Janet’s Journal By Janet Kvammen All in all, I had an enjoyable full day at LitFest New West. Congratulations to the Arts Council of New West, The New West Public Library and to all the organizers and volunteers who helped to make it a great success. Friday evening April 12 I attended the LitFest Opening Night at the NWPL which presented many of the Remarkable Royal City Women featured in the book, Grace, Grit and Gusto followed by a lovely reception. Douglas College, 10:30am, Saturday morning, April 13 I set up the RCLAS table at the marketplace with the help of my husband, Mike. RCLAS president, Gavin Hainsworth and new secretary, Deborah Kelly spent time at our table throughout the day. I had also invited our group member, New West Writers to join us at the table which included Valerie Parks, Valerie B-Taylor and Jennifer Ryan. We signed up three new members that afternoon – writers, Theresa Henry, Margo Prentice and published author, Colleen Cross. Over a dozen membership forms were taken that day so hopefully we will be getting a few more members from that. We offered a free gift membership to anyone signing up that day which was won by Theresa Henry.
We had quite a bit of interest at our table plus a few book sales for the New West Writers. Many people stopped by to ask more about us and pick up a form. We had visits from Chuck Puckmayr, Bill Harper, Arts Council members as well as prominent authors such a Renee Saklikar, JJ Lee, Bob Robertson , Linda Cullen and more. I attended RCLAS Treasurer and Poet Laureate, Candice James’ workshop along with Mike and my boardies, Ken and Deborah. Gavin held down the fort at the RCLAS table. Thanks, Gavin. Candice’s fun and informative one hour workshop entitled Vision and Verse was well attended. The board wishes to congratulate Candice on all her hard work and on a job well done. I was very happy to contribute my photography and Poetographs to the slideshow and do hope we can elaborate on the theme for a future two hour RCLAS workshop at the library or other possible venue. It was wonderful to hear the poems written by some of workshop attendees read aloud. It added a fabulous hands-on element to the presentation. The day was very busy! After a quick bite to eat, we managed to make it on time to the Volumes of Authors and to the Open
Mic at the Amelia Douglas Gallery where the first ever World Poetry Peace Poetathon hosted by Ariadne Sawyer was held. I was happy to read my poem, The Peace Within. The second half of the Open Mic was hosted by Franci Louann representing our sister “umbrella” group, Poetic Justice. A fabulous line-up was featured including Candice James,
Manolis, Alan Hill, Sylvia Taylor and more. Volumes of Authors was a great new added feature to LitFest this year. The RCLAS table had a bounty of books by Manolis, Candice James and Alan Hill. Ken Ader and Mike Kvammen took many videos of the events and showcase. I took over 200 photos throughout the course of the day.
All was leading up to the gala event, The LitFest New West 2013 Showcase. We were all very excited to have our three first place Write On! Contest winners featured on the stage of the Laura Muir Theatre. RCLAS member, poet Alan Hill did a wonderful job as our RCLAS rep on stage presenting each of the three winners with a framed certificate and a cheque for $100. I was worried earlier that it was all going to come together, trying to get all three in one place at one time was a bit of fun but it all worked out in the end. Thanks to Jonina Lynn Kirton, Antonia Levi and Corey Levine for reading exceptionally well and to Alan Hill for his fine presentation. Bravo!
We have a fantastic line-up of workshops for you – The first one is the Dynamic Presenter with Ben Nuttall- Smith on May 4. See poster for more details. We have a Blue Pencil Session coming up on June 11 at New Westminster Library and a Pablo Neruda event in July, more workshops in August and Sept. More details will be in our June newsletter.
An INCREDIBLE showcase bursting with talent! Bravo to everyone! Here’s to next year! We are happy to share the winning poems and stories with you in this issue. Look for the contest honorable mentions in upcoming issues of Wordplay at Work starting in June and more when we are back in September.
