Spirits In Peace Blog

Almost anyone who loves literature is familiar with the famous lines by William Wordsworth:

“It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration…; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity…” *

The past couple of evenings have been just like that here, an unusual occurrence in this maritime climate. Usually the fog rolls in, the wind picks up, or it just plain becomes too chilly to sit outside and enjoy the later part of the evening. But of late, the days have been uncomfortably hot, while dusk has been pure perfection.

After almost a month of seemingly incessant rains, we are finally getting a bit of summer, bitter-sweet, of course, as it will all end soon and there will be a nip in the night air. It is wonderful to be outside and see, hear, and even smell the exuberant enjoyment others are taking in this late start to a very abbreviated summer. The sound of laughter on nearby decks, the whiff of a barbeque, and the shrieking and splashing of children in a swimming pool are sheer delight.

Photography Courtesy Of BigFoto

The sunsets have been spectacular, the stars, well, stellar, and my poetic imagination took flight as last evening’s sky became streaked with ever-changing pinkish clouds. This is the result:

August Mandolin

Where have you gone, mid-summer mandolin?
Have you slid smoothly into saxophone or falter-fainted
into flute? Have you vanished just to reappear
as vapour-violin, strings puce-plucked in evening sky,
frets a faded rose? Have you trickled into piccolo,
your tune of paltry pitch, transformed into tuba,
or swelled to sousaphone? Or is your symphony
such sound as stirs my sun-starved heart,
your August grandeur so august as to mystify my soul?

Carol Knepper ©2009

* from the Petrarchan sonnet “It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free” by William Wordsworth

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

I am often asked where I draw inspiration for my work. Like most poets, I suspect, I do not sit down and think, “Today I am going to write a nature poem.” It simply happens, poems being gifts rather than planned events.

Of course I draw inspiration from nature, although the source is not always clear-cut and obvious. Often such matters are subtle. I might be outside, for example, on a pleasant summer day, and while reading or weeding my flower beds, I might hear the call of a cardinal or notice the fragrance of peonies. The beauty seeps into my subconscious, even although I am preoccupied with something else at the time. A poem does not immediately emerge, but later on, one might begin picking in my brain, and it might not deal directly with cardinal-twitting or peony-scent, although such might be contained in the imagery, even if the poem is perhaps more spiritual in its focus.

Since I love the environment and have a deep and abiding love for Mother Earth, I consider myself, in some ways, first and foremost a nature poet, since the beauty and magnificence of this planet is a constant source of poetic inspiration for me. Although I write on many varied themes, my imagery is most frequently drawn from nature.