Janet’s Journal By Janet Kvammen Hello everyone! Welcome to our June 2013 newsletter packed full of upcoming RCLAS events.
Our next newsletter will be in September. I have saved a few more of the excellent contest honorable mentions to share with you at that time.
We are delighted to be able to share some of our Write On! Contest Honorable Mentions in this issue.
Welcome to all our new members! If you are a member of RCLAS and would like to write an article or a book review for an upcoming newsletter – an RCLAS Member reviewing the work of another RCLAS member would be interesting. Please email me with your ideas. Perhaps an eerie story, article or tribute to a favourite Dead Poet for a Special Halloween October issue? Thank you for your support. Spread the word about us.
Exciting news for Summer 2013!
Have a great day!
“Poetry in the Park” is back in New Westminster every Wednesday evening 6:30pm - 8:30pm @ The Queen’s Park Bandshell starting July 3 thru Aug 28. If it rains we can move into the Arts Council Gallery nearby at Centennial Lodge close to the bandshell.
Best,
A bright cheerful cover to herald the coming of the summer solstice sending with it many happy wishes for a FABULOUS, SAFE and FUN summer 2013!
Poetic Justice will be closed from June 30 to the end of August. We will be back in September. Thanks to Franci Louann for doing an awesome job and to all are regular hosts and open mic participants. Congratulations to everyone for making it a great success.
Janet Kvammen Royal City Literary Arts Society Director Email – janetkvammen@rclas.com Website - www.rclas.com
Upcoming RCLAS Events Art Inspired by The Poetry of Candice James Art Show - Exhibit Opening Reception Location: Place des Arts 1120 Brunette Avenue Coquitlam, BC Date: Thursday June 6, 2013 Time: 7PM – 9PM Show runs June 6 – 28th, 2013 Featuring the artwork by the students of artist, Don Portelance. New West Artists present Visual Verse 2013 Opening Reception Location: The Network Hub New Westminster Campus River Market 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC Opening Reception: June 7, 2013 Time: 6PM -8PM http://newwestartists.com The art show worth a thousand words runs from June 7 – July 3, 2013, Network Hub office hours. 2013 Visual Verse Artist and Poet Match Up 1. Richard Armstrong // Mohenjo-daro by Eileen Kernaghan 2. Katie Boughen // Into The Light by Donna Ross 3. Tony Bryant // Navigation By The Night Sky by Gavin Hainsworth 4. Sharon Bettker // Escape To Eden by Lilija Valis 5. Judith Copland // Silver Thaw by Mary Duffy 6. Dale Costanzo // Gift by Mary Duffy 7. Alicja Draganska // Prodding by Manolis Aligizakis 8. Anthony Hollenstein // Between Earth and Sky by Janet Kvammen 9. Amanda Ivings // Blue by Lilija Valis 10. Robert Jost // Chorus by Donna Ross 11. Kay Klyne // Together by Ashok Bhargava 12. Richard Klyne // Meditation is Key by Jo Martinez
13. Janet Kvammen // High Diver of Mazatlan by Bernice Lever 14. Irene Lacharite // Pink Eyeshadow by Angel Edwards 15. Monique Lum // Whispers by Ashok Bhargava 16. MAC 1 // Check Mate Mouse by Gary Redmond 17. MAC 2 // The Colours of the Quay by Franci Louann 18. MAC 3 // Sitting In A Field Of Dandelions by Jo Martinez 19. Carolyn McLaughlin // Under The Wild Pepper Tree by Ruth Kozak 20. Valerie McRae // Marble and Frost by Candice James 21. Carole Millar // Perfection by Donna Ross 22. Andre Minardi // Working My Garden of Eden by Gary Redmond 23. Teresa Morton // In The Stars by Janet Kvammen 24. Peri-Laine Nilan // The Road Goes On by Melissa Nilan 25. Elena Perelman // The Garden by Ruth Kozak 26. Don Portelance // We All Must Fall by Janet Kvammen 27. James Price // Gown by Manolis Aligizakis 28. Sally Reesman // Ascent by Mary Duffy 29. Shelley Rothenburger // The Throne Room by Alan Hill 30. Wendy Schmidt // Tug by Bernice Lever 31. Julia Schoennagel // Avalon by Lilija Valis 32. Gillian Wright // Morning Over The Fraser by Franci Louann 33. Elena Zhukova // Dance (Villanelle) by Eileen Kernaghan 34. Lavana LaBrey // Re-Romancing To Amuse A Muse by Gavin Hainsworth 35. Sandra White // Cool Water Piano Keys by Candice James 36. Cliff Blank // Shore Bound Stranger by Candice James 37. Omanie Elias // The UnBalancing Act by Alan Hill 38. Oksana Slonevskaya // View by Manolis Aligizakis 39. Sheila West // The Chalice Well, Glastonbury by Eileen Kernaghan 40. Penny Lim // Let There Be Poetry by Ruth Kozak 41. Solveig Brickenden // Celestial Treat by Ashok Bhargava
Visual Verse: A Celebration of Poetry and Art Location: The Network Hub New Westminster Campus River Market 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC Date: Friday June 28, 2013 Time: 6PM - 8PM A wonderful evening showcasing poets featured in the New West Artists Visual Verse exhibit. Poetry will be read while surrounded by the art inspired by their words. Sponsored by Royal City Literary Arts Society. http://newwestartists.com To find out more details. Facebook https://www.facebook.com/newwestartists?fref=ts
Blue Pencil Critique Sessions with Candice James and Donald Neil Simmers Location: New Westminster Library 716 6th Avenue, New Westminster Date: Tuesday June 11, 2013 Time: 6:30PM – 8:30 PM · Pre registrations for 1 on 1 sessions only · 1 on 1 sessions are 15 minutes each · Bring work you want critiqued · Free · Email secretary@rclas.com or phone 778-714-1772 and specify your choice of critique Candice James or Donald Neil Simmers and we will set your time slot. Sponsored by RCLAS and NWPL. RCLAS presents "Short Story Open Mic with Margo Prentice"
Location: The Heritage Grill, Backstage Room 447 Columbia St, New Westminster Date: Wednesday June 12, 2013 Time: 6:30PM – 8:30 PM Join Hostess, Margo Prentice for Short Story Open Mic. *** Please note.This is not a poetry event - short stories only Sponsored by RCLAS, Royal City Literary Arts Society. ***This will be an ongoing series and will be on the second Wednesday of each month.
An active member of the Waves writing group, Margo has been published in the Vancouver Sun and her poetry also appears in Royal City Poets Anthology 2011. She is the Artistic Director of the Golden Age Theatre and has written a number of plays which have been performed by this group. Her Workshop, How to Write A Play, was presented at the LitFest in 2013. * Reads/Hosts regularly at Poetic Justice, as well as, reciting at open mic with Rennaisance Books in New Westminster. * Written more than 150 stories, and recently finished the manuscript for a book she hopes to publish in 2013. * Senior worker on the Heart2Art Project, a leader in spoken word.