“Poetry In The Park” is back every Wed eve 6:30pm start @ The Queen’s Park Bandshell starting July 3 thru Aug 28. Poetic Justice every Sunday 3-5pm @ The Heritage Grill, 447 Columbia St. New Westminster (closed Holiday weekends and July/August). Welcome to our new members! Thank you for your support. Have a great day! Best, Janet Kvammen Director www.janetkvammen.rclas.com www.rclas.com
RCLAS Board Members @ LitFest New West 2013
Left to right: Candice James – Treasurer Gavin Hainsworth – President Deborah Kelly – Secretary Ken Ader – Director Janet Kvammen - Director
RCLAS Write On! Contest First Place Winners Jonina Kirton * Corey Levine * Antonia Levi April 13, 2013 @ Douglas College
Congratulations once again to our WRITE ON! CONTEST WINNERS The first place Winners featured @ the LitFest New West Showcase evening gala event. Thank you to Alan Hill for his wonderful award presentation. Saturday April 13, 2013 @Douglas College, New Westminster
Poetry Judge Eileen Kernaghan POETRY WINNERS Poetry First Place Jonina Lynn Kirton - Dream Kitchen Poetry Second Place Jude Neale - After Birth Poetry Third Place Clarissa Packard Green - Photo Album Non Fiction Judge Dennis E. Bolen NON FICTION WINNERS Non -Fiction First Place Corey Levine – My Pet Junkie Non-Fiction Second Place Theresa Henry Smith – The Looters Non-Fiction Third Place Margo Prentice – The Green Dress Fiction Judge George Opacic FICTION WINNERS Fiction First Place Antonia Levi – Uptown Strays Fiction Second Place Kelly Dycavinu – Inanna’s Song Fiction Third Place Jude Neale – Georgia On My Mind
ANNOUNCING WRITE ON! CONTEST Honorable Mentions Look for the following stories and poems to be published in upcoming issues of Wordplay at Work starting in June 2013.
Poetry Judge Eileen Kernaghan POETRY Honorable Mentions Alan Hill - Sanity Uber Alles Donna Allard - War Musket Grass Lilija Valis - Blue Ride West Lilija Valis - Escape To Eden Jonina Lynn Kirton - Lake Manitou Jonina Lynn Kirton - Every Plant Has a Song
Non Fiction Judge Dennis E. Bolen NON FICTION Honorable Mentions David Delaney - Duffle Bag of Poetry Lorraine Kiidumae - A Beautiful Child Gail Norcross - Musings On Aging Patti Wilder - My Life With Orcas Carol Tulpar - Humpies In The Skeena Susan Seneshen - Figaro's Marriage
Fiction Judge George Opacic FICTION Honorable Mentions Ben Nuttall-Smith - Fish and Chips Margo Prentice - Ali And The Sand Lorraine Kiidumae – Little Mountain Lorraine Kiidumae - Lost In Venice Donna Terrill - The Universe Strikes Back Maggie Rayner - The Age Thief
RCLAS Write On! Contest First Place Winner Fiction Uptown Strays Antonia Levi “Is that a scarf or a shawl?” Fred Brody asks the woman in the elevator. He’s surprised to hear his own voice. He doesn’t talk to his neighbours. He doesn’t want anything to do with them or the social activities for seniors that are forever being posted in the lobby of his Uptown New Westminster high-rise. “It’s a pashmina shawl. It’s made of wool, so it’s warm. Spring’s been chilly this year.” Even in those few words, Fred can hear the lilt of another land, an exotic land that he knows only through the three Bollywood musicals his daughter made him watch years ago. “Where are you from?” he asks. “Surrey.” She says it so straight faced that at first he thinks she really misunderstands what he’s asking. Then he sees the twinkle in her eye and they both laugh. By the time they reach the street, he’s learned that her name is Maya, that she comes originally from Mumbai which he still thinks of as Bombay, and that every morning she takes a walk around Moody Park. “Me too,” he says. “Maybe we could walk together.” He regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth. He generally takes four laps around Moody Park and he does it at a good clip. What if she can’t keep up? And what on earth will they talk about? But it’s too late now. The words are out and she nods. Conversation turns out to be easy. Maya is an avid gardener. So is Fred. They admire the crocuses just now pushing their way out of the ground and speculate on how soon the first daffodils will emerge. On the third lap, they describe the gardens they had when they lived in houses rather than condo units, and Maya shows him some photos of her old place in Surrey that
she has on her phone. Fred is not so high tech and he doesn’t carry photos with him, but he promises to bring them next time. So begin their morning walks. They meet in the lobby at nine and do four laps around the park at a good clip. After two weeks, Fred slips out early and brings back a thermos of coffee and a box of Timbits. They sit on a bench between the second and third lap and enjoy them together. That’s when Maya tells Fred about her husband. “He was a big man,” she says. “Strong. He worked construction most of his life, but by the time he died, I had to brush his hair because he couldn’t lift a comb. Stomach cancer.” “My Sally died of pancreatic cancer,” says Fred. “She was a big woman too. Always worried about her weight, but she wasn’t fat, just big. And she had the most beautiful red hair. When she died, she weighed ninety-two pounds and was bald as a billiard ball.” “Life is cruel,” says Maya. “Yes.” There’s nothing more to say. “Tomorrow, I will bring chai and Indian sweets,” Maya promises. They fall into a new pattern: two laps, chats on the bench, then two more laps. They take turns bringing drinks and snacks. Fred develops a taste for chai and Indian sweets. Maya already likes coffee and Timbits. He sees pictures of her kids: her stockbroker son who lives in Toronto and her geologist daughter in Fort McMurray. She admires his pictures of his girls: Anita who moved to Australia with her husband, Tina who moved to Prince Rupert, and Nella who still lives in Vancouver although he doesn’t see her as often as he would like. “Kids have to live their own lives,” she sighs. “We did. Now it’s their turn.” She tells him about how her parents didn’t want her to marry her husband. “They had another boy in mind. Someone dull and safe. Not like my Rahul with his wild dreams of building a new life in Canada. In the end, we eloped.” “Sally and I eloped too. Her folks wanted her to marry white collar. They didn’t like the idea of a plumber with dreams of having his own business.” Fred and Maya first see the cat in mid-July. It’s a little grey cat with green eyes. It watches them as they sit on their bench, but it doesn’t come close. It’s skittish. A stray. But it comes back the next day, and the next. On the fourth day, Maya brings a bag of cat treats and throws the animal a few. It pounces on them happily. “It’s hungry,” says Maya.
