Spirits In Peace Blog

 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.

When it’s a prose poem, of course!

Not all poetry arrives in neat, tidy stanzas. Sometimes a poem arrives almost as prose, but is distinguished from that by still retaining poetic characteristics and language usage. Kahlil Gibran wrote prose poems, for example, as in the famed “The Prophet.”

Recently, as piece arrived in that format, basically requiring almost no editing other than the usual correcting of typos. When that happens, a poet knows the piece is in some way special - a gift from the universe, and the writing is often spiritual in theme or somehow related to spirituality.

Nature is always a great source of inspiration for me, and my muse is often most generous on a balmy day. After this summer’s incessant rains, the past couple of days have been sunny yet with a haze in the distance due to my proximity to rivers and the bay. Just the sort of weather when the Muse often visits quite spontaneously.

Here, then, is the prose poem that chose me as its author just yesterday.

The Hazy Day of Great Abundance

On certain summer days, when the southerly breezes off the bay brought a torrid heat accompanied by gentle mists in the distance, her imagination took flight as it rarely did in any other season. She hardly experienced epiphanies in winter, for example, her soul being too congested with the back-breaking labour of ice and snow for the whisperings of the universe to enter. But on this particularly hot day, with its incipient fog, she began to note stirrings along the lines of abundance and its relationship to addiction.

Let it be said that over the course of her three-score and some-odd years, she had come in touch with the usual assortment of addicts. When she was young, she encountered some who seemed unable to exist without a drug-induced high, and eventually the inevitable alcoholic or two made an appearance. Many of her female friends seemed obsessed with weight and food; some were overly concerned with relationships. And more recently, as face-to-face conversations were replaced with electronic chat rooms and dating sites, she came to the conclusion that many were hooked on these forums as well.

And thus, on this hot and hazy day, came to her a rather obvious realization: that which we feel we are lacking, we crave. The person lacking in human warmth and communication becomes addicted to chats; those lacking the high of euphoria become hooked on drugs, alcohol, and occasionally exercise. Persons who believe themselves unloved become love addicts, and those who perceive themselves as unseen and unheard crave attention. The second fiddle craves the praise normally awarded first violin. A dieter, believing herself to be lacking food, craves more of it, quite a self-defeating pattern, and one which she herself had often endured.

Realizing the perception of abundance to be the root of all contentment, as the mists rolled in off the surrounding rivers and bay, she said to herself in an unabashed manner, “I have enough.”

And this had been the gift brought in by the heat and humidity, of which there was most assuredly an abundance on this particular day…

Picture Courtesy Of BigFoto

Not long ago, I encountered a website displaying a few rhyming etherees and providing some possible rhyme schemes. I didn’t tackle one right away, but more or less let the notion simmer on my mind’s back burner for a couple of months while I dealt with the horrific winter nature offered us.

Then, just this past weekend, I suddenly found myself working on one. I had not set out to do this so much as one wanted to be written, as often happens with poetry of all types. Over the past few days, I have played around with rhymes schemes, working to incorporate the additional pattern into the already highly structured etheree format. In my first attempt I used couplets(a-a-b-b- etc.), which are fairly straightforward. I then worked with alternating lines in the a-b-a-b-c-d-c-d pattern.

My most recent effort was with a rhyme scheme beginning with a-b-c-b, and I found this more intricate pattern interesting to work with, trickier than the simple couplets but perhaps less difficult than the alternating form. Nature, as usual, provided me with a metaphor for this somewhat spiritual piece.

A Heavenward Glide: A Rhyming Double Etherée

Let
me not
shed a tear,
so overwrought
about matters which
are well past my control
that I make myself daft, my
thinking on an unpleasant roll.
For I need to realize what dwells
within my power to alter or change,
conducting my affairs in a calm style
in such manner as I might arrange.
I must let worries and concerns
which simply add up to pride
float on the western wind
and heavenward glide
past clouds to safe
realms above
in God’s
Love.

© Carol Knepper

Cover by Margrit Roussos

Poets may certainly be a breed apart. Often, we do not know where our work comes from; we do not necessarily sit down and think, “Today I am going to write a poem about trees” or whatever the case might be. Inspiration may at times be quite apparent, yet at times no direct motivating factor for our work is in evidence. It is as if we have an other-worldly, spiritual connection, and poems that are perhaps already written somewhere in the ether are simply channelled through us. Some of the finest poets in history no doubt have acted as scribes for such pieces. My friend and business partner Richard Doiron is a fine example. Many of his pieces definitely have that connection to the ether, making him a poet, novelist and biographer of the highest order, and I have seen his poems write themselves in a matter of minutes, with no editing or revision required.

The truly creative poet is often misunderstood by those who simply write poetry, often having to slave over a few lines in order to perfect them. They are sometimes shunned by the literati, who may be either envious of their abilities or possibly afraid of how their own meagre pennings will pale by comparison. The result is sometimes the alienation of the very best from the literary world. Many eventually sell out, often diminishing their abilities in order to be published and/or receive financial favour. But a stalwart few refuse to do so. Richard Doiron is a case in point.

