civil disobedience today against tar sands pipeline!

Just now, 130 young people began a march in Ottawa. Within the next hour, they will begin a mass civil disobedience action to call on Prime Minister Trudeau to reject the Kinder Morgan tar sands pipeline.

You’ve signed up to support these brave youth, so we will keep you posted throughout the day with updates on this action.

For now, you can follow and share live updates about this action using the #Climate101 hashtag, and you can tune in to the facebook livestream for this action which will take place around 12:30 PM (EST) on the 350 Canada facebook page -- you can also watch it on the homepage of the Climate 101 website.

The Nobel - Who's Next (Pete Townshend?)

Hi Jim,
Dr. John is also interested in this debate, altho more about whether singer/songwriters should receive The Prize. I'm pretty sure he's on the side of the angels, tho, and Sylvia also loves the fact that Bobby D is the first ever songwriter to receive the Nobel Prize for literature.

So now that the floodgates are seemingly open, who's next (The Who's Peter Townshend?) I support your nomination for Lenny, altho I can't stand his singing or his 'poetry'. His voice sounds like
a whiny 14 year old who's just finished whacking off and who now wants to moan about not being able to score the prom queen  ;  )- I also don't get his cultural perspective - he's a Montreal Jew, who has pretensions of being a Buddhist, but whose lyrics are full of Christian iconography. WTF ARE you all about, Lenny! Perhaps the fact that you've been known to sport the occasional beret has influenced your judgment regarding the Canuck songster - me, I've never worn a beret, raspberry or other flavour (hey, how about Prince?) and never will (truthfully, my fat Celtic head is a major factor rather than an ingrained hatred of berets - they're cute on overly sensitive private school girls).

Back to Bobby, altho I sincerely hope Lenny does cop the big one sooner than later - I didn't think about the mortality factor, as he's been sounding like he's at death's door since the 1960s.
Bobby D DID change our world through his music and poetry. CBC played "The Times They are A'changin" after the newscast and it brought back memories of my 1956 beetle. Circa 1967/68 I painted that generational logo on its trunk, along with a picture of Frodo and a peace dove. I think the Coen brothers captured the importance of Bobby in their brilliant movie "Inside Llewyn Davis".

A Canuck I'd love to see receive the Nobel is Buffy St. Marie. More in sync (hey, their turn will come) with the sixties cultural revolution with her "Universal Soldier" than Lenny, and she's an indigenous woman to boot. Talk about a politikally correct selection!

Lou. I love his raspy voice, whereas I can't stand Lenny's. I can't explain (The Who again) my personal biases, they're just subjective preferences ingrained by where I happened to be at certain significant times in my life. "Sweet Jane" is my choice for a funeral requiem - best song ever.

Mick. Speaking of singer/songwriter/poets, Mick is my choice. There are only 3 CDs on my car's system, and they're all Stones! As Dr. J has pointed out, Mick has had the decency to make no attempts to claim the crown of poet/singer/songwriter. I can live by The Stones, love their sound - unlike most of the above named, they can actually play music and sing in key, and Mick's humorous, sexy, vivacious lyrics have gotten lost in the exuberance of their sound!

On short term reflection, my vote for best poetic singer/songwriters comes down to Lou and Mick, with Mick getting my nod.

Jeez, on even further reflection, perhaps the Nobel prize should have gone collectively to that generation of singer/songwriter/poets - Bobby, Lenny, Buffy, Mick/Keef, Lou, John/Paul/George/Ringo, Jimi, Petey, et alia

damien (my dark side moniker)
 

On 2016-10-15, at 8:41 AM, jim  wrote:

Alas, Lenny may not be around in a few years. He's at the door.
I'm not one of these, and they're plenty of them, who begrudge Bob but I think Cohen is more important. Dylan's songs are firmly rooted in a certain time and place (although I bought his last CD Duquesne Whistle and thought it was very good.
Gasparini made a good point about it all. Cohen is a romantic; Dylan wrote about everything. But that's not what the prize is about. Cohen's poetry is eternal and universal. "Like a Bird on a Wire", "Dance Me to the End of Love",  "Suzanne" etc. do the job in Canada or Uzebekistan or Paraguay and would have done so fifty years ago and will do so fifty years from now.