“It looks well fed enough. Probably bags plenty of mice and birds in the park.” “Not to mention treats from people like us,” Maya agrees. Winter comes early, but they bundle up and their walks continue. Maya starts to worry about the cat. “How will it get through the winter?” she asks. “It’ll manage. Cats are survivors.” He believes it too, right up until the day the cat fails to appear for its treats. It’s a cold November day and they’ve finished their coffee and Timbits, but they stay on the bench, hoping against hope that the animal will appear. It starts to snow. “We have to go home,” Fred tells Maya. “The cat’s probably found someplace to shelter.” He doesn’t believe it and neither does she. Perhaps it’s the coldness of the air that makes sound travel better than usual, but they both hear it, a small mew from beneath a bush behind their bench. They rush to investigate. The cat is lying on its side, its little chest heaving. It can barely lift its head. “Oh no!” Maya unzips the top of her jacket and whips off her shawl. It’s a beautiful thing, peacock blue with gold embroidery, probably expensive. But Maya doesn’t seem to care about that. She wraps the cat in her shawl. “There’s a vet’s office in that strip mall on Eighth Street,” she says. “I doubt he can do much,” Fred warns her. “Probably just euthanize him so he doesn’t suffer.” “Then that’s what we’ll do.” Fred doesn’t want to do any such thing. He wants to back away. Forget he ever saw the cat. He doesn’t want to care about the cat. He remembers holding Sally in his arms as she died. She was so tiny and so scared. And he, who cared so much, could do nothing. That was what came of caring. No way does he want to risk hurting like that again, but then he looks at Maya cradling the little cat in her beautiful shawl, and he knows it is already too late. He braces himself for the worst as the vet examines the cat. “He’s male,” the vet tells them. “Neutered though, and well cared for up until recently. He must have had a home once.” “How could anyone abandon a sweet little cat like this?” asks Maya. “It’s not necessarily their fault,” says the vet. “They just...” He breaks off, perhaps realizing that neither Fred nor Maya is young. They both understand what he was going to say
though: their owners just die. At least half the population of Uptown New West is old. Fred sometimes jokes that while other places have traffic jams, Uptown New West has “walker jams”. Fred sneaks a peak at Maya. She doesn’t use a walker and her parents lived to ripe old ages, mostly in good health. Like him, unlike poor Sally, she comes of sturdy stock. With luck, she might outlive him instead of the other way around. He wonders if she’s making the same calculation about him. Fred turns his attention back to the cat. “He’s in pretty bad shape though, isn’t he?” “Not as bad as he looks,” says the vet. “It’s a puncture wound that’s gotten infected. If I drain it and give him a good dose of antibiotics, he should be fine in a few days.” “How much will that cost?” asks Maya. The vet tells her and Fred sees her calculating how to pay for it. “Do it,” he tells the vet. While the vet works on the cat, Fred and Maya go to the Safeway and buy a cat box, some litter, and an assortment of cat food. They take these to Maya’s apartment. It’s the first time Fred has ever seen Maya’s place. The layout is the same as his own, but it’s brighter, more homey, and it smells of spices he doesn’t even know the names of. Maya fetches an old blanket and makes a place for the cat on the sofa. “I’ll keep him until he feels better,” she tells Fred. “Then you can have him if you want.” “We’ll share him,” says Fred. They return to the vet’s office to find the cat is ready to go. As Fred pays the bill, the receptionist calls Maya Mrs. Brody. Neither of them bothers to correct her. Antonia Levi is a recovering academic who has published three books and numerous articles on subjects ranging from Japanese animation to pedagogy in higher education. She is currently working to reinvent herself as a fictionista. She has had short stories published in Pearls, emerge, and Naked Crossing (forthcoming). She is currently working on two novels: Death on Point, a fantasy murder mystery featuring a shape-shifting raccoon turned barista in Point Roberts, and A Death in the Buffyverse, a Young Adult murder mystery in which fans of Buffy the Vampire Slayer use their specialized knowledge drawn from the series to find out who killed their roommate. She is also compiling a collection of short stories entitled Tales of the Royal City that play in the various neighbourhoods of New Westminster. "Uptown Strays" is one of these stories.