I met a poet once at a book reading in some dark, obscure bar in Vancouver, a lovely shaggy fellow who loved poetry. He said that poetry is 鈥渋nvigorating.鈥�
I have always remembered his excitement over poetry. I have not written poetry but if I did, I would compose a poem titled: 鈥淲hy I聽Won鈥檛 Take A Sauna.鈥�
When I had my dear old historic farm in North Saanich, I imported from the United States two rare-breed Gloucester Old Spot sows. They were enormous, sweet-smelling and placid creatures, their great warm pink bulk lumbering around the meadow, wallowing in their mud hole or nibbling at buttercups.
For the first month or two, they had to be quarantined, having arrived from another country. By order of Agriculture sa国际传媒, I had to wear a billowing hazmat type of white paper suit with a hood when I fed them.
Following their quarantine, I arranged a small swearing-in citizenship ceremony in their sty. The selected guests arrived, the dress code being 鈥渞ubber boots鈥� and 鈥渇ormal farm labour wear.鈥�
The two new honoured Canadians grunted through the entire celebration, deep in their hay beds under a string of Canadian flags hung across the cobwebbed rafters, and only raised their lips to eat their cooked 颅Canadian potato and apple slices (the guests had 颅champagne).
One of the invited knew the Canadian poet P.K. Page. P.K. could not make the ceremony, but sent along a delightful poem welcoming the pigs to their new country. She was kind enough to allow me to include her poem in my first book:
鈥淟et us lift up our glasses
To two lovely lasses
Whose pulchritude fills us with bliss.鈥�
If you would like to read poetry but are a bit hesitant, or feel you may not understand it, give yourself some quiet time and pick up one of P.K. Page鈥檚 poetry collections. My聽personal favourite is Hand Luggage: A Memoir in Verse (2006, The Porcupine鈥檚 Quill), which you may still be able to fin颅d in some bookstores, or excerpted in other collections.
P.K., who passed away in 2010, was 颅married to W. Arthur Irwin, a Canadian 颅diplomat, and a dominant theme in her lovely, poignant, readable verse is her travels, reflections and observations as a diplomat鈥檚 wife in various locations.
She writes about her house when they were posted in Australia, 鈥溾�� with a bell in each room 鈥� Ex(cellency) 鈥� God鈥檚 truth! Unbelievably swank!鈥�
When she heard, while attending a fancy dinner party, that Dylan Thomas had died, she writes: 鈥溾�� and I grieved by myself. Our hosts little knew that a light had gone out.鈥� In Brazil she ate turtle: 鈥淚ts shell was the plate (Why was it disturbing when oysters are not?)鈥�
The Essential P.K. Page, selected by Arlene Lampert and Th茅a Gray (2008, The Porcupine鈥檚 Quill), provides a variety of her poetry. In Address at Simon Fraser (excerpt), she gives this advice: 鈥淪o, what is there to tell you? Only this, 鈥業magination is the star of man鈥�.鈥�
Bramah and the Beggar Boy by Ren茅e Sarojini Saklikar (2021, Nightwood Editions) is a completely different read, but will appeal to those who love deeply involved fantastical story telling, in this case in verse.
There is a multitude of levels to this tale, told as an epic fantasy, the major theme being the ravaging effects of climate change. Bramah is a 鈥渂rown, brave and beautiful鈥� locksmith (female) who meets an orphan beggar boy. Together, through magic, her grandmother and 鈥淔our Aunties of the Wishing Well,鈥� plus time travel, they battle the evil (known as the 鈥淐onsortium鈥�) of the planet, which has been destroyed by 颅鈥渟urging tides 鈥� wild fires .. . water rights abandoned 鈥︹��
Brahma introduces the beggar boy to her Grandmother, a wise elder who, with 鈥溾�� her warm hands, her unlined skin 鈥�,鈥� saves seeds. 鈥淕randmother took the boy鈥檚 hand and shook kernels, red dawn, sequoia swirls, hard spindle-shaped, seeds as thin as oatmeal flakes fluttered down.鈥�
Recently, I had the delightful task of 颅hosting a live writing-panel event at Royal Athletic Park.
Local poet Arleen Par茅 was one of the readers. Her latest book of poems, Earle Street (2020, Talonbooks), is a cool and soothing collection of observations from her home on Earle Street in Fairfield. She sees her home in four sections: as a river, an arboretum, a window and a whole world.
November Bird Count From Inside The House describes her bird observations, ending with the crow count: 鈥淎merican crow: seven, eight, no, nine. Wait, seventeen.鈥�
I related strongly to her evening strolls, 鈥渢he orange rectangular glow that amplifies uncurtained windows 鈥� amber lit at the end of the day 鈥︹��
So try a bit of poetry this summer 鈥� amble through the words as if taking a walk, and see what resonates with you!