This remarkable poet has many stories of such alienation, and long before he began to pen My Life As An Alien, I had already heard many of his stories over the course of the past few years, while in the process of developing this website ( www.spiritsinpeace.com). His colourful tales were and continue to be fascinating – a wonderful mixture of a life filled with outdoor adventure, actual sightings of alien spacecraft, and glimpses into the shenanigans of the literary world.

But to see, all in one place, the life story of a man who is undoubtedly the most prolific poet of all time and one of the highest calibre is to be awe-struck. The reader will no doubt laugh in some places, cry in others, and sometimes simply nod his or her head in understanding, for Mr. Doiron has a knack of drawing one into a life which has been, in many ways, extraordinary…

Writers, and in particular poets, are an oft-misunderstood species. Many do not conceive of us as having work days, preferring to see us as retired, unemployed, or non-productive. Yet poets are the most quoted of all authors, and the entire world claims to understand the concept of living one’s passion, as many talk shows have promoted over the last decade or so.

Richard Doiron has most assuredly done exactly that, knowing from the get-go that he was born to write. Over a literary career that now spans a good forty-five years, he has never once entertained the notion of selling out, of doing other than that to which he was born, or of lowering his standards to fit in with a pretentious and elitist circle, which is too often composed of and spear-headed by those who write poetry, as opposed to creative poets. Although he has achieved noteworthy success abroad, being published besides the likes of Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama, and awarded many prestigious prizes for his work, the recognition to which he is entitled in his home province has eluded him. Sadly, that is too often the case…

When one peruses the pages of this autobiographical work, one will gain a rapid and unmistakable understanding of the horrid strings that are often attached to climbing the wobbly ladder of the literary establishment and of the price one pays for not accepting terms which may mandate the selling of one’s soul.

Mr. Doiron has his soul very much intact, never having sold a single iota thereof. The scores of people from various parts of the world with whom this outstanding poet, biographer, and novelist corresponds on a daily basis can attest not only to his brilliance as a writer, but to his absolute integrity as a human being.

If you are interested in learning more about My Life As An Alien, go to the link: http://www.lulu.com:80/content/paperback-book/my-life-as-an-alien/6707272 There, you can take a look at the very intriguing cover and even preview several pages. And you will find yourself hooked.

Picture From BigFoto

Spring is such a source of inspiration, for poetry both of nature itself and that of spirituality. This is such a rowdy, colourful season after the quiet, dignified whites and grays of winter. Robins arrive, and who does not welcome that sight and sound? Even the hoarse call of grackles has its own vernal charm as their deep purple plumage glitters in the longer hours of sunlight. The heart cannot help but leap at the sight, and many of us are filled with hope and optimism at the start of this welcome season.

For the poet - and I suspect many poets love nature - spring may be a time of poetic rebirth, in a way. Often, longer, more labourious projects are undertaken in the winter, when one is pretty much guaranteed uninterrupted time to work, other than the obligatory rounds of snow-shoveling, of course.

In spring, I find inspiration all around me. The first crocus or daffodil may inspire a poem, as may the marvelous chartreuse of the first greening of new foliage. Today, having spotted the first plucky robins to venture onto my still snow-covered lawn, the following pair of etherees emerged :

Incipient Hope: Two Etherées

That
welcome
appearance
of a large and
very cheeky flock
of robins creates an
element of hope for the
clement season to follow a
harsh seemingly interminable
icy winter we grumpily survived

And
cheery
red tulips
beginning to
bravely erupt in
spite of the quantity
of moldy snow and icy
patches lingering forever
lift spirits into those colourful
auras of incipient springtime hope

©Carol Knepper

Inspiration can come in the oddest forms. Poets do not always gaze at sunsets; we do the same things any one else does: we wash dishes, shovel snow, cook our meals, get together with friends, gas up the car, and watch movies. About a week ago, I saw the well-known chick-flick The Devil Wears Prada, and that was that. I am not one for designer clothing, especially as I grow older, and I just don’t get spending a thousand dollars for a pair of jeans, which, after all, are in the end hardly formal wear.

My spirit is fed by fields of flowers and the sight of cherry blossoms and crab trees. If our spirits are not wrapped and comforted, if does not much matter what we wear on the outside….

Picture Courtesy of BigFoto

Strangely, just today, while breaking up the eternal, infernal ice on the walkways, the follow etheree began to appear in my brain. Later, I adjusted it on Word.

Inspiration can come from anything and everything and no poet would ever be able to list the sources, as they are so abundant.

I am grateful for each and every poem my Muse brings me, regardless of source.

No Devil In Prada: Two Etherées

You
can keep
your Jacobs
purse, Hilfiger
jeans, and Cavalli
top. Sell your eternal
soul for a Burberry scarf
and single spritz of Dolce et
Garbana. Buy your Armani ring,
Gucci watch, and Versace apparel!

