Inaugurated in 1996 by the Academy of American poets, National Poetry Month has Canadian content. According to Wikipedia, Canadians have been celebrating National Poetry Month since 1999. A young and growing month long word party where poets and poet lovers offer up books, readings, galas, festivals, and workshops… even postage stamps (USA) have been issued to mark the contributions of poetry to culture. GO POETS!
Pop-Up-Poetry thinks a Kelowna celebration is in order, and is popping up in and around town every other day with randomly spontaneous postings of poems on trees, benches, walls, fences, garbage cans and hoods of cars. People are seen reading said poetry. People are overheard saying thank you. People contacting PUP say this is a good idea.
PUP is excited/affirmed/overjoyed/less lonely happy to know that people really do like poetry 🙂
Here are a few photos of poems popping up as they should, where the wild things are.
Last week I received a huge box at my door, and inside the box was an original piece of art, an unexpected gift of a painting from a talented and kind artist friend whom I collaborated with at Banff Centre. How over the top generous of Lynda Schneider Granatstein. Her gift reminding me of how inspiring to be part of something bigger than myself, to have someone invite me to participate in their process brings life. The painting is now hung in a place of honour, and I am thankful. Thank you again, dear Lynda.
This morning I received an email from a fellow blogger in Kenya, Africa. Kenny is someone I’ve connected with online around poetry. Kenny writes poetry on his blog Kolembo (and elsewhere) that turns me inside out, it’s raw, unique, gutsy, haunting and lyrical. Today Kenny asked if he might include a poem of mine on a blog venture he’s involved with. Of course, I said yes. In a couple of hours you will find ‘Provision’ included in this months selection over at Ten of the Best (and I say that with my heart in my throat feeling less than worthy of inclusion). Kenny, my friend, thank you. And for the African sunshine you sent me today… double thanks. I can feel the warmth on my shoulders.
Here’s to friends, real, tried and true, old like a comfortable slipper, new and heart racing scary, virtual friends, and those yet to be.
Girls skipping at an athletics carnival (Photo credit: Powerhouse Museum Collection)
Here’s to friends who share wisdom, like another supper idea when the recipe box in my head comes up empty, or say no when the bathing suit is just a little on the scanky side. Here’s to friends who laugh til they pee when I say something completely off the wall, and share their leftovers, and pass me kleenex at just the right moment, and let me use their chapstick.
And here’s to wordie friends… those who read and listen and affirm and suggest. The ones who understand the writing life is a bit lonely at times, who know a village, similar to the one required to raise a child, is needed to release a poem to the world. The ones who say something back when you say something you think might be OK to say out loud.
I have what I think might be a new poet/blogger friend in Vancouver, just over the mountains to the west. I recall reading about Samantha once in the paper, a couple of years ago. She inspired me. I found her online recently and read her blog, read what she’s up to which includes writing a poem a day for over a year. Wow.
And although I have yet to meet this friend face to face, she gave me a gift. What a generous spirit Samantha Reynolds has. What a gift to be featured on her blog, bentlily! Thank you Samantha Reynolds! Thank you for believing, like me, that writing words down must always be followed by giving them away. Thank you, my friend.
Here’s the link to bentlily, Samantha Reynolds stunning, uplifting and creative blog.
Monday night I was asked to read a Spoken Word piece for the Mosaic group at Trinity. I showed up early for rehearsal, and as I sat waiting for the group to gather I asked, so just how many young adults do you have attending here? Well, around 60, leader Storm Moore told me. Hmmm… that’s quite a few, I thought. And then the inner voices started and the anxiety started and I began to feel like a fish out of water because, really, what does a middle aged poet have to offer to these kids… I mean, really?
Until I started listening to the lyrics of the music set as they did their run through (did I mention Trinity is my local faith community here in Kelowna?). Anyway, turns out Mosaic, a gathering for the 18 to 28 year old set, is about ‘doing old school yet still relevant church’. Supper, conversation, music, learning… them and me. Me, delivering up a spoken word piece on “Purpose” because they asked. Me being scared and full of self-doubt…
And then the words and the music washed over me and I found myself, on the inside of me, on my knees in awe of God. Have a listen to this song… “Awakening” and tell me… does it move you like it moved me? Specifically these words were the ones that put things into perspective for me…
for you and you alone, awake my soul, awake my soul and sing
for the world you love (the young adults at mosaic, each and every one)
…let your will be done in me (in my poem, my voice, my heart)
So, I waited, I breathed in the words of the song, I opened my hands, let go of my fear, and asked God to do what he had to with my small offering, and when the time came for me to share my poem, I walked up to the microphone and spoke;
Purpose
Lesley-Anne Evans, SGD
One thing this poem will NOT do
is answer all your questions
it won’t tie up loose ends in a pretty little bow
and say, “There, there you go.” No.