* A Stand-up comic who has worked extensively in Vancouver and the Lower Mainland. * Writes her own material, and especially enjoys writing comedy.
Poetry In The Park Summer 2013 Location: Queen’s Park Bandshell New Westminster Opening Night: Wednesday July 3, 2013 Every Wednesday Eve 6:30PM – 8:30 PM Summer 2013: July 3 thru August 28 Free admission Featured Poets and Open Mic with hostess, Candice James. Bring your poems, Bring your friends! Sponsored by RCLAS, Royal City Literary Arts Society, Arts Council of New Westminster, Silver Bow Publishing and Poetry New Westminster. *** If it rains we will move into the Arts Council Gallery at Centennial Lodge near the Bandshell.
Pablo Neruda Unveiled Location: New Westminster Public Library 716 – 6th Avenue, New Westminster, BC Date: Tuesday July 16, 2013 Time: 6:30 PM – 8:30 PM Poetry readings from “The Heights of Macchu Picchu” by Pablo Neruda featuring Manolis Aligizakis with Candice James, Janet Kvammen, Gavin Hainsworth and friends.
Pablo Neruda Born Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto July 12, 1904 Parral, Chile Died September 23, 1973 Santiago, Chile Occupation Poet, Diplomat Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature 1971 Sponsored by RCLAS, Royal City Literary Arts Society and NWPL
Linking Passion and Inspiration Workshop With Deborah L. Kelly Location: New Westminster Public Library Plaskett Room, Upstairs 716 – 6th Avenue, New Westminster, BC Date: Monday August 12, 2013 Time: 6:30PM – 8:30PM The purpose of this workshop is to review how passion works in hand with our inspiration. We will focus on how our passions affect our writing, and its influence on inspiration. We will review different types of poetry and the different reasons we write. The first and foremost passion that arouses all inspiration is of course, our passion for the written word; this draws us into action. We will also touch on the existentialism of passion and inspiration.
POETIC JUSTICE Schedule June 2013 {Poetic Justice is under the umbrella of RCLAS, our sister group}
Location: Heritage Grill Backroom 447 Columbia St New Westminster near Columbia skytrain station Contact Person: Franci Louann Email: flouann@telus.net Website: www.poeticjustice.ca
Poetic Justice featuring Alan Hill and Bren Simmers with host, Eva Waldauf Date: Sunday, June 2, 2013 Time: 3-5 pm
Poetic Justice Featuring Kimmy Beach/ Gavin Hainsworth/ Janet Kvammen/ Gail VanKalsbeek with host, Candice James Date: Sunday, June 9, 2013 ***Change of Venue for June 9 only – Location: The Network Hub River Market (Upstairs @Visual Verse Art Show) 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC Time: 3-5 pm
Poetic Justice Featuring Candice James/ Lilija Valis/ Cristy Watson with host, Alan Hill Date: Sunday, June16, 2013 Time: 3-5 pm
Poetic Justice Featuring Mahara Allbrett/ Sonja Littlejohn/ Annie Ross with host, Sho Wiley Date: Sunday, June 23, 2013 Time: 3-5 pm Come join us! We have Open Mic sign-up at every Poetic Justice. WE WILL BE CLOSED JUNE 30 & ALL OF JULY & AUGUST.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Non-Fiction Honorable Mention
Duffle Bag of Poetry David Delaney
Feeling excited about my involvement in the redroom company’s ‘seafaring duffle bag of poetry’, which started its journey in Tasmania stopping at different ports along the way until reaching its final port of call at Thursday Island in far north Queensland, before being transported to Sydney for a gala exhibition, and, while on its travels collecting poems and different ‘goodies’ related to anything to do with the ocean, I agreed to ‘pick up’ the said Duffle bag when it docked at Cairns wharf. My wife Bev and I arrived at the wharf area in Cairns where the huge tanker ‘Alexander Spirit’ was berthed and had the bag on board. Continuing to the security guards ‘hut’ where I excitedly and cheerfully greeted the guard, who appeared to have the humour of a bear emerging from hibernation, he then proceeded to seize my phone, camera, keys, wife, “wife!”, apparently Bev’s name was not on his “list” of those allowed on board (I’m glad she left the rocket launcher at home) though with Bev not being allowed entry turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for her. Leaving Bev with dwarf “Grumpy” I was concerned she might have to perform a medical miracle in putting his face back together if he tried to smile, I thought, while continuing my walk to the gangplank, did I say “gangplank” this incline was no less than the east face of Mt. Everest and I’m sure the top was obscured by cloud cover. About a half hour later, and, by myself for my trusty “Sherpa’s” had abandoned me, I reached the summit, where in the misty confines I noticed the couple of crew members on deck were wearing hard hats, blinding bright safety vests and huge mother steel cap boots, so, there’s me, frozen, Akubra hat, striped T-shirt & SANDALS, left leg partially outstretched suspended in mid air not wanting to
place even my big toe on that deck and risk creating a national incident or hear that infamous cry “it’s out brothers out” and be responsible for the duffle bag never again seeing the light of day, let alone make Thursday Island, I dared not place one fibre of my body on that deck. The two mentioned crew came over and said it was OK to come on board, so, after they prized my hands free from the gangplank rails one escorted me to where the 1st mate was waiting then, with introductions over he said he would take me up to the Captain, UP!! I thought, I’ve just bloody well climbed Mt. Everest and your saying UP! Now I’ll never know why the ships crew walk so fast, and, took almost all my strength to stay with him when suddenly he turned right and then I saw them, you have to be kidding!! these stairs were almost VERTICAL and here is this bloke ‘jogging’ up them, reaching the 5th step I thought “I’m going to die here”, matey is already three flights up then, humorously asks if I’m “OK”, If I had the strength I would have given him OK! Crawling onto which ever deck level it was and not thinking properly because of altitude sickness, then, using the walls as support I finally made it to the Captains quarters, where, the Captain, upon shaking my hand dislodged every joint from my shoulder to my wrist, then handed me the duffle bag, now, normally this bag would have seemed quite light but in my deteriorating condition, both bag and I sunk to the floor quicker than an anchor being dropped into the bay. Regaining some resemblance of composure, and, being the little media tart I can be, I then made the mistake of asking Captain ‘Kidd’ for a photo of the bag handover, explaining that my camera was seized on arrival. He said, “Sure, let’s go up to the bridge,” Oh no! There’s that word “UP” again. When finally returning to my wife (walking like a marathon runner with jelly legs) and bidding farewell to the “laughing assassin”, we returned home with the duffle bag safely secured, where, I proceeded to recoup with a cold beer, or two, or five…....
