Spirits In Peace Blog

Late last evening, I, and many others in the literary community, learned of the passing of poet and publisher Sondra Ball. This is a great loss, and one need only type her name into a web search to gain an inkling of this woman’s remarkable accomplishments.

In a world too often replete with pretension and elitism, Sondra was one of the genuine ones who cared for literature and poets as opposed to mere person gain and advancement.

Sondra lived in New Jersey with her husband, Mario Cavallini, and she and I often exchanged notes about the weather - especially signs of spring and the beauty of autumn, relative  to the nature poetry we both so loved.  Since its inception in 1997, her e-zine, “Autumn Leaves” was an excellent forum wherein aspiring poets could be published. It was published twice monthly and apparently received 300,000 hits monthly, which shows both the magnitude and the quality of this remarkable woman’s undertaking. One might wish to peruse the following link:One final edition of Autumn Leaves will be posted at that site.

http://www.sondra.net/al/

One final edition of Autumn Leaves will be posted at that site.

Recently, Sondra’s breast cancer, which had been in remission for many years, returned, and notes from Sondra became less frequent. Unfortunately, the cancer was found to have metastisized. In the early morning hours of in the first hours of Tuesday, March 16th, Sondra passed away after a difficult illness.

I have written the following piece in memory of Sondra:

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

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

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

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