Truth is, we ALL have questions ~ like
Who is God?
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What is my PURPOSE?
Questions that jam up inside us, stop us
from making a move.
We are immobilized by FEAR
want to get it absolutely RIGHT.
I believe God is less interested in RIGHT
than we are. He’s more interested in
what lies BENEATH our choice ~ our INTENT.
And that’s what PURPOSE is.
PURPOSE is intent.
PURPOSE is the reason why.
The Book says GOD has a PURPOSE.
A John 3:16 purpose to SAVE THE WORLD!
The loving, giving, dying, soul-saving
divine purpose of God
God the SEEKER
God the RESCUER
God the REDEEMER
God the LOVER
God who finds his deepest JOY in WHO we ARE
and WHY we do what we do
more than WHAT we do for him.
And when we choose God, when he saves us
GOD’S PURPOSE becomes OUR PURPOSE
World savers, God lovers, God glorifiers
Witnesses to all humanity
tellers of HIS ~ STORY.
The confusing part for us
where we get twisted up
is in the PRACTICAL
the WHAT, WHERE, WHEN and HOW
we live our God purpose out.
We want facts. Details. NOW.
This or that, here or there, where oh where…
We take eyes off GOD, looking for
precisely WHAT to do FOR Him.
What if our PURPOSE is
to choose ~ SOMETHING?
Based on what we know of GOD
Based on what we know of OURSELVES?
Something YOU and GOD decide.
GOD knows YOU best. And you know
what you DREAM about
what makes you ANGRY
what makes your HEART BEAT faster
what is uniquely YOU?
(If you don’t know yet, take time and find out
get away, get quiet, pay attention, ask GOD
and WORK it out.
With God PURPOSE, God INTENT
an ORDINARY life is far from ordinary.
Every act, loving God and others, is SIGNIFICANT.
Like building a house. Feeding the homeless.
Teaching English to new Canadians.
Writing a computer program. Writing a poem.
Or going for Gold, like this guy who ran, ran fast.
He said God made him to run fast.
He said he felt God’s pleasure when he ran fast.
And he told everyone. When he won the Olympics he said so.
That simple.
THIS is what God wants for YOU, THIS is what gives God PLEASURE
you giving back what He’s given you, WHO YOU ARE
your unique personality, talents, treasures, experiences.
WATCH and SEE what GOD does with a LIFE like that!
And, now there are echos… here in me. Maybe in others. I love how God loves us, so specifically, so bang on personal, right when we need it most.
English: Alexander Blok’s poem ‘Noch, ulica, fonar, apteka’ on a wall in the Dutch city of Leiden (corner Roodenburgerstraat/Thorbeckestraat) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
So, as I already mentioned, I set out on a September, sunny afternoon and went down to a local village area to read spontaneously to people I met. First time out my stomach was flipping… first person I asked said , “No I don’t have any time for that.”
I was careful to say I was not selling anything… sometimes I think I over-explained! I tried not to intrude, yet have a certain assertiveness about me. I tried to look friendly, yet not overly so. I tried hard 🙂
And, as I walked and as I risked, I met people who were willing to stop and listen for a couple of minutes while I read to them. I took a couple of different poems with me, tried to choose the right poem for the right person based only on my visual assessment of them… now that’s risky too! And I had a couple of conversations that came out of the reading. One about creativity, the other about the persons own realization that to stop and listen was not what she wanted to do, but when she did, she recognized a need within herself to slow down and pay attention to things other than work and her next appointment. And I didn’t try to draw out anything from these people… they shared their thoughts readily. One fellow challenged me on why I was doing what I was doing. Another creative type suggested it would be good to allow the listener to read along… that it was a bit difficult to follow just by listening to the words. Hmmm… really good stuff… great feedback from real people.
Here’s the poem I read most often.
Thoughts on dogs that get out of the yard
Lesley-Anne Evans
You came back. It could have been worse
like the sound of brakes, teeth
on shattering glass, could have been last gasp
flesh on metal. But, you came back smiling
tongue lolling like it was all a walk in the park
darkness no limit for eyes that glowed
in my flashlight beam another time
you went missing in the orchard after supper.
They say you don’t get the dog you want
but the dog you need. What do they know.
Like I need tongued welcomes, tracks
on Berber, eyes watching forays in the fridge.
Like I need chest pressed angry late night drives
’round the neighbourhood, cold hand squeezing
squeaky toys out windows, heat turned high.
You indulge in romps of freedom while I conjure
you drowned in a neighbour’s pool
you impaled on new house construction down the street
you riding in a stranger’s car, someone who is certain
they’ll do a much better job of keeping you safe at home.
Today we strapped a cow bell to your collar. We’ll hear you in the dark.
pop-up-poetry 