RCLAS Write On! Contest Poetry Honorable Mention Sanity Uber Alles Alan Hill Through watching schizophrenia -that skull crushing fantasist I had it sucked out of me through my ears was left with nothing but my mind glued and nailed backwards to be ridden in an SS truck, Action T4 being driven by me slaughtering myself of all my compassion all weakness hunting down my own sicknesses forcing myself with weak smiles and a loaded revolver to admit my own fear, medicalise my every moment. My belief in my parents was taken into foster care my siblings became an embarrassment to be live beyond life being all they were not. My family a defeated City engrossed in recriminations jealousy, acts of cowardice small acts of rescue
gross acts of collaboration finger pointing my flesh and blood jumping from windows into un-inflated life rafts. Oh yes, you’re right, it could have worse I could have selling my body on a Rio Street or been six and breaking bricks for a dollar a day in an Indian slum and all that guilt I survived that somehow, somewhere someone else would pay the price. Why did I get a life? But there is nothing special here just that after some things you are no more like being hit by a truck or taking a bullet in the head. Live and let live Let me live Let those that can save themselves.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Honorable Mention
Fish and Chips
Ben Nuttall-Smith
Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones approaches the park table, looking to right and left, to make sure no one else has the same spot in mind. Under his left arm he carries a folded newspaper and a long black umbrella. In his right hand he carries a package, neatly wrapped in newspaper. Mr. Jones is a tall, thin man in his late seventies or early eighties. He wears a bowler hat, a dark blue raincoat extending to his knees, and thick, horn rim spectacles that contrast strikingly with his snow white goatee and moustache. Fastidiously, he circles the table to find a spot that suits him, before he places his package, umbrella, and newspaper on the wooden bench. He draws a large blue handkerchief from his right coat pocket and flicks crumbs from the table. Observing a spot resistant to his efforts, he picks up a twig, scrapes at the table surface, and blows the residue off the table at the far end. The flicking, scraping, and blowing take three minutes at least.
He shakes out his handkerchief with both hands, until a crumb falls, before he deigns to return it to his coat pocket. After that, he opens his newspaper and spreads it on the table. A picture offends his eye. He shakes his head, turns over the paper, and smoothes it with both hands in an outward, sweeping motion. He places the umbrella on the far side of the newspaper, adjusts it until it’s perfectly centred, and positions the package precisely opposite the umbrella.
Before he sits down, there is just one more thing he must do. He extracts his handkerchief, dusts the bench, shakes the cloth with both hands as before, and returns it to his pocket. Gazing in satisfaction at the arrangement before him, he at last sits down, looking to right and left to ensure he’s alone. He removes his bowler with both hands, places it carefully above the umbrella, and adjusts it. Just so. Still far from done, he reaches into another coat pocket and extracts a small biretta cap, patterned in tartan. This he places on his nearly bald head.
At last, Mr. A.P-J. carefully begins to open the package, folding back each sheet of newspaper at a time. The meal exposed before him at last, he rises to shoo away the gathering pigeons, first to one side, then to the other. Again, he sits down. His handkerchief will serve another purpose now. He tucks it behind his collar and spreads it out as much as he can. For just a moment, he bows his head in thanksgiving. Then he pulls his sleeves up a notch and commences his meal. With customary precision, he chews each mouthful twenty times. Occasionally, he breaks off a part of a chip and tosses it to the pigeons, now reassembled nearby, scolding one or two for apparent greed as he does so. At the close of his meal, Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones removes his “bib�, shakes it out, and returns it to his pocket. Carefully, he folds up the newspaper within the one he used for a table cloth, removes the cap from his head, and replaces it with his bowler hat. Only then does he pull out his harmonica from his vest pocket and turn away from the table. To serenade the birds.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Poetry Honorable Mention Escape To Eden Lilija Valis You have moved far away to a fabled Pacific island, a refuge from a troubled mainland of unruly neighbors throwing rocks at you as you returned home from work late at night a rainforest protects you now, you live in a house by a secluded bay with a cat who chose you and with flowers around you to perfume your days but you are slowly dying of some deviously modern cancer invading and subduing, you brought it with you, hoping it would die in the sun but Eden is letting it live no human around you who loves you, a brother thousands of miles away, I met you once or twice in California, you are my sister’s friend, but she too has been taken hostage I think about you often, what a gentle soul you are, how you love light and colors, the advantage others took of you as you shied away from conflict – you have the look of a flower in a storm you are family, yes, you are, I’m sending you love in the books and the poems, hoping it dulls the edges and sweetens the sadness.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Honorable Mention Ali and the Sand Margo Prentice
Mother calls me to come into the tent. I watch the sand as the sun sets and the colors change from pale yellow to red. The colors of the sand change with the movement of the sun and the twirling of wind. It has been a hot and burning day, the sun hot to the skin on my hands and feet. I am nine and half. I live with my mother and father, aunts and uncles, cousins and my older brother. I have a younger sister too; she is such a pest and follows me everywhere. My Father and Uncles have camels and sheep; we live in a tent the desert. The tent is big and made of goats’ hair. It is warm in the cold and cool in the heat. There is another tent for the sheep, but it is not so nice! A heavy cloth of many pretty colors divides our tent into two spaces. Each side of the cloth in the tent has different uses, one side is where the men gather, or when company arrives that is where they sit. The other half is where the women cook, get together and the children sleep. When we have company there is music, the sounds of flute put me to sleep. We are Bedouins; my Father tells me that I must carry on the traditions of our culture, which he says will be lost if I don’t. I spend many hours listening to my Father’s Stories and poetry of brave Bedouin tribes of long ago. My Mother has taught me to read. Father takes me out a night, the cold sand, on my bare feet. Looking up at the big sky I think it is a giant bowl on top of us. Father points out the constellations of the stars and is teaching me how to navigate from them for the next day’s travels. They look like diamonds on a black cloth. My future bride is chosen for me and I am to marry in a few years to my cousin Fazilat. She is my friend; we take care of our family’s sheep together, watching them as we go from one oasis to another to feed them. I like to hear the sound of a sand storm and often my mother has to call me into the tent.
