Listening To Silence

I went for a walk one afternoon a week or so ago. That's nothing new; I do that now and then for several reasons. I find it takes me away from the stresses that pile up over time; if I've had more time in the company of a lot of people than I feel comfortable with, a walk is the perfect way to re-focus myself; and surrounded by the natural world, I don't need to be anyone or play any role - just be. So, I took a peaceful stroll through a semi-secluded valley beside a slow-moving stream, kept my mouth shut, and my eyes and ears and mind open.

Somehow along the ramble, a line of thinking developed. I'd been hearing my share of poetry read in the last while, but there seemed to be an integral part missing. Whether the poet who read was dramatic or bland didn't matter. It seemed that all were so intent on getting the words out there, often rattling along like gunfire, that only at the end of a long line (or even several lines) or at the end of a stanza could the poet take a short, sharp breath before continuing. And even that pause was as short as possible so it wouldn't interfere with the delivery of the words, the message.

I believe pauses, stretches of silence, are important to a poem and poetry in general. When I read a printed poem for myself, I am free to pause where I will or must to aid in the comprehension, the digestion of the poem and whatever it delivers. At a public reading or presentation this is often not the case. The better readers, in my opinion, use the weight of silence, of pauses.

Like my quiet afternoon walk, a poem also often needs the emphasis of silence to enhance its full power. We should listen to the silences in a poem as much as to words and meaning. So much of our lives are spent with the awareness of and bombardment by words and sounds that the importance of silence has been lost. We need to re-integrate it into our lives and our poetry.

Satisfaction

I want to get a little personal today; bear with me.

Saturday had all the makings for a disheartening, self-pitying, miserable day. It rained hard and constantly before, during, and after sunrise. I didn't want to get groceries but could put it off no longer. And I had obligations to fulfill.

At four in the afternoon I was supposed to be in Cambridge, attending the launch of a volume of poetry by a friend. I had promised a ride to two local friends so I couldn't honestly excuse myself. We went. The reading, surprisingly enough, was warm and moving. Hmmm.

After dropping off one of us at home, my other friend and I continued on to join Hamilton Blues Lovers at a series of acts at the Burlington Sound of Music Festival, blues at the OLG stage. I didn't want to put up with loud music, crowds, wet grounds and more rain butI had chosen the event for the HBL and therefore again felt some obligation.

The music did its magic. It lifted me up out of my funk. By the end of the evening I was rocking and bopping in my shoes. Driving home I was filled with a sense of satisfaction I had no reason to expect.

It reminded me of a poem I wrote some years ago about the tedium of daily living. I ended with:

All I really need

is a course of Oscar Peterson's piano,

with Odetta's contralto on the side,

and a helping of (your) poems

for desert.

It still works. The combination of words and music takes me out of myself into an existence I can reach no other way. Words and music. Poetry and the blues. Oh yeah.

Art to Art

An encounter with an old friend I hadn't seen in some time caused me to think about the relationship between different artistic disciplines, especially as they occur in the one individual. My friend and I had, some years ago, both been active writing and publishing poetry, reading at literary and progressive events. I had continued with my poetry; he had gone on to try drama and then make a name for himself as a sculptor. We spoke of the old times and before I could even raise the question, he offered an answer.

It wasn't that he was not sincere about his poetry, he explained, but it was one of several ways of self expression that he was exploring at the time. He mentioned a turn at stand-up comedy and a stint with a rock band that I had forgotten. For reasons of his own he chose sculpture as his medium of choice.

I wished him well with his current and future projects. Over coffee at home I pondered how an artist moves from one metier to another. Sticking with literary figures, I thought of how writers like Atwood and Ondaatje put their excellent poetry aside for the novel, how a century ago Thomas Hardy gave up novels for poetry. Moving from literary to plastic arts would be even more difficult, unless, as my friend had explained, it was a part of finding your personal method of expression.

It all made me think back to what I had gone through to become so connected to poetry. In my youth, I too had tried other means. I had spent time on the stage. I had performed as a vocalist with a musical ensemble. Unable to draw or paint, I had however taken instruction in photography. Literature, and especially poetry, became my art of choice; not just poetry because I also write the occasional piece of short fiction.

We all have to channel our self-expression somehow. Some people lie and cheat and steal to feel good about themselves; others create things that reflect the beauty or ugliness of life. Writers put it into words that don't get blown away by the wind.

Each to each.

On a Cold Winter's Night

Last night was bitterly cold. While on my way to my car I overheard a snippet of conversation between two young ladies at the bus stop. "Whatcha doing later?" "I'm gonna curl up with So-and So's latest, a blanket, hot chocolate ..." "Oh, yeah! She is hot!!" I didn't recognize the author's name, probably a best selling romance novelist, but I certainly could agree with the sentiment.

When I arrived home I said to myself, Since you are a poet, what poet would you curl up with on a cold winter's night? and spent some time reflecting on it. Not one who was fiery, intense and emotional. Not someone who would demand all your attention. Not someone who makes you work to follow his mental gymnastics. Someone with a slow hand and a soothing voice.

The first name that came up was Robert Frost, because of the simlicity and gentility of his poetry, not because of his name. I approved of my choice but then told myself, As a Canadian, with what Canadian poet would you share a winter evening in front of the fire?

After a lengthy pause the names came like the first slow drips of a morning icicle: Glen Sorestad; Ralph Gustafson; Emile Nelligan for a dash of French; Margaret Avison for a feminine perspective. Several more, including good friends of mine.


I have warmth, good food and drink, poetry galore.
I need only some body to cuddle.