Wrap
me with
summer air,
floral fields and
roses’ scent. Allow
me to clothe myself in
floral hues of plain linen.
Blanket me with indigo skies,
illuminating my path with stars.
I am not the devil wearing Prada!

Often poetry is designated as spiritual and I suppose such a term might easily be applied to certain pieces that clearly have this type of focus. I view every poem as a gift, my Muse being most generous, and those who are poets, as contrasted to simply writing doggerel or cute little ditties, are often very aware that poems often arrive as if almost pre-written in some other dimension. The poem, in effect, chose the poet, as opposed to the poet sitting down and laboriously composing the poem, with many corrections and revisions necessary.

Such pieces present themselves as polished gems, with little or no editing required, and that often involving merely the correction of typographical errors. In many cases, one cannot type fast enough, as the mental and spiritual processes are occurring with such rapidity.

Thus, are not all poems in some way spiritual? If I were to forget about Spirit (if such a thing were possible) and attempt to write, what am I doing other than playing at penning poetry, as everyone does, say, in elementary school? In that case, I am simply doing a creative exercise, rather like knitting a sweater from a pattern.

The poem cannot be separated from the poet. They are one and the same; as the poem arrives as a gift of the Universe, the Oneness of which everything is a part, the poet cannot be divorced from his or her work.

Such is the nature of One, and as such poems to me are gifts of Spirit, and in some way spiritual.

Winter has never been a season I have enjoyed, at least not in adulthood, and at some points in my life I have even suffered from S.A.D., having gone to work in the dark and come home in the dark.

Now that I can work on my own schedule, I see more of the limited daylight hours that this seasons offers, and often its majesty and brutal beauty give rise to nature and/or spiritual poetry. Such poems spring from a deep conviction that I have no right whatsoever to dislike any aspect of Sacred Creation, all of which has its purpose in the scheme of things. Winter is a season of rest and renewal. Not do I have enough years left in my life to waste them disliking much of anything, let alone anything over which I have absolutely no control.

I am in the icy moments that winter offers. I am part of the Oneness that is this season’s sleet and snow:

Each Icy Instant

I cannot will nor wish away such wintry winds
as bite and blow and blast with smart and sting.
I cannot command that merciful melting March arrive
with gusting western gales that soften filthy snow
and make it run in rivulets on roads and routes.

I cannot demand dark days to faster fly, nor can I
insist that beaming Brother Sun cut short his
crooked winding walk. But I can hold each icy instant
in my summer soul and breathe its sacred essence,
for in such season lies the rest from whence
resurgence springs. And soon enough sweet shoots
and sprouts will swiftly surge from rejuvenated soil.

copyright Carol Knepper

Without winter, how does one have an appreciation for spring?

At the moment of writing a spiritual poem, I do not necessarily seek to provide something that will be inspirational or motivational to the general population, although I certainly hope they will find it so upon its completion and publication. For me, writing about spirituality is a quiet and deeply centered experience, a calm oasis of Oneness amidst the hustle and bustle of ordinary life.

If I do not take the time for this on a regular basis, I suffer in body, mind, and spirit, and I suspect this holds true for most, although many might not be aware of the source of their aches and pains. When we disconnect, all manner of things go wrong on all levels. This is true for individuals, but also holds true in society.

It is easy to watch the news and ask ourselves, “What is the world coming to?” Crime abounds, sometimes committed by children these days, wars rage on despite the lessons history has taught us about “winners and losers,” and the planet is in a state of crisis. Sadly, much of our tragic global situation can be related to disconnection and alienation from spirituality, and I am not referring to church attendance here. I am referring to people becoming so involved in the day-to-day trivia of living and getting and spending that they forget to honour the Sacred Oneness of which we are all a part.

To lose touch with that Oneness is to lose one’s soul and in that process to lose all respect for other human beings and for the earth and its creatures. Then a person becomes filled with fear, self-protective, and greedy, and this also applies on a world-wide scale. If a society is composed of sick, fearful, greedy people, what can we expect of the nation they comprise? It is this universally pervasive sickness and greed that leads to our wars and to disrespect for the planet.

But One is always there; it does not go away simply because people neglect matters of soul and spirit. So many fear God, when God is in fact Love, and we all have access to that Love and are all part of Oneness Even those who commit the heinous crimes of which we read area a part of it; they have simply lost their way and become disconnected from their own spirituality.

Peace cannot and will not arrive when people are in a state of physical suffering, mental confusion, and spiritual disconnectedness.

A few quiet moments each day can bring about great inner peace; peace on a global scale will arrive when the individuals who make up the world’s population become calm and quiet within. From a position of inner peace we are able to touch others with its Light.

I do hope my spiritual poetry may touch someone, give someone pause to reflect, and to take that quiet moment.