“Ali I swear by Allah, you have more sand in your blood than most Bedouins.” The sound of the storm puts me to sleep as a lay under my lambskin covers. Sometimes we go to the outskirts of the city where my Father will trade, good sheep for coffee, tea, rice and other food. I have tasted candy once, but didn’t like it, the sweetness of it made me shudder. I’d rather have fresh apricots or peaches from my Uncles oasis garden. My favourite treat is goat curd wrapped around a date and I love drinking cardomen flavoured tea. When my Father lets me ride our camel I pretend I am tribal chief, I can make him go fast and pretend that I am fighting another tribe who has dishonoured my Father. Father says honour is essential to us as a family. The sand swirls around me and I cover my mouth as I ride. All my cousins cheer me on awaiting their turn. It is very, very special when my boy cousins and I can go out with the men and watch them train and work the falcons. Father says that we are the best Falconers in the entire world. The falcon flies high over the sand sometimes bringing a rare desert hare for a tasty treat at supper. The falcon is so handsome and strong with bright yellow eyes and feathers of deep brown. Maybe some day my Father will show me how to train these great birds. I have more than one favourite time of the day. My most favourite is eating time, especially when we have company. The food is cooked in a big pot over a fire pit in the centre of the tent. The smell of lamb stewing with tomatoes, rice cooking fills the tent and I get really hungry. There are dates, fruit and goat curd cheese. Afterwards the children have to go to bed but we can hear the stories and songs of our family’s history through the curtain. As a go to sleep I think I will always want to be a child of the desert, like Mother says I have sand running in my veins.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Poetry Honorable Mention War Musket Grass (Bay of Fundy) Donna Allard I see no soldier’s uniform as I walk along these shores but fresh blood cliffs, musket grass, and a labyrinth of our relics, the unfolding of this puzzle to figure out a broader picture, as rose clashed with la fleur de lys… like an arcanum shared by a friend who said to follow water trails like a pirate in search of a chest, as magnet speaks closer to sand … He said many have found treasures under the sheet of their own graves. Yet I favour its peaceful clay to dyed denim & origin, as I connect with those who fell for their flower & sleep inside this bay of mud. Today, hooves flit in Fundy sun, safe & watchful over my eyes, and I wonder if that story was ever passed to their offspring, since man conquers on a saddle. Come walk with me, sense a presence, their memory dancing with tides, like a final oratory along red cliffs & grassy shores. Let me retreat from time & fog, as I fear ghosts & bellwalkers, they swear the land still smells of powder
RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Honorable Mention Little Mountain Lorraine Kiidumae Cleo had always thought that suicide was a fate for the young – for those with an unfortunate genetic propensity toward depression. Once you’d survived, and married, had a successful career, children, bought a beautiful home near Little Mountain, life should be pretty well sewed up, shouldn’t it? Pretty well leveled off into a balance of joys and struggles. But somewhere between that dream and the holding of it all together there seemed to be an abyss. His obituary had been short and sweet, no photograph, just a single paragraph in the Oceanside Star. “In Loving Memory of Ralph R. Cromley 1943 – 2006. Loved you yesterday, love you still. Always have, always will. Miss you, Rosie & kids.” Today, on this sunny Sunday, Cleo stood atop Little Mountain. Her husband was showing his father the view – trying to point out their house – and Cleo was there, on the outer side of the guard-rails, looking down. A red-tailed hawk circled ominously overhead, casting a shadow on the trees. It swooped down to scoop up some small mammal scurrying through the brush. “Touchdown” Cleo thought, then half-laughed at the triteness of her own black humour. She was thinking of “Mr. Grey Cup.” That was what the locals called him. Ralph Cromley had lived on Dolphin Drive in “Fairwinds,” an affluent golf resort neighbourhood in the picturesque town of Nanoose Bay. From his living room window he’d boasted a wrap-around view out across the Straight of Georgia. On that Grey Cup Sunday in November of 2006 it was a sunny day, just like today, and foamy waves crashed against the Ballenas Islands off in the distance. Mr. Grey Cup turned on his bigscreen television up in the loft. There were black leather lounge chairs with drink cup holders, and seating the size of a small theatre. His wife, Rosie, had set out unsalted
peanuts and pretzels in bowls, and rinsed and dried the Waterford crystal scotch glasses, placing them on the fold-down shelf in the built-in private bar. A former oil company executive, Mr. Grey Cup coveted a private bar his whole life and when he retired to Fairwinds and built this custom home, it had everything he’d dreamed of. A pool table occupied one entire room and there was another mini-bar in that room too. He and Rosie invited a few neighbours over to watch the game. It was the first time the home team had played in six years, since 2000 when the BC Lions, in a close 2826 game, beat the Montreal Alouettes – the same team they were playing today. Mr. Grey Cup realized he was out of soda water and low on appetizers so he told Rosie he was heading out to Quality Foods at the Red Gap Mall. “What?!” Said Rosie. “You’re going out now? You know the Snell’s are always early. Hurry up then!” “I’ll be as fast as I can.” These words, were to haunt Rosie later. After an hour Ralph had not returned. The jocular husbands and coifed and lipsticked wives arrived and Rosie was embarrassed and angry. Where had he got to? He didn’t pick up his cell phone when she called. The guests assembled in the Lazy-Boy recliners. They commented on the view and the new Persian rug in the living room. Rosie dimmed the lights and poured scotch into the Waterford glasses, without the soda water. Serving herself a double shot, she belted it back. The game started. By the second quarter the BC Lion’s were ahead of Montreal 14-7. The neighbours cheered and jumped out of their seats, too engrossed to notice that Ralph wasn’t in the room. Rosie sneaked to the guestroom to check out the window for Ralph’s car in the driveway. She paced back and forth, looking down the road. Later, Rosie tip-toed downstairs and rifled through the front closet. She held her breath as she moved their Patagonia rain jackets, hanging in front of the golf clubs and ski boots, out of the way. Flipping on the closet light, Rosie peered into the far corner. She felt the blood run from her face, then breathed out. It was still there. Ralph hadn’t been hunting since they’d left Alberta but had held onto his Remington 597 semi-
automatic. And it was always kept loaded, in case, Ralph had reasoned with her, they ever needed it for self-defense. Rosie felt drained. She opened the front door and walked down the driveway, into the middle of the road, carrying her cell phone. There was no glimpse of Ralph’s grey Lexus anywhere in sight. She dialed. After three rings Rosie heard his voice. “Hi, this is Ralph. I can’t come to the phone right now, since I’m either rounding up some salmon or trying to sink a long putt, because we’re living the dream…while dreaming of life. Here comes the beep.” For an instant Rosie thought Ralph had actually answered. She stood with her eyes closed and began to pray. “Please God. Please. Not my Ralphy. Please bring Ralph home safely to me.” Tires screeched and a horn honked. She opened her eyes hopefully. “Hey lady, are you completely crazy?!” A young man with dark hair leaned his head out the window of his red RX7. He sounded the horn one more time as he passed, just missing her. Rosie walked back to the house. She stood, looking at the painting above the antique smoking table in the entrance-way. Robert Bateman’s limited edition “Above the Rapids – Gulls & Grizzly.” One of three in Ralph’s collection, and this was his favourite. Her hands trembled as reality permeated through her scalp to her temples, and seeped into her pores. Swallowing hard, she dialed 911. One of the first places they checked was Little Mountain. He had actually driven to Red Gap first. The generic soda water sat in a bag on the floor of the back seat, along with a package of cocktail wieners, a jar of Bavarian sweet mustard, and a prawn cocktail ring that was starting to smell. After going to Red Gap, Mr. Grey Cup must have driven up the bumpy, narrow road to the peak of Little Mountain, then stepped through the broken mesh fence onto the grassy hill that looked south towards the mountains. It had been an easy step forward, into the beauty of nature, towards the bottom. His wife said it was an accident even though his hat, gloves, wallet, keys, Rolaid tablets, coins, Kleenex – all the contents of his pockets – were in a neat pile in the centre of the driver’s seat. He had been depressed, yes, but he would never have missed the
Grey Cup, would never have been so thoughtless as to time it with the arrival of their guests, to not even say goodbye. Thinking about Mr. Grey Cup had taken Cleo’s mind away from the sick feeling in her stomach. She looked over at her husband standing on the other side, laughing and smiling, pointing out the highlights to his father, trying to catch her attention. She breathed in the mountain air and forced a smile. Her husband had no idea. He didn’t know. She’d been going through the pangs and humiliation of love for over a year now and he had absolutely no idea. He glanced over to make sure she was still there, wondering what she was doing. Cleo thought again of Mr. Grey Cup. How it is that we can live so closely to other people and yet, not even know what demons are crawling around inside of them. The RCMP did a routine search of Mr. Grey Cup’s house and found the hunting rifle. When they pulled it out and inspected it a little piece of paper folded into four sections fluttered out and landed on the carpet. One of the officers picked it up and read the note. He cleared his throat and handed it to Rosie, then excused himself down the hall to the bathroom. Ralph was like that. Always leaving little quotes around, a bit of a rogue poet Rosie always said. She unfolded the note and read from Ralph’s large round handwriting. “You can fall from a mountain, you can fall from a tree, but the best way to fall, is to fall in love with Rosie.” She started to cry.