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Second Place Winner Fiction Inanna’s Song Kelly Dycavinu Since Rahna received the gift of her first blood, I have noticed her mother, Hurriya, watching me. I’m two years older, but have yet to bleed. Something’s not right. I know it. She knows it. I hear her speak to Father in hushed tones. When I enter the room, they stop talking. At night, though, they cannot see me through the walls and the murmur of their voices continues for hours. They argue. He doesn’t want to concern himself with women’s worries. He has the crops to think about. But I can tell by the way he has started to watch me that he, too, is now worried. I’m biding my time. It’s been three cycles since Rahna’s first blood. My plan will not work if I rush it. In the meantime, I’ve moved my bedding to the rooftop. Maybe the moon has forgotten me. I lie for as long as possible with my nightdress pulled up around my waist, exposed to her light. Then, when I can no longer bear the cold, I wrap in my covers and shiver until morning. When the harvest is finally complete, I share the rooftop with stalks of flax hung out to dry. I like to look at their shapes, shadowed in the night, and imagine they are the figures of my husband and our children.
I do not realize at this time how different my future will be. “Rahab! Come here.” I’m sitting outside grinding barley when Hurriya calls me. I put down the stone and walk to the front door, clapping the flour off my hands. Inside is dark compared to the bright sunshine and my eyes must adjust. She’s placing bundles of herbs and cheese into a basket. “Yes Mother?” I say, mentally adding who’s not my mother. It’s the only way I can stomach calling her that. She’s my Mother Who’s Not My Mother. “We’re going to the city. Go get ready,” she says without pausing to look at me. “What should I do about the flour?” I ask. She looks at me and sees my powdered clothing. “Get one of the others to finish— and be quick.” I run to Bilshah. She belongs to my father although she used to serve my mother— my real mother. “Bilshah, will you find someone to finish the flour? Hurriya says we’re going to the city.” “The city?” Bilshah stops what she’s doing and looks at me. “But it’s not market day. Did she say why you’re going?” “Of course not, we’re talking about Hurriya. I don’t dare ask either.”
“I’ll see that the flour gets done,” Bilshah says. Then she tugs at the waist of her skirt and pulls out a copper figure the size of her thumb. She moves to me and tucks it into my waist pocket. “Take this,” she says, “just in case.” “In case what?” I ask. I have no idea what she may be thinking, but she doesn’t answer. She only kisses me then pushes me to the door. “Hurry now, if she’s waiting.” We begin our walk to Tel Essultan. It’s not far. I follow Hurriya and behind me are two of our male slaves. Hurriya refused anyone else to come along. To be honest, I’m glad the slaves are with us. I know we’re not far from the city and I hear talk of the peaceful times we’re in, but you never know. I look at Hurriya’s spindly arms as they sway at her sides. I bite my lip to stop from laughing at the thought of her trying to fight off a wild dog or a marauder. Then I wonder again what Hurriya plans for us to do in the city. I’ve never gone anywhere alone with her before. We reach the city in just over an hour. A few merchants have their tables set up outside the South Gate, hoping to catch whatever business a person forgot to settle inside the city. None of their items interest me. I like market days when I get to see the new rugs and jewelry or fabrics and fruit. We pass through the gate of the outer wall. I’m shocked when Hurriya veers to the right and begins to weave in and out of the crowds of people, tents and animals. I’ve never been this way. We always pass through the inner wall as well. It’s where the market is. I find myself scurrying to keep up with Hurriya. All around me are strange men speaking words I
don’t understand. I see children chasing one another, street dogs barking at goats. Tents are scattered in the yard, but along the sides sometimes a house or a small hut of mud brick has been built into the wall. We stop at one of these huts. “Wait here,” Hurriya says to the slaves. She grabs my arm and pulls me inside. The odor of the hut makes me dizzy. I recognize some of the smells—spices and herbs found in any home. Mint is definitely one of them, but I can’t name the pungent odor lingering underneath. I’m certain I’ll vomit. “We’ve arrived, Inanna.” Hurriya speaks as though the room is a great hall, but it barely accommodates the table along the back wall, two cushions on the floor and a shelf of gods to the left. I recognize some of the figures, but most I do not. I’m curious about the one with many arms. “Have the girl step up on the blocks,” I hear a cracked voice say. A woman descends from the ladder that leads to the roof hatch. She carries a bundle of dried roots. Hurriya motions for me to get up on two blocks that are on the floor in front of the table. “What’s going to happen?” I ask. “Inanna’s going to look inside you, find out why you’re not bleeding.” “Can she do that? Find out, I mean?” I look from Hurriya to the strange woman. I don’t think she hears my question. Inanna goes to the other side of the room and snaps a thick leaf off a plant. “She can’t unless you get up there,” Hurriya says.
