Spirits In Peace Blog

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.

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

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!

How out of whack things are! In this area, we have snowfall such as I have never seen, with little break and almost no melting between storms. Icicles at least six feet long are dangling from eavestroughs, and spring flooding is anticipated due to the incredible snow-pack.

Oddly, the conditions often give rise to a poem on the theme of nature, as I am deeply concerned about global warming. We are clearly seeing devastating effects, and have been for a good while now, but yet governments argue over carbon tax and people continue to drive gas-guzzling vehicles.

And still our Aboriginal Peoples, who understand nature better than anyone, are excluded from conferences and symposiums on the matter. Yet we can hardly think of looking seven generations down the line…

Recently, I was watching some of those killer icicles melt as the late February sun grows stronger each day, and it gave rise to an etheree:

Thoughts On Icicles Melting: A Reverse Double Etherée

On noting the melting of several
large icicles this mild afternoon
I contemplate the patterns of
nature and therein observe
that each single aspect
is perfectly planned
our human greed
being the bug
that upsets
this fine
form
and
knowing
that my own
role in mayhem
is no less than that
of most I simply stare
at the incessant dripping
and know that similarly our
planet is trickling away surely
as the icicles will soon disappear

©Carol Knepper

Those of you who have pursued some of my poems will notice that I often make mention, or develop an entire poem around, the theme of the colours of nature.In fact, I have an entire e-book, appropriately entitled Colours, devoted to that sort of idea.

Earlier today, I had written an etheree which focused on winter as a restorative period of necessary dormancy, and in it I entertained the idea the human beings also go through such periods, followed by a period of growth. A friend’s comment on the etheree, in which the term “winter blues” was mentioned, immediately prompted the piece posted later in this entry.

I must admit to having suffered from those winter blues, and this year I have gradually developed a different attitude, as life is simply too short to go around disliking an entire season. I must say the process, which was a matter of spiritual work, and comes down essentially to my love of all creation.

My Winter Blues

My winter blues are cerulean-clear, unlike
summer’s cumulus-climb of saturation’s shower.
My morning blues are crystalline azure-gray,
when ice-encrusted alders glitter-gleam in solstice
morning sun. My sporty daytime blues are denim-steel,
on frozen pond where some ingloriously strive to glide
on faltering flat of blade, while others curve and carve
on elegant easy edge past wobbling clumsy crew.

My winter nights are cobalt-rich, with sparkling stars
appearing well before repast, the supper hour spent
watching dazzle of Big Dipper and Orion’s awe.
As inky indigo creeps across such scintillating scene,
I thank Creator for the winter blues He brings to me.

©Carol Knepper

Photograph http://www.bigfoto.com/

Nature poetry can be inspired in most unusual ways. In my case, I do not necessarily gaze at a sunset and then proceed to write about it, although that can of course happen.

Oddly, physical work often causes a poem to spring to mind. Poems write themselves in my mind when I am washing the floor, vacuuming, folding laundry, shovelling snow, raking leaves or mulch, or doing other relatively mindless chores. Just recently, while chipping ice for the umpteenth time this winter, the following piece began to tweak in my brain, and presented itself in its entirety a short while after, while still in the heavy jeans and sweatshirt I had donned for the occasion.

Yearning For Yellow

I dream of drip of icicle and sigh for slop of snow,
as March gales begin their gust-shift into welcome
waft of spring. I yearn for yellow crocuses, stamens
saffron-stained, and pine for push of peony
through sodden April soil. I acutely ache for
elegant evenings, heliotrope-heavenly, and thirst
for trill of wood thrush in search of wiggling worms.

I long for late-night lingering on patio or porch,
while viewing vermilion sunsets well past
solstice supper hour. I miss merciful mellow
moments of blissful bask in blessèd warming beam
of beauteous Brother Sun. And I passionately
plead for his rapid reappearance from winter’s
straggle-stray, whereas his cold and crooked walk.