Cleo looked out to the open space below. She was right on the edge. It would be so easy to trip on the gnarled stump in front of her. But she wasn’t like Mr. Grey Cup. She had always found it possible to accept her losses. Breathing deeply, she stepped back and ducked through the opening in the broken wire fence. She started to run, bolting back to the car. She threw herself into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Her husband looked over. Through the tinted window she caught the look of concern and hurt and disappointment on his face at her perceived lack of interest in the view.
Overview of August 12th Workshop The purpose of this workshop is to review how passion works in hand with our inspiration. Part I of this two hour workshop will focus on how our passions affect our writing, and its influence on inspiration. We will review different types of poetry and the different reasons we write. The first and foremost passion that arouses all inspiration is of course, our passion for the written word; this draws us into action. We will also touch on the existentialism of passion and inspiration. I will be using the renowned Russian poet, Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin as an example. We will study one of his works, “Demon,” to see how our passions can affect our writing more than we realize, and to show how our passions and inspiration can change, in just one poem. This section of the workshop will run for approximately 45 minutes. Question and answer period. Part II of this workshop, for the first half hour, we will explore different ways of accessing our inner Word Weaver, and things which can help in inspiring us further. I will also look at various ways of coping with writer’s block, as well as various ways of clearing the channel. The last half hour of the workshop will be for practicing writing while being aware of the passions which join together, to create the inspiration for writing any particular work. We will share our works with others in the workshop, but will not have the time to break them down. 8:30 Workshop ends.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Poetry Honorable Mention every plant has a song Jonina Kirton
in offices creating drawings too few landscape architects have a natural affection for plants while the plants never think of themselves as extensions of houses or buildings complementary experiences meant to pay homage to architectural structures designers and clients participate in the illusion of control but some do want to know how things feel underfoot that when allowed a chance to respond plants themselves can create gardens that time is the ultimate master set adrift in suburbia through mists under cloudy skies soft pinks glow chartreuses fluoresce ambers warm whites glisten lithe bunchgrasses wend their way down the path a silent backdrop
an organizing spine that anchors
the architect must orient the plant explore regionally then suddenly a rogue tree windswept echoes the wild shows off its special qualities as light defines textures a shallow slope to soften the effects of cement structures
tender trunks
fluid associations shifting contexts and a conceptual frenzy brings outcomes loops of public engagement a coalition of hard and soft elements weathered stones at water’s edge an intimate respite a seamless composition that brings acoustic interest the cascading waterfall a grand gesture while arching oak branches encourage lingering a narrow path invites a solitary adventure leaving ample room for emergence
paths evolve offer a place among plants a rhythm that the eye can follow the forest floor breathes death decay
birth
some gardens are blessed plants seed and distribute themselves untamed replication wildflower meadows stone pots not repeating lines of matching trees and shrubs in some gardens plants have been allowed to have their own way bold flowers mingle grow next to the street make a brief dependable appearance, year after year
"Note: every plant has a song is taken from Relatives with Roots by Leah Marie Doran Many words and phrases taken from Grounded: The Work of Phillips Farevaag Smallenberg edited by Kelty McKinnon and Plant – Driven Design: Creating Gardens that Honour Plants, Place and Spirit by Scott Ogden and Lauren Springer Ogden. "
RCLAS Write On! Contest Non-Fiction Honorable Mention
My Life with Orcas Patricia Wilder
Over the years I have had many beautiful and profound experiences with the orcas of the Pacific Northwest. The following story is a tiny glimpse of how this bond reveals itself, demonstrating a connection between species, between cultures and kindred spirits. It is a love story in every sense of the word, it is my story.
One lovely summer day many years ago I boarded an old yacht at Sayward on Vancouver Island. We headed north towards Port McNeill. No matter what the weather, we were in Johnstone Strait which is a beautiful place to be and a place where the magic typically happens.
As we were travelling at a relaxed steady pace the weather created one of the most unusual fogs I had ever seen. It rolled in so thick and fluffy it looked like huge bundles of cotton candy floating in the air and you could literally reach out and touch it. Despite the overcast skies all were enjoying their holiday and discovered how quickly our weather changes. As we all say, wait five minutes it will change. In many ways it was quite beautiful, there was little to no wind which gave the atmosphere a surreal quality as the cotton candy hung thick in the air. The downside was that the Captain could barely see in front of the boat making navigation tricky at times. Even though he knew the area like the back of his hand, one never knows how many floating logs there might be and if entering a very narrow channel there is always the risk of hitting an outcropping of rocks.
While the others remained inside due to visibility and the Captain was busy practising his navigational skills maneuvering through the channels; I felt very compelled to remain outside unaware of what was about to occur. Little did I know that I was about to be the recipient of one of Mother Nature's greatest gifts.
Suddenly through the fog, there it was, ahhh music to my ears, breaking the silence with its melodic rhythmic timing, to this day it is a sound I cherish. The infamous inhale exhale of orca's breathing and it was most welcome at this time. Sensing our limitations with visibility, a nearby orca pod known as the A30's arrived on the scene taking the place of a foghorn that
guides Sailors to safety. At this time the pod consisted of seven individuals with six of them moving up and in front of the boat as if to say to the Captain, follow our breaths, gently & slowly, and all will be well. I stayed at the back of the boat but then peered over the side to see who was breathing right alongside me. I seemed to have acquired my own special guide whom I could glimpse even through the dense fog. It was a large full grown adult male with an unmistakable 6 ft. dorsal towering above the water. It was A38, otherwise known as Blackney. He stayed close enough to the boat, parallel to me at all times. I remained awestruck and thrilled with my oversized friend. I could have gone inside to tell the others we had company; but I didn't. I remained, not wanting to leave his side even for a moment.