Inanna turns from her plant and seeing that I’m not on the blocks she takes my hand and leads me. I’m surprised by the gentleness of her touch. She reminds me of a dry leaf about to crumble, but I don’t know why. She looks Hurriya’s age. “Like this,” she says as she demonstrates how I’m to squat while up on the blocks. A rope hangs from the ceiling and I can use it to help keep my balance. Hurriya must stand behind me and hold my skirt above my waist. The copper figure from Bilshah presses against my rib. Inanna drops to her knees in front of me. She squeezes the plant leaf and thick syrup pours out onto her fingers. Letting the leaf fall to the dirt floor she places her left hand on my abdomen. Her right hand searches inside of me. It feels as though she’s cutting me. The deeper she goes, the harder she presses against my abdomen. I feel my knees weaken. “Hold her up!” Inanna calls. Hurriya’s arms encircle me. They’re not so weak and spindly after all and I surrender some of my weight to them. I wonder how much more I must endure when Inanna begins to sing. I don’t understand the words of the song, but the melody is warm. I feel a hunger in my chest, an ache that burns like the embers of a cooking fire. Her song stirs this hunger and I devour it. Or has it devoured me? Inanna releases the pressure of her left hand and she is done. “Help her to the table,” she says to Hurriya and then continues her song. I lie down, listening to her voice and watching her movements. She cleans her hands on a cloth and grabs something from a shelf. When her song is finished she speaks to Hurriya.
“I do not think she’ll ever bleed.” Then turning to me she says, “But I’ve been wrong about many things in my life. If you still have hope, take these stones and wash them in spring water. You’re to place one inside of you three nights before every new moon, but only keep it in while the moon shines. When the new moon arrives, cast the stone into the river. Then drink this.” She hands me a package of tea leaves along with the stones. I gaze at the stones in my palm. If I still have hope. Do I? I recall my nights shivering on the rooftop. I consider my plan, what I have been preparing to do. I hear again Inanna’s words to Hurriya, I do not think she’ll ever bleed. All of it feeds into my hunger—all but that melody. I must have hope. I have Inanna’s song.
Kelly Dycavinu, currently in her thirties, feels twenty and wishes she was fourteen. Well, that’s mostly true. Except that she wouldn’t trade life with her husband and two children for anything. So the fourteen-thing doesn’t cut it after all. Residing in New Westminster, BC, Kelly has a BFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia. She writes primarily for children and young adults, however, she also writes articles and personal essays that explore parenting, faith and social justice and she writes academically in the area of literature, with a particular focus on intertextuality. Kelly’s especially interested in classic literature, mythology, folk and fairy tales, trickster narratives, biblical narratives and creation accounts. She believes that how we view ourselves and others around us is largely impacted by the stories we hear/see and the stories we tell. This link between story and identity fascinates her. Her blog, Popcorn with a Spoon, may be found at http://kellydycavinu.wordpress.com/
RCLAS Write On! Contest Third Place Winner Fiction Georgia on My Mind Jude Neale I was walking my way to glory. I was sure of that. The digital read out on the dustladen treadmill blinked out 3 minutes 41 seconds. My hands were already sweating and sliding back on the machines’ handrails. I gripped them as though I was afraid of getting lost. My shin screamed. Shin splints. I knew this was an indicator that I was out of shape. This wasn’t the only sign. My breathing was rapid and the machine’s pulse monitor beeped out 161 beats per minute. I wondered if this was within the target range and started to calculate using the formula in the ‘Fit or Fat’ book. The only true measurement of fat, it said, was the water test. The Sink or Float Test. I was a sinker for sure. Lean, hard, relentless thoughts. Little room for trivia or small talk. Just the essentials: “Why am I here, and how do I get found before I die?” My exercise club was really only the bedroom. Just inches from this endlessly pacing future was my bed. The sheets lay crumpled and let off a familiar sour smell. On them lay my books. My lifelong addiction. Gloria Steinem and her motivational biography; Rinpoche’s, The Tibetan Book of the Living and Dying; and Sharon Olds’ poetical observations of womanhood. They were like a collection of used coffee mugs. Each one contained the dregs of wisdom and assurance that I was looking for. But my mind humming-birded from thought to thought, drinking in this one or doing a 90 degree turns at that. I had sprung out of bed this morning determined to be a no nonsense esoteric woman of the moment. A pragmatic romantic. It is never too late, says Rinpoche. Love and Knowledge is all that matters. Well, I knew that. I had always known that. I wished that I could be a believer, like Steinem or Rinpoche. Then I’d snowball energy and wouldn’t be forced to make up trials and tests for myself. Things that were on my mental list to overcome. Like this heavy fingered inertia. Even as I strode purposely forward, my thoughts strayed to those freshly baked croissants that were in the dish cupboard.