Nature can be an inspiration even at times when the weather leaves a great deal to be desired. Right now, most of us have had winter, with its accompanying ice and snow, up to the proverbial ears. But yet there is a brutal beauty in the season, and life is too short to waste fretting over something we cannot control.

This winter, it has been my personal mission and mandate not only to see - for I have always seen it- but to enjoy without a trace of rancour or even spring wistfulness - the beauty in the crystalline trees and snow-capped cedars. Nothing is quite so magical as alders after an ice-storm, or tall black spruces draped in their snowy garments.

It helps if one can simply let one’s child come out and play, and let go, even briefly, of all the adult chores snow and ice entail. Do our lawns and gardens not involve chores as well? Do we not have to water petunias and tomatoes? Do we not rake those multi-coloured leaves in October? Why, then, do many of us consider winter work to be a special form of drudgery?

So this season I have let winter’s considerable enchantment in, just as I allow myself to be captivated by daffodils in May, lilacs and peonies in June, hydrangea in August, and the vibrant reds, oranges, and bronzes of the autumn’s leaves. I will not deny myself joy for three months of the year.

Nor do I have the right to dislike any aspect of God’s creation. After all, we are all part of this vast and mysterious Oneness, so in the end, to despise any aspect is to despise something of ourselves.

And that avails us nothing.

Study Of Spruce-Slouch

On this magical mid-winter morn snow falls
feather-silently on towering tamaracks, balsam firs,
silver pines. Through frosted window, I observe
bow of birch and slouch of spruce as branches
bravely bend under wonder-weight of white.

I note no bough is broken and detect graceful
arching drape of fully-skirted evergreens over dashing
dot of doe and drag of hoof. I study solid lessons
that such dazzling day as this surely strives to teach,
faith and flexibility its beauty’s beneficial themes.

© Carol Knepper 2009

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.

The final variation of the etheree to be dealt with in this series is the reverse double. I will leave triples and quadruples to the individual to pursue, as these are fairly rare and take a good deal of practice.

A reverse double has twenty lines, of course, beginning and ending with a ten-syllable line. Lines 10 and 11 each have one syllable. The complete produce will resemble and hourglass is properly configured. Like all the other forms, it may be punctuated or not, as suits the poem and the poet, and may be left or right-aligned, or centered.

The syllable pattern is as follows:

Line 1: 10 syllables

Line 2: 9 syllables

Line 3: 8 syllables

Line 4: 7 syllables

Line 5: 6 syllables

Line 6: 5 syllables

Line 7: 4 syllables

Line 8: 3 syllables

Line 9: 2 syllables

Line 10: 1 syllable

Line 11: 1 syllable

Line 12: 2 syllables

Line 13: 3 syllables

Line 14: 4 syllables

Line 15: 5 syllables

Line 16: 6 syllables

Line 17: 7 syllables

Line 18: 8 syllables

Line 19: 9 syllables

Line 20: 20 syllables

Here is a reverse double, let-aligned and without punctuation:

Saturday Recycler Thoughts: A Reverse Double Etherée

On Saturdays papers boxboard tins and
plastics build up at recyclers whilst
people divest themselves of a
great jumble of packaging
leading one to ponder
if companies which
blithely produce
such sundry
garbage
may
be
held to
a standard
in such issues
and if the shoppers
caring about this earth
must make a clear assertion
by rejecting merchandise which
is over-packaged and bring back the
old era of bottles used more than once

And a punctuated, centered one, in a much lighter vein:

Strike Up The Band

As Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
throbbed loudly on those record players,
I had not the slightest thought that
those aged sixty-four might still
be needed though far too
well-fed for their own
waistlines! Always
prepared and
prone to
be
a
willing
bridge over
troubled waters
at times, most truly
struggle to endure with
a little help from their friends,
while spending hours in Strawberry
Fields of wonder and accomplishment,
yet in due time to join the Grateful Dead!

Have fun with the different variations on the etheree theme. Try all the forms, and try some singles as series. When one finally looks perfect and packs a meaningful message, you have mastered the art.

Series © Carol Knepper 2009