Somehow, through listening to their breathing I was suddenly catapulted into their world, taken to another place, another time, a whole new world and it was remarkable. Time stood still, actually time simply did not exist at all and my senses were heightened to a capacity that I did not even know I possessed.
My sense of hearing was the first to shift dramatically; it had suddenly become so acute, so sharp that when an eagle far off in the distance let out a screech, it shattered the silence almost deafening me in the process. I was completely immersed in their world now, mind, body and soul. It was spectacular. Here we were, two very different species; we crossed a bridge into each other's worlds, one that was overflowing in unconditional love, respect and a divine meeting of the minds.
At one point during our time together a silly thought entered my head, one of many and I recall thinking how in the world can you maneuver your physical body with such skill and flexibility, such agility and speed when necessary. Well he caught my little thought and went with it, obliging without judgment or annoyance. On cue he went around behind the boat approximately 40 - 50 feet away and I could clearly feel him say, “okay just watch, don't look away, and keep watching." Truth be told I couldn't take my eyes off of him, even had I wanted to. So as I was watching & learning and he's doing a demonstration, he moves forward at quite a good speed then suddenly stops on a dime, twisting his massive body slightly left, then a sharp hard right and snatched a salmon as quick as lightening, he had completely psyched the salmon out by faking left. It was impressive, I was impressed and he knew it. He then comes up to the back of the boat beaming with pride as if to say, "Now that is how it’s done, dear". I realized then that not only do I have a majestic friend & guide, he is a bit sassy too! Its official, I'm in love.
At this point, two elderly European men came up from below deck and mentioned that everyone had been napping due to the fog and such. The fog had now lifted high enough above the waterline to see a fair distance. I had been so caught up in the moment that I did not realize that over 2 hours had passed by. Upon noticing that my hair had been soaked right through and was dripping with water, one says, "have you been out here the whole time, come to think of it
we hadn't seen you in ages, what on earth made you stay out... ohhhhh; the sentence hanging in mid-air unfinished the moment he spotted Blackney right behind the boat. Both men go quiet although I clearly heard a "holy shit" whispered from one of them. With eyes wide open in disbelief, filled with wonder & amazement, they look at Blackney then back at me, then back to him like some invisible tennis match was taking place that only they could see. Plus there is no doubt I probably had some goofy wide eyed expression on my face as well. I think both Blackney and I were now feeling like two kids who had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Busted!
Then finally one says, "well, it certainly looks like the two of you have bonded, we've heard about this sort of thing happening and now we see it with our own eyes. I don't think he's quite finished playing with you yet though."
Blackney didn't seem to mind these new arrivals onto the scene; you could clearly feel his mischievous side shine through and then I realized that during our time together I had completely forgotten about my camera and now with the fog lifting I'd thought I better hurry up and get some pictures before it's too late. With Blackney merely 10- 15 feet away now was the opportune time. The men watched Blackney and began giggling; yes giggling like two young schoolboys, orcas certainly do have a way of bringing out our fun & silly sides at times. With eyes twinkling and everyone grinning foolishly, one says, "he's up to something, he's going to play a trick on you, I know it", as if on cue Blackney goes under the boat & disappears. We were giggling like children as we anticipated his next move. Where oh where did he go? I started heading off to the right because his body was slightly aimed that direction as he dived under when the one fellow said, "you'd better come back this way, I think he's going to pop up here," as he pointed left. Just as I reach the left side - up pops the dorsal and an exhalation of air so close I jumped back slightly, laughing the whole time. Apparently I learned nothing from the salmon episode that occurred earlier. I laughed thinking - you little bugger, I fell for it! To this day I swear I could hear him laughing inside as well as thinking, ha, gotcha. I scrambled to get a picture, luckily he surfaced one more time just long enough for me to get my shot, and on that note I felt him say, "With that I bid you adieu, thank you for your time, it was a pleasure." No my dear friend I thought, the pleasure was most definitely mine. Till we meet again!
RCLAS Write On! Contest Fiction Honorable Mention The Universe Strikes Back Donna Terrill Leah stands at the bus stop across the street from St. Paul’s hospital. She is mesmerized by the pulsating, rainbow-tinted lights, in star configurations that cover the front façade of the ancient red brick building. The lights line a twinkling tunnel along the walkway -- an enchanted, lit passage leading right up to the emergency room doors. She checks her watch – it’s after 1 a.m. Her fingers curl around the transit pass in her pocket and she begins to worry that she’ll miss the last skytrain from Burrard station. She raises her hand to hail a cab. She’s outmaneuvered by a large group of young partiers spilling out of the Sheraton Wall Centre, filling up cab after yellow cab. Amid their exuberance and laughter she catches snips of conversation – they’re members of the Vision party, attending a victory party for re-elected Vancouver mayor, Gregor Robertson. They exude a celebratory aura of success, the headiness of flexing young civic muscles and then getting to read about it in the headlines the next morning. A half-remembered message, delivered at a gathering of thousands in a sports stadium resonates in Leah’s brain: Become inspired. Believe. Work hard with passion. Expect success. Become an agent for change. Enroll others with your zeal. Is she quoting Tony Robbins or the Dalai Lama? K’naan? When had she started to think of this as a mantra reserved exclusively for naïve youth? Had her life become a cautionary tale, a biblical prophecy warning “pride goeth before the fall”? Jaded and weary, she had come to believe in the danger that lurks in arrogance. If you dare to feel invincible, at the top of your game the planets align to put you, chastised, in your place…or in a bed in a cardiac care unit. Suddenly the universe is in charge and you are at the mercy of your human, flawed physiology, being brought to your knees by leaky valves or faulty wiring. Only a few hours ago Leah and her husband, Matt exited the Vogue Theatre along with a jubilant audience still in the throes of Barney Bentall’s closing