I kept them under tight security away from the new kitten, Pipkin, my daughter’s latest acquisition. I was always trying to make it up to my old-soul twelve year old. I’d named my life changer, ‘Georgia’, after the artist. I’d pictured a child with a shrewd eye and an independent nature. Two qualities I had thought of as essential. But my Georgia was insular and earthbound. Worried about being right and making sure everyone knew that they were wrong. Georgia triggered an uncalled for level of impatience within me. I felt exhausted and on edge after one of our attempts to communicate. We were travelers from different lands, not understanding the language. We smiled as foreigners do, telegraphing love to each other, but could not find the Esperanto commonality necessary to be understood. My girl needed to be with the Tourist Guide of The Obvious and not me, whose thoughts must be read like tea leaves. I could rarely say no to Tuesday’s child. My somber gift of self-discovery. Georgia made me feel like a surprise package. Sometimes the wrapping would reveal a tolerant and languid woman in control. At other times pettiness and over enunciation would send words jack-in-the-boxing out of my pursed lips. When this shift in my psychic equilibrium would happen, remorse for my sandy haired, serious offspring would flood into my stash of guilt. There was no way to sandbag against it. I would try and bridge the gap by offering olive branches of desirable objectschocolate chip cookies, new sweatshirts or in this case, the kitten. I hate cats. They respond in kind and cringe if my penitent fingers reach down to stroke their fur. They don’t doubt my insincerity. Georgia, on the other hand, spoke ‘cat language’. She wasn’t the least bit offended when the cat would suddenly spring off of her lap to lick itself in the patch of morning sun on the Mexican tiled floor. Sometimes, when Georgia wasn’t looking, I would purposely throw Pipkin out into the driving West Coast rain. Someone else had to be sacrificed. Now the sweat had started to flow from even the back of my knees and I worried that I’d be electrocuted by the evidence of my own sloth. After all, the manual had clearly instructed the newly converted to KEEP AWAY FROM ALL LIQUIDS! Did this brine of exorcised frustration count? I turned off the machine and watched the black rubber path change from a brisk walk to a crawl and finally to a viewpoint.
I got down on my hands and knees to read the fine print on the side of the machine. Lodged under the front roller was a button. It was fashioned out of abalone and shaped like a seashell. It was the buttons on that pale yellow Indian dress that had caught my eye. I’d fallen in love with this garment, imagining it to be an object of transformation. Inner belief through outward beauty. Its neckline was scooped low, to trace the top of my small breasts. It fell off of one shoulder and I felt like Carmen in it, woman of intrigue and throbbing sexuality. When I stood up I noticed the rank smell of my sneakers. They were Nikes that had been bought for speed 10 years ago. They hadn’t gone far lately, but had still managed to retain their running shoe breath. In the old days I’d have worried about the affect this would have on my desirability quotient, but now I simply didn’t care. With aging comes a certain amount of apathy. I examined the button. It was a pearly scallop shell. The dress it had originally come from had had only four buttons, so it was amazing that I hadn’t noticed its unfortunate disappearance. Surely someone would have mentioned the gaping view - but then, everyone loved to gawp at someone else’s disaster. I walked over to the cedar door that framed my walk in closet and gently pushed. Out wafted my signature scent of Dune mixed with shoe leather. I flicked on the light and was rewarded by my accumulation of garments. Must have been about three hundred outfits. They represented my life’s work. A museum of discarded possibilities. I’d been constant in my relentless pursuit of clothes that mirrored my ‘complex’ persona. Rich fabrics and pallets of colour pressed together on the hangers and in random piles on the floor. Burgundy, ivory, cobalt blue, peach, scarlet, turquoise and clay, Harris tweeds and Laura Ashley pastels reflected my whimsical nature. The back third of the closet held the velvet collection. Black capes and forest green French frock coats just this side of decent. It was here that I could follow the convoluted path of my life. A psychic-pathologist will be able to piece together my fluctuations of confidence and bravado after I’m long gone. They will feel the soft fabric of my joy as well as the black silky slide of my grief. These clothes were the barometers of my mood. Each item acted independently of the other, like a multiple personality disorder. I traced the pilgrimage I’d journeyed on thus far by glancing at the hangers suspended askew on the wooden rails. I had gone from the inoffensive pastel softness of my twenties to the unfettered blacks and burgundies of my forties, to the short curving dresses of these voluptuous fifties. Each age I’d shed my selfconsciousness and revealed more skin. I was 51 and having a fling with the power of beauty before I had to rely on other talents like playing Scrabble and knowing the