On Thu, Oct 13, 2016 at 11:04 PM, Chris Faiers <zenriver@sympatico.ca> wrote:
Me, I'm celebrating! Guess I'm more of a Bobby than a Lenny fan. Lenny will get his in a couple of years.


On 2016-10-13, at 4:39 PM, jim wrote:

> My objection can be encompassed by two words: Leonard Cohen.

50 years of publishing poetry - Burning the Words

Thanksgiving 2016

Hi Sheila,
A quick note on Thanksgiving day . . . guess this is a time of reflection  ;  )

I'm planning to do a post on my blog about uncluttering my house of all my old poetry mss, correspondence, chapbooks, etc. . The tentative title is 'uncluttering, archiving, reminiscing' - that could almost be a senryu!

Anyway, I vaguely remember you wrote an excellent poem on this subject a number of years ago. I'd love to include your poem (if my memory is functioning correctly, and you did write such a poem) along with my post.

Trust all well with you and your new life on the west coast? All well with me, altho life is very quiet and I'm enjoying a sabbatical from the poetry world.

peace,
Chris



Burning the Words

 
I’m up to the Ws now

All these poets
whose letters I thought important
to keep
- in cabinets
- in drawers
- in boxes

Thirty years
of their cover letters
with submissions
and carbon copies of my replies
with the old manual typewriter
the e slightly higher than the other characters
moving on to electric
then electronic word processor
finally the computer

In these folders
are cards of thanks
from grateful beginners
whom I published
or interviewed on the radio

There are names here
I neither recognize nor remember
not hard to toss those
to watch words curl upward
in a grey spiral
freedom by fire


But some writers I got to know
quite well by mail
and saw more than a few move on to fame
such as it is for literature
Liliane Welch is in this batch
she sends me postcards from Europe every summer
Roger White, who sent me witty epistles
as he commenced his journey toward death
Dick Woollatt, also deceased
whose chapbook I produced

It was tempting to read the contents of those files
but I resisted - I would have wanted to keep them
and this is an exercise in unloading

Hard to believe I hauled it all
through half a dozen relocations
taking up precious space in attics and basements
thinking of how universities would fight
to acquire these old papers
and would pay my descendants huge sums
for the privilege

I’m saving them the job by disposal
I feel liberated watching these words disappear
see only a tiny hint of remorse
in the ashes



Sheila Martindale
from her book Portraits & Still Life (2004)






                                                           ~   ~   ~   ~

Thanks, Sheila, for letting me post your poem. You said what I'm feeling now, and you said it perfectly and poetically. I'm in the process of trying to find new homes in various archives for the literary ephemera I've gathered in the half century (!) I've been a publishing poet.

It's hard to believe that it was 50 years ago, 1967, that Eric Amann published some of my haiku in his seminal mag, Haiku. Eric died this spring, and I still haven't managed to lift myself from creative lethargy to create a  tribute to Eric.

I did contact Terry Barker last week to see if he's interested in adding some of our correspondence to his archives at York University. Terry approved of the idea, and about a kilogram of letters, manuscripts and postcards are now heading towards a new home. I'll give Terry a short breather, and then more packages will be on their way.

Last spring I did follow your initiative and began burning some of my correspondence as the publisher of the small lit press, Unfinished Monument Press. I spent half an hour stuffing the chiminea in my backyard before my conscience took hold, and some of the material heading for York U will have singe marks on the margins  : )-

Of course some of my personal books and correspondence are already in established archives. Haiku materials are in both the Haiku Canada archives and the big California haiku archives. For several years Marvin Orbach (RIP) printed copies of all my poetry related email correspondence for his special archives at the University of Calgary. So much of the last several years of the Purdy Country Litfests (PurdyFests) correspondence I coordinated (with Terry Barker) are being well preserved and catalogued.

I feel lighter and less burdened as the packages go out, and some folders will doubtless still head for a visitation with the chiminea. If any reader of this blog is interested in a random batch of chapbooks, I'll gladly send a miscellaneous batch for postage costs (about $15 inclusive).



                                                               .     .    .    .