number, “Goin’ to the Opry”. They congratulated each other for daring to become country music fans for just this one day every year. The tickets were pricey but so was running the Downtown Eastside food program that the benefit concert funded. They bought the cds. They laid down money for tickets on the meat draw. Selfsatisfied, they basked in the knowledge that, like every previous year their ‘ honourable’ gesture would be rewarded with great value for the money. They were not disappointed. The Legendary Hearts had backed Barney for 30 years. Tonight, the band added to their numbers, assembling fifteen musicians who treated us to exquisite guitar- picking, sweet-as-honey harmonies and boot-stomping beats. At times the performers seemed oblivious to the audience as they responded to each other’s rhythms but the crowd was spell-bound, privileged to witness these magical, musical moments. The show- stealer, a tiny, short-skirted violinist raised electronic fiddle-playing to unimaginable, soaring heights of heart-bursting fervour. Her blonde pony tail whipped the air, punctuating the end of each riff. The air outside was crisp as Leah and Matt hustled along Granville Street towards the skytrain. Arm-in-arm they considered stopping somewhere for an Irish coffee. Leah felt euphoric and maybe a little smug – a good evening, a good story to tell. They laughed in the winter-tinged night air. It was then that Matt’s chest pains began. He didn’t resist as she urged him into a taxi. A couple of pumps of nitro, always kept in his nearby pocket, helped but catching his breath was still arduous. Thirty minutes later Matt was sitting up in an emergency room bed in a hospital gown, hooked up to various monitors as a white-coated lab tech administered the blood-letting. The routine was familiar -– it wasn’t the first time. The magic elixir draining into his arm from the IV bag had done its work. Matt’s breathing was even, his colour had pinked up and he was looking around for the Sports section of the weekend paper. Just to be “safe” the ER doctor booked an angiogram for the next morning. Eleven months ago, to the day, Leah and Matt’s busy lives had faltered, the momentum stalled, recalibrating was required. They had convinced themselves that the first coronary had been a freakish aberration, never to be repeated; that tweaking Matt’s diet and compliance with the medications would eliminate any further scares. They celebrated every benchmark –- at thirty days, driving was resumed, at ninety days, Matt qualified for travel insurance and could board a plane for Palm Springs where he played his first post-surgery round of golf. They believed that every milestone brought them closer to a return to their old life, even with the addition of a regular round of cardiac specialist appointments, regular lab tests to gauge the effect of various blood thinners and the Sunday night ritual of
counting out a week’s pills from nine different medication vials. This routine had become the new ‘normal’ until tonight. Leah recalls a high school physics theorem, “for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”. The concert had sparked a revival of trust – it had let Leah hope, just for a minute that the ominous cloud overhead had dissipated, that this was a new beginning where she had no knowledge of stents or blockages. Her fearful heart opened, dared to unfurl. Matt’s heart….no. Don’t think that way. She picks up an issue of 24 Hours, lying abandoned on the bench beside her and turns to the crossword. It’s almost complete. To finish another’s crossword always feels like an intimate invasion of privacy. It just reveals too much about one’s familiarities and frailties. She applauds the word-player’s efforts for words like “senile”, “placate” and “emote”. She fills in the lapses with “episodic”, “aorta” and “arrest”. The puzzle is solved but there is no satisfaction in it. At the taxi stand nearby the last few stragglers cajole the cabbie to bend the rules and allow them to stuff an extra reveler or two into the remaining cab. With the triumphant air of conquering heroes but tempered by the playfulness of a basket of puppies they win him over. Their youthful pleading charms the driver, not unlike the Vision party campaigner who appeared on Leah’s front porch last summer. With clipboard in hand, the pierced and tattooed young woman wearing camouflage-printed cargo pants and skater shoes greeted her with a grin and proceeded to ask, “Have you decided how to vote in the upcoming municipal election?” Leah listened to her pitch but was more aware of the serious look of commitment in the girl’s eyes. She saw a hunger for a chance to wield some voting power, to have a voice. Skater-girl gave a thumbs up as she left with Leah’s cheque and said, “I just turned 18, this is my first election!” Leah watches, from her bench at the bus stop as the cab departs. Again, her eyes take in the luminous splendour that frames the hospital’s entrance across the street. Rows upon rows of layered stars, ablaze with kaleidoscopic hues. The tunnel of fairy lights lends comfort and courage on the walk to the emergency room door to face the future on the other side. “Lights of Hope”, the signage says, a meek reminder for today, and a beacon for tomorrow, when a new reality, humbled but hopeful begins.
2013 Visual Verse Artist and Poet Match Up
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.
Richard Armstrong // Mohenjo-daro by Eileen Kernaghan Katie Boughen // Into The Light by Donna Ross Tony Bryant // Navigation By The Night Sky by Gavin Hainsworth Sharon Bettker // Escape To Eden by Lilija Valis Judith Copland // Silver Thaw by Mary Duffy Dale Costanzo // Gift by Mary Duffy Alicja Draganska // Prodding by Manolis Aligizakis Anthony Hollenstein // Between Earth and Sky by Janet Kvammen Amanda Ivings // Blue by Lilija Valis Robert Jost // Chorus by Donna Ross Kay Klyne // Together by Ashok Bhargava Richard Klyne // Meditation is Key by Jo Martinez Janet Kvammen // High Diver of Mazatlan by Bernice Lever Irene Lacharite // Pink Eyeshadow by Angel Edwards Monique Lum // Whispers by Ashok Bhargava MAC 1 // Check Mate Mouse by Gary Redmond MAC 2 // The Colours of the Quay by Franci Louann MAC 3 // Sitting In A Field Of Dandelions by Jo Martinez Carolyn McLaughlin // Under The Wild Pepper Tree by Ruth Kozak Valerie McRae // Marble and Frost by Candice James Carole Millar // Perfection by Donna Ross Andre Minardi // Working My Garden of Eden by Gary Redmond Teresa Morton // In The Stars by Janet Kvammen Peri-Laine Nilan // The Road Goes On by Melissa Nilan Elena Perelman // The Garden by Ruth Kozak Don Portelance // We All Must Fall by Janet Kvammen James Price // Gown by Manolis Aligizakis Sally Reesman // Ascent by Mary Duffy Shelley Rothenburger // The Throne Room by Alan Hill Wendy Schmidt // Tug by Bernice Lever Julia Schoennagel // Avalon by Lilija Valis Gillian Wright // Morning Over The Fraser by Franci Louann Elena Zhukova // Dance (Villanelle) by Eileen Kernaghan Lavana LaBrey // Re-Romancing To Amuse A Muse by Gavin Hainsworth Sandra White // Cool Water Piano Keys by Candice James Cliff Blank // Shore Bound Stranger by Candice James Omanie Elias // The UnBalancing Act by Alan Hill Oksana Slonevskaya // View by Manolis Aligizakis Sheila West // The Chalice Well, Glastonbury by Eileen Kernaghan Penny Lim // Let There Be Poetry by Ruth Kozak Solveig Brickenden // Celestial Treat by Ashok Bhargava
About Us
13 06 JUNE BIOS FOR POETIC JUSTICE—HERITAGE GRILL, BACKROOM 3-5 pm Sunday Afternoons—three features and open mic 447 Columbia St, New Westminster, near Columbia Station www.poeticjustice.ca CO-FOUNDER & BOOKING MANAGER—Franci Louann flouann@telus.net Website & Facebook Manager, Photographer—Janet Kvammen
JUNE 2: HOST: EVA WALDAUF
ALAN HILL was born in the South West of England near the Welsh border. After leaving school at sixteen, he travelled extensively and worked in jobs ranging from renovating old graveyards to working in a jellybean factory. Since 2005 Alan has been living in Canada. He has been published in Canada in CV2, Canadian Literature, Vancouver Review, Antigonish Review, Quills, Sub-Terrain and in a number of anthologies. In the UK his work has appeared in South, The Wolf and Turbulence. He also has had work accepted for upcoming issues of the Dallas Review (USA), Brittle Star (UK) and Poetry is Dead (Canada). His first full collection The Upstairs Country (Silver Bow Publishing) was published in 2012. Alan is working on his second collection, still untitled. This will explore his experiences growing up with an older brother who was diagnosed as having schizophrenia.
