones To Ashes  and therein providing much of the factual content which assisted with the evolution of this poem.

And above all, thank you to Richard Doiron for introducing me to the heart and soul of Acadie…

 At The Heart Of Acadie

Old as crumble-clod of coastal clay she was,
that Tracadie-crone, nose gnawed and gnarled
 to crooked concave curve, upper lip lump-lengthy,
complexion porridge-paste.  Destroyed digits,
Hansen’s-honed to useless humps, remained,
 remnants of former fingers that erewhile fleetly flew
across parlour piano in front-gabled stone-hewn house
with Miscou view and outlook on Lamèque. 

But, terror-tracked as teen, she’d fled for fear
of bar and banishment to blasted Bec Scies Isle,
removed from fellowship of family and friends,
her bones to be in time interred in unmarked grave.
Hence hovel-hidden, without hope of help or healing,
she spent spinster yearning-years in silent solitude,
mystery of music her solace, mate, and muse.

I gazed at malformed face, once fair, and discerned
circle-sunken eyes filled not with melancholy misery,
but with love and liveliness and lustrous lucid light.
And all at once I saw not simply Sheldrake-sickness,
but strength of soul and spirit at the heart of Acadie.

   ©Carol Knepper

The music of the Acadian culture shows the richness, warmth and pride of a people whose very survival has been threatened in this province. The remarkable poet, novellist, and biographer Richard Doiron, with whom I have the honour of sharing this website, penned the lyrics to the well-known Acadian anthem “Mon Acadie”:

 Mon Acadie

1
Les champs de foin, dans tous les coins,
Ont la mémoire.
Ils chantent à tous, je vous l’avoue,
Il faut le croire.
La pensée d’hier c’était misères
En grandes couleurs.
L’histoire du jour est une d’amour,
Qui vient du coeur.

(Refrain)
Mon Acadie, toi si jolie, tu es si belle.
Je pense à toi, et chaque fois je me rappelle
D’un vieil ancien, qui m’entretient à grande gloire.
Mon Acadie, t’es mon pays, t’es mon histoire.

 (Refrain)
Mon Acadie, toi si jolie, tu es si belle.
Je pense à toi, et chaque fois je me rappelle
D’un vieil ancien qui m’entretient à grande gloire.
Mon Acadie, t’es mon pays, t’es mon histoire.

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

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.

For as long as I can remember, I have been concerned about issues of freedom and social justice, those humanitarian issues that always seem to plague our society on a global level. It is from this concern that my humanitarian poetry arises. In this day and age, there is still hunger on a world-wide level even in the so-called “developed” nations. But yet how can any country see itself as “developed” when some of its citizens go to bed hungry, or in fact do not have a bed of their own at all?

A minute percentage of the world’s population controls the vast percentage of its wealth, and therein lies the proverbial rub. Of course, if one is a stake-holder in that wealth, one seeks to protect it. But guarding that status quo is not the way to go, and history has proven that. And history, being the great teacher that it is, will continue to make its point until some perk up their ears and listen.

When the world is divided into haves and have-nots, into winners and losers of wealth and war, there will always be imbalance, and therein lie the seeds of further discord and continuing lack of balance. If the G-8 focused on bringing financial stability to less fortunate nations and segments of society, rather than seeking their own political agendas inevitably related to oil interests, what a different it would make.

And this amounts to far more than the U.S. or Canada shipping in supplies in emergency situations and to affluent families donating the ubiquitous Christmas turkey. To those who regularly live in hunger, every day is a crisis. “Teach a man to fish…” is a most apt phrase here.

Let us share the wealth and teach each other to fish. Let us share our knowledge and skills on a free basis, and rectify that imbalance. Only when we do so will we live in any degree of global prosperity, harmony, and peace. Let the humanistic poets of the world, few of whom live in any degree of luxury, be heard…

In these times of world-wide upheaval and tumult, it seems more important than ever that we direct our focus to humanitarian issues, that we keep the ideals of freedom and social justice first and foremost in our minds.

As governments change, the economy flounders, and war rages on in many parts of the world, I feel the need to reiterate my often-expressed notion that we cannot continue to divide humanity into winners and losers. To do so is to keep someone in a hurt, angry, and upset frame of mind, and how can we achieve peace when such is the case?

As long as people feel discounted, disenfranchised, and voiceless, there will be problems in the world, and we cannot solve them by fighting, by perpetuating more of the same win/lose mentality. We must listen, and that lost art needs to be rediscovered.

Our Aboriginal Peoples have long understood the art and technique of dialogue and communication, and much could be learned from their practices. They have never walked away from their meetings until everyone has been heard. The traditional practice of passing the Talking Stick provides each with his or her opportunity to speak.

My work often reflects this idea. There is no greater poetic inspiration than love for one’s fellow human beings.

We need to adopt a similar practice is governing bodies world-wide and in the United Nations. The G8 cannot continue to run its agenda and expect the rest of the world to fall in line; it just doesn’t work that way. We need to pass the Talking Stick, and in that process omit no nation.

How often do we need to be retaught the same lesson?