On 2016-10-10, at 7:52 PM, anna yin wrote:

sad to read that....and think life is like that...

Yet, when I feel low, i read haiku, write haiku... then I feel better.  here is my Thank you haiku

cards from friends
today’s rain
in a soft melody

all day thinking of you
the numbers I dial
ring a moon river tune

feast of thanksgiving
on your fingertips
the roast turkey’s scent

midnight goodbye
thank-you message
so much unsaid
-
Anna



 

crows discuss

I just got back from my first hike to Sorrow Falls in a long time. In fact that's the main reason I'm writing this - it's an excuse to draft a haibun about the walk, the first such posting I'll have done since early August when I wrote one about watching the Perseid meteor shower.

Some email correspondence with Katherine Gordon has shaken me out of my summer doldrums, so I decided that rather than do my daily summer walk along the river towpath in the village, I'd venture forth like a good little visionary haijin and visit one of my favourite haunts. The Sorrow Falls trail along the old railway line was my first choice, so I jumped into the Sube and headed out of town.

It seems like a very long time since I've hiked my favourite trail. The brush and saplings have grown up along both sides of the trail since my last visit. The creek was hidden by the new growth, which surprised me as it's been a drought stricken summer. There used to be a field on the other side of the trail before the first wooden bridge, but that's also overgrown now. I was feeling pretty chipper in my newfound enthusiasm, so I made it to Sorrow Falls in a few minutes less than the usual half hour.

The entire creek was completely dry at the falls, both the pool below and the riverbed above. I decided to walk upstream on the rocky path, and I reminisced about finding my dolphin shaped suiseki stone there a decade ago. The dolphin has rested beside me in my study every since, a touchstone reminder of the drala magick of Sorrow Falls in particular, and nature in general.

At first I didn't find any special tonde or suiseki stones, just the amazing water sculptures and small caves carved by millennia of water flow.

 
secrets revealed
with every step
in the dry stream bed


Suddenly I found a small 'temple' stone, one of those exotic looking terraced rocks. It was small enough that I decided to pick it up as a memento of the day and this first annual fall visit to Sorrow Falls.

The summer drought was so pervasive that for the first time I was able to walk the stream bed all the way to the second wooden bridge. There I clambered up the bank and through a small thicket of cedar to reach the bridge, which I'd named 'shaman bridge' in 2003 during my re-awakening period.

 
faded mandalas
carved in the wood
of the old bridge


Starting to feel tired, I headed back. Few birds had lightened my hike, and as I passed the swamp valley on the west side, the only birds I saw or heard during the walk were crows (Milt and Basho?):


crows discuss
drought withered fields
and wild red apples  








ayaz daryl nielsen has left a new comment on your post "crows discuss":

yes, appreciate your creativity
best to your week,
ayaz daryl nielsen

Posted by ayaz daryl nielsen to Riffs &amp; Ripples from ZenRiver Gardens at 16 September 2016 at 20:07

End of Days - Romance and Elegy for the Sixth Extinction

End of Days—Romance and Elegy for the Sixth Extinction

September stirs the poignancy of beauty and wilt.
The shy pinks, robust reds of earlier seasons, turn to
luminescent gold and crimson, russet and ochre.
Then the rustle of straw and browning.  Decay and farewell
pinch nostrils.
Yet the fresh and quickening winds bloom on cheeks, arms seek
woollens. We are blessed to own the things that defy the chill.
As decades slip by we are surprised at the end-of-season, end-of-days
analogy. Now our present world omens a deeper end-of –days.
The climate, once a cornucopia of wise sayings, has become unpredictable.
Cities flood, forests burn, fish flounder, seas rise. Time to take warning.
Like aging humans we are caught amazed as the familiar disappears.
Bodies reflect the wear of seasons, minds try to absorb the implications
of a hostile world.   A history of human folly begins to be written.
The information age, instead of freeing all our good instincts to better
the world, is bogged down in pettiness, politics, misguided greed.
Is there still an Equinox?
As we stand between sun and moon at the crucial hour, will we help
the planet turn into a golden renaissance era or the nemesis of wipe-out,
die-out and replacement.  A repeat of the Permian clean slate of all life,
a sixth extinction wrought by human failure.

