I love summer, don’t get me wrong, but my favorite season is definitely autumn.
The changing colors of the trees and surrounding fields, the harvest underway, this part of the world bustling with activity and vigor.
My summers are always busy, for some reason my Muse kicks into overdrive around the end of June, whispering ideas, urging me to work each morning, refusing to allow me to clock out until I’ve put in a full day, slaving at my desk.
Oh, she can be a tyrant.
I’ve written, count ’em, thirty (30) poems since the release of The Definition of Melancholy in May, which is a ridiculously torrid pace for me. I’ve also penned some short stories, plus there are a couple of side-projects I can’t really go into right now and they seem to be morphing into…something. God knows what.
At the moment I’m working on a speech/presentation I’ll be performing next Saturday (September 24th) at our local library. The Lakeland Library Region is celebrating its 50th anniversary and they asked me to do a reading…but I thought I’d try something a bit different and give a talk about the important role libraries have played in my life since childhood. They helped open the door to my imagination, introducing me to authors who became important early influences, mentors and companions I treasured.
The speech will be autobiographical…but also a general discussion on the diminishing importance of the printed word and the impact that could have on our society.
I know most of you won’t be there on Saturday and we’ve been pondering ways of recording the event. We shall see. I’ve spent a lot of time on this presentation over the past couple of weeks—Sherron would say far too much time—but I wanted to be as lucid and concise as I could, ensuring I didn’t bore my audience or ramble on and on, enjoying listening to the sound of my own voice.
I’m afraid that’s the best I can do for an update. I’ll be back again in a couple of weeks (no, really), maybe with a snippet of new work, or a poem to show off, or a rant, just to get the juices flowing.
I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Shauna Powers, host of “Saskatchewan Weekend”.
I usually shy away from interviews but chatting with Shauna about my poetry collection The Definition of Melancholy was like sitting down for coffee with a friend or colleague.
You’ll find the interview in its entirety here–not sure how long it will be up, so enjoy it while you can.
Image by Liam Burns
Image by Liam Burns
I love the sounds Nature makes
when she’s happy and none trouble
her serene countenance, vexing
her with their tireless machines
She hums contentedly
tending her bursting flower boxes
attentive to each seed or shoot
showering them with maternal love
She likes to get her hands dirty
except for the blood
which flows so copiously
it inevitably leaves a stain
She would say she’s blameless
as an iris, tender as a fawn
but we know her as a ruthless foe
when her existence is threatened
Leave her to her graces
praise her in word and deed:
the many shades of green she grows
the beauty she won’t concede
Written on my back deck June 2, 2021, while being serenaded by several varieties of bird song.
Yes, can’t hold back any longer. The second floor renovations almost done, the restored hardwood floor an enormous improvement over the ancient, dusty, shag carpet that once covered it (said aged, toxic carpet being one of the suspected “hot zones” for the initial onset of COVID-19, report from the CDC still pending).
My office is now up and running, stocked with some new book cases, hundreds of volumes surrounding me…and yet there seems to be more space than ever, each square foot fully utilized. Gone is the clutter and torn, sagging posters. Even minimized my display of toys and miniatures. This is the space of a grown, mature artist, not a terminal juvenile (that stuff goes down to my “man cave” in the basement).
Here are some pictures to show you what we’ve done. First a “Before” shot, once the carpet had been ripped up and the office virtually emptied out:
Now here’s a couple of pictures taken this morning:
Just looking at these snaps has my left hand twitching in anticipation of some serious writing. I’m talking about a binge that leaves me emotionally and physically mangled (ah, the good old days). Imagine having a space completely designed around your wishes and specifications. It’s a dream come true. The beautiful little touches that make it completely mine—
Including, as a grand finale, one wall that my wife and I layered with papier mache…incorporating fragments torn from an old, tattered copy of James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man I had lying around.
I call it the “Joyce Wall” and a closeup looks like this:
Work on the upper floor still isn’t complete—there’s scraping and crack-filling and painting…and then all the furniture has to be put back in the proper rooms. It’s been a process but we’re getting there.
My new creative play area excites me beyond belief. There’s a sense that my career and approach to writing are getting a reboot, a fresh beginning, distant, unexplored horizons beckoning.
What dreams may yet come…