time and belting out the National Anthem at ballgames and the Bowen Island Cenotaph on Remembrance Day. I heard the front door slam, then the wet kick of shoes against the mud-stained wall and lastly the exultant cry of Mum from my usually quiet daughter. I quickly stepped onto the treadmill and feigned effort and surprise. Georgia stood in the doorway, wearing her older brother’s hip-hop jeans and a shirt saying, I Love Cheese. Hey, Mum, you’re up, Georgia observed. I mouthed with a breathless smile; Don’t let the cat out, dear. Georgia beamed at my obvious attempt to bond with her kitty and stepped forward to embrace me. Yes. This was why I’d gotten up, to feel lifted and loved and a better person. I lived with my very own Saint. I felt tarnished beside her and promised myself to be more grounded and practical. Today was the start and I walked by the bed and went into the kitchen to make the best damned after school snack I had ever made.
JUDE NEALE is a Canadian poet living on Bowen Island off of Vancouver. Her writing has been published frequently in journals like The Antigonish Review and Quill, online magazines such as Monday’s poem and Ascent Aspirations Magazine, also in anthologies, e.g. the forthcoming Tri-City Anthology; Portland, Seattle, Vancouver and The Wild Weathers: a gathering of love poems. Her book, Only the Fallen Can See (Leaf Press), was published in 2011. Her next collection will be A Quiet Coming of Light. Jude was shortlisted for the 2012 Gregory O’Donoghue International Poetry Prize (Ireland), The 2012 International Poetic Republic Poetry Prize (UK), The Mary Chalmers Smith Poetry Prize (UK). Jude was nominated for the 2012 Canadian ReLit Award and the Pat Lowther Award, for her book Only the Fallen Can See.
LITERARY EVENT – Richmond City Hall, Council Chambers Date; May 4, 2013 2:00 PM – 4:00 PM “The Poetry of George Seferis, Nobel Laureate” Please join Greek/Canadian Poet Manolis and Poet Laureate Candice James as they read Translations by Manolis of Greek Poet George Seferis (1900 -1971). Manolis will read from “George Seferis, Collected Poems” translated by Manolis in Greek and Candice will read the English translation. George Seferis was one of the most important Greek poets of the 20th century, and a Nobel Laureate. He was also a career diplomat in the Greek Foreign Service, culminating in his appointment as Ambassador to the UK, a post which he held from 1957 to 1962. In 1963, Seferis was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature "for his eminent lyrical writing, inspired by a deep feeling for the Hellenic world of culture." His wide travels provide the backdrop and colour for much of Seferis's writing, which is filled with the themes of alienation, wandering, and death.
http://www.libroslibertad.ca/book.php?id=52
RCLAS Write On! Contest First Place Winner Poetry dream kitchen Jonina Lynn Kirton from my kitchen I see the Fraser River where tug boats pull covered barges some 100 times their size often a single man walks the deck or leans in the open door in that gaping entrance he smokes a modern day Marlon Brando working on the water white t-shirt cigarette pack rolled up in one sleeve today I watch the water glisten hear the buzz of the saw mill chop onions wear apron wipe forehead feel tickle in nose between sniffles tears brown rice and lentils simmer add mint a little feta scoop ingredients into peppers red green yellow orange placed on pan cooked at 350 degrees their flavours coalesce merge mingle the cat emerges from his basket life is simple for him he sits in the window watches the glisten of the water he too has seen the red tugboat the salient angle of the logs in tow knows that some do escape their fate wend their way down river
or to make their way to shore
I have seen them on my walks stray logs in search of a safe harbour those washed ashore bask in the sun as sand water abrade their exterior turning them silver grey smoothing their edges long days in my kitchen
no one knows how I imagine myself
the tugboat the modern day Marlon Brando (some days his lover) or best of all the log I want the water to touch me
the one that got away
wend me down the river
leave me to float in the moonlight
Jonina Kirton a Métis/Icelandic poet living in Vancouver with her husband. Her love of poetry began in 2006 when she was accepted into the Simon Fraser University’s Writer’s Studio. Since then she has immersed herself in words; in fact she has word lists squirreled away in dozens of notebooks. Sometimes those words find homes in her poems and she feels the way they organize themselves is nothing short of magic. Her writing is very much informed by her interest in Continuum which has been described as a moving meditation. It was her mentor and dear friend Ingrid Rose that introduced her to this practice through her Writing from the Body workshops. Her writing, often contemplating the practicalities of embracing a spiritual life, has been featured in the Ricepaper’s Asian-Aboriginal Edition, between earth and sky Anthology, The Poetry of Science (a chapbook anthology, V6A: Writing from Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside Anthology, home & away (a chapbook anthology), Enlightening Times UK, Other Tongues: Mixed - Race Women Speak Out Anthology, Pagan Edge, First Nations Drum, Toronto Quarterly, Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, New Breed Magazine, Shine Journal, Joyful!, emerge Simon Fraser University’s Writers Studio Anthology 2007.