Katherine L. Gordon
epic September 2016.









Skeletons In Moon-Rise
 
At moon-rise a radiating sphere of golden light
appeared on the pine floor
like a sudden sand-dune beneath the prim pane,
exotic in a Protestant valley.
I ventured bare feet into it
absorbed the unexpected tingle of light
shocked to see that bones shone
through the now transparent skin.
I knew my skeleton self...
that all soft flesh covers a secret:
eternity of bare bone
the price of trying to briefly catch the light.
 
Katherine L. Gordon
September, 2016

how I spent my summer holidays . . .

Hi Katherine,
Thanks for the concern  ;  )  I guess I'm going through a period of transition and adjustment in my life - lots of recent changes. I really miss Chase, who passed at the end of January. We were constant companions for the decade we shared. Knowing I was going to lose Chase was part of my decision to sell ZenRiver Gardens last summer (2015) - double closure for the decade which followed my early forced retirement from the library world. My life seems to be organized in decades.

My best friend Sylvia has successfully moved back to her home city of Thunder Bay. I focused most of my time and energy after Chase's passing on helping her prepare her Toronto house for sale, and now that she's moved I've lost my base in Toronto. Further closure.

PurdyFests also ended two summers ago, a couple of years short of my standard mark of a decade. It was a lot of fun and a learning experience coordinating events, and it was enjoyable playing host to a wide selection of Canadian poets. Sadly, a number of the poets turned out to be huge ingrates, including several fellow key organizers. I find it hard to reconcile how people who can be such arseholes in life can write any kind of genuine poetry - how can there be any joy and magick in your writing if you're a fuck up in your relationships with other people, especially those who've supported and encouraged you. 

As you may have noticed from my infrequent blog postings, and lack of inspired literary creativity, I'm taking one of my regular sabbaticals from the CanPo world. Now that Sylvia's settled in TBay, I've been spending my summer enjoying the raw beauty of my rural surroundings. Lots of kayak trips in my bathtub sized yacht, lots of hot and humid afternoons spent wandering the cool shallows of the Crowe River at Callahan's Rapids Conservation Area, daily walks on the nearby path beside The Crowe - that kind of enjoyable escapism and appreciation of nature. Maybe 'Wordsworth of The Shield'   ;  )-

Because of my lack of recent literary creativity, an essay from you on September would be most welcome for Riffs and Ripples. I'm surprised that the blog is still receiving an average of 30 to 40+ visits a day, despite only one posting in all of August. Perhaps your enthusiasm will inspire and lift me from my comfortable, but uninspired doldrums!

peace & poetry power!
Chris/cricket

p.s. yes, your book arrived a while back, but to be honest, I haven't even opened the package yet I'm so burned out with my fellow poets (except for you and a few others)



On 2016-09-12, at 11:31 AM, Katherine Gordon wrote:

Hello Chris, hope all is well at Zen River, especially you.
I mailed you a copy of Landscapes,  hope it reached you.

Are you in the mood for a brief essay on September?
Let me know how you are doing.  An early chill here in the
valley,  perhaps you are snug in town.
Katherine.

Perseids

At dusk I had an unexpected visitor. After walking her home, I decided to sit on my back deck to enjoy the cooling night air. This summer long heat wave has offered few reprieves.

 
a toke of local
some swigs of chilled:
Perseids on display

Leaning back to watch the night sky, a shooting star had almost immediately lit a faint path. The Perseid meteor shower of early August. I hadn't consciously remembered them, but some memory had told me to pick this night to skywatch.


ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!


A meteor shot from south to north, so low and powerful that I jumped up from the bench. I waited for a crash it seemed so huge and close, but no explosion or burst of light followed. I've never experienced a meteor so long lasting and so close. It didn't have the intense brightness of a meteor, what was it? An intergalactic craft? The power of a dog day night sky, a puff - and amazing things reveal.

Entranced I watched for more entertainment. A satellite cruised the constellations, then another bright meteor lit its dying trail.

An hour of human time drifted by . . .    to the strains of The Velvet Underground

 
satellite fades
with Lou Reed's final notes
"Satellite of Love"