BREN SIMMERS (DEBUT) has worked in libraries, fire lookouts, and as a park interpreter. She was winner of the Arc Poem of the Year Award, and a finalist for both the Bronwen Wallace Memorial Award and the Malahat Review Long Poem Prize. Bren’s first book of poems, Night Gears, was published by Wolsak and Wynn in 2010. She is currently working on a manuscript about her East Vancouver neighbourhood.
JUNE 9: HOST: CANDICE JAMES ***Special One Time Only Venue Change The Network Hub @ The River Market (Upstairs @Visual Verse Art Show) Near New West Skytrain station 205-810 Quayside Drive, New Westminster, BC Time: 3-5 pm
SPECIAL GUEST, ON TOUR – KIMMY BEACH…PJ DEBUT… Kimmy's fifth book is The Last Temptation of Bond (The University of Alberta Press, 2013). She has served as Writer in Residence for the Writers Guild of Alberta, the Parkland Regional Library, and the Saskatchewan writers guild. She has read across the country and in the UK, and is on the faculty at Sage Hill Writing Experience where she co-facilitates the Introduction to Poetry and Fiction Workshop with John Gould.
GAVIN HAINSWORTH (PJ DEBUT) is best known for historical writing. He is also a non-fiction writer, journalist, columnist, and researcher. Gavin is President of the (new) Royal City Literary Arts Society and has recently emerged as a poet as well. Gavin’s poems reflect a new facet of private journeys, not public discourse. His work is featured in Royal City Poets: Anthology 2012. JANET KVAMMEN is a photographer, artist and book cover designer—among other things. She is a poet of many passions who writes about her love of nature and the nature of love. Thinking she would never be published, she is now in several anthologies, and may even get her own book out someday if she ever gets her act together. She is the surprised recipient of a Writer’s International Network 2012 Distinguished Poet and Artist Award. Janet has been featured at Poetic Justice, Poetry in the Park, World Poetry, Surrey Muse, and Holy Wow Poets. She is a director of the Royal City Literary Arts Society and an active member of New West Artists. The graphic designer for Silver Bow Publishing, she also does freelance design work. Janet thrives on creativity! It is good for the soul! Contact her by email @ interplanetjanet5@hotmail.com. Visit her PlanetJanet Creations page on Facebook. GAIL VAN KALSBEEK (PJ DEBUT) has always wanted to be a writer, and experimented with different types of poetry and writing styles from the time she was in high school. She and her husband moved to the Yukon in 1979, returning to New Westminster in 2005. Gail holds a BA in Communications from Royal Roads University. She was published in the Royal City Poets Anthology 2012.
JUNE 16: HOST: ALAN HILL CANDICE JAMES is Poet Laureate of the city of New Westminster, a director of Royal City Literary Arts Society and Past President of the Federation of British Columbia Writers. She is the author of four poetry books: A Split in the Water, Inner Heart – a journey, Bridges and Clouds, and Midnight Embers – a Book of Sonnets. Candice has been keynote speaker at Word on the Street, Black Dot Roots Cultural Collective, and Write on the Beach. She received the Writers International Network’s Distinguished Poet Award in March 2013. Candice’s new book, Shorelines - a Book of Villanelles, will be released in June 2013. This 100 page full-colour book will showcase artwork by six artists to accompany each villanelle. LILIJA VALIS was born in Lithuania and has lived in five other countries. Her government and private work involved helping people escape poverty. Lilija’s poetry book, Freedom on the Fault Line (2012), is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions. Her work has appeared in four anthologies. She reads at literary events and at political/ philosophical/ economic conferences. She was guest poet at ‘A Tribute to Astor Piazzolla’ by the Ensemble Tanguisette. Lilija has been interviewed on Co-op Radio. She hosts for Poetic Justice, Poetry in the Park and the Writers International Network. A member of the Canadian Authors Association, Federation of BC Writers, and Royal City Literary Arts Society, Lilija is also a board member for Writers International Network. CRISTY WATSON (PJ DEBUT) is a teacher and aspiring poet who loves to enter contests, especially ones with a time limit. She once entered a Burnaby Writer’s Society contest on the theme of Lost and Found. Her poems were lost but miraculously turned up on the day they announced the winner. Cristy has two published YA (young adult) novels with Orca Books (Benched and Living Rough) and is currently looking for homes for three more novels. She has published three chapbooks and one of them, Poetry from the Pelican, received an honourable mention in the first Coffee Shop Author Contest. She hosts open mic at the Pelican Rouge and continues to be involved in community literary projects.
JUNE 23: HOST: SHO WILEY MAHARA ALLBRETT (PJ DEBUT)—an Aboriginal Wellness Counsellor, healer and Reiki Master—is from the Sleil Waututh Nation in North Vancouver. She began writing poetry at fifteen and was published a year later. Her early work appeared in anthologies and journals such as Tamarack Review, Woman’s Eye, Forty Women Poets of Canada, Intrepid and Toronto’s Writ magazine. Mahara has been awarded three Canada Council grants. In 1971 her book Ka-la-la Poems was published by Daylight Press under her former name, Skyros Bruce. Mahara has read on CBC radio. She has taught workshops on journal keeping for personal and creative growth. Since the 1980’s Mahara has been published in Gatherings #7 and #9 (Theytus Books), Native Poetry in Canada, Shadow of the Dawn, Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, Poetry by Canadian Women and Native Poetry in Canada. Her last Canada Council grant was to develop a Native Mentoring Program for Youth. SONYA LITTLEJOHN (PJ DEBUT) grew up outside Williams Lake. She hung out in the forest talking to trees and counting ants. A member of both Vancouver Poetry House and the Black Dot Roots and Culture Collective since 2009, she was on the first ever BeDRoCC Poetry Slam Team competing at CFSW 2011 in Toronto. Sonya is a facilitator for the WordPlay Poetry in Schools Program. Her poem, “Grey: A Bi-Racial Poem”, was included in the anthology, Other Tongues: Mixed Race Women Speak Out, (Inanna Publications, 2010). She is a mother trying to inspire some change. Credit for the photo goes to Nora and Chris Photography: http://nandcphotography.com/
ANNIE ROSS (PJ DEBUT)
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Wordplay at work
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