Jonina Kirton with RCLAS Director, Janet Kvammen at LitFest
RCLAS Write On! Contest Second Place Winner Poetry After Birth Jude Neale
Someone asked me if I would die for you. That would be easy. For you are a burning bush inside of me. My love moves through you like a flat stone under still water. I promised myself to let you go at your birth. So you could grow without the burden of
be careful take it easy running like oil over your dreams and big plans. I forgot to hold myself back. Just borrowed your heart
for twenty-five years. And I couldn’t breathe without feeling grateful. I’ve become a good listener and sit ready to smile at Starbucks pulling meaning from the back of your grown-up words. You sound so happy and full as a wren’s nest I don’t have it in me to say that my love burrows deeply like an small piece of sand in the eye.
JUDE NEALE is a Canadian poet living on Bowen Island off of Vancouver. Her writing has been published frequently in journals like The Antigonish Review and Quill, online magazines such as Monday’s poem and Ascent Aspirations Magazine, also in anthologies, e.g. the forthcoming Tri-City Anthology; Portland, Seattle, Vancouver and The Wild Weathers: a gathering of love poems. Her book, Only the Fallen Can See (Leaf Press), was published in 2011. Her next collection will be A Quiet Coming of Light. Jude was shortlisted for the 2012 Gregory O’Donoghue International Poetry Prize (Ireland), The 2012 International Poetic Republic Poetry Prize (UK), The Mary Chalmers Smith Poetry Prize (UK). Jude was nominated for the 2012 Canadian ReLit Award and the Pat Lowther Award, for her book Only the Fallen Can See.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Third Place Winner Poetry Photo Album Clarissa Packard Green Unlike other mother-daughter gatherings this time, no pictures. Instead, needle-sharp images buried deep: hair brush, half-glass of ginger ale, lotions on bedside table tray with red Jello and coffee basin of soapy water on chair letters spilled on bureau family photos taped on wall single chair facing hospital bed candles lighting up corner eight hands massaging old woman’s body towels folded, stacked quilted journal, black pen on love seat small table, four places set yellow notes on kitchen counter four women facing each other, arms encircling raised knees daughter holding phone to ear daughter playing cello, eyes closed daughter typing on computer keys daughter writing cigarette smoke rising from an ash tray Bible stuffed with page markers four heads bent together in shadow windowpanes running with rain gardenia in bloom funeral suits strewn across bed old woman, eyes closed, dressed in black and gold hands folded on chest. Clarissa P. Green’s poetry, fiction and non-fiction focus on the interface between time, memory and personal relationships. A therapist, university teacher and graduate of SFU’s Writers’ Studio, she won first prize in the Vancouver International Writers’ Festival contest. Her recently-completed manuscript, Start There, explores relationship changes as parents age and die, and their children do – or don’t – show up.
POETIC JUSTICE Schedule April 2013 {Poetic Justice is under the umbrella of RCLAS }
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 Taslim Jaffer/ Jerimie Marion/ Kathleen Katon Tonnesen with host, Deborah Kelly Sunday, May 5, 2013 3-5 pm (15:00-17:00)
Poetic Justice featuring Lucia Gorea/ Ibrahim Honjo/ Brenna Turvey with host, Franci Louann Sunday, May 12, 2013 3-5 pm (15:00-17:00)
NO Poetic Today – Victoria Day Weekend Sunday May 19, 2013
Poetic Justice featuring Fran Bourassa/ Wilhelmina Salmi/ RC Weslowski with Host, Sho Wiley Sunday, May 26, 2013 3-5 pm (15:00-17:00)
Come join us! We have Open Mic sign-up at every Poetic Justice. Check us out on Facebook, too.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Second Place Winner Non-Fiction The Looters Theresa Henry-Smith
When we spotted the abandoned house a ways up from the dirt road, we skidded our bikes to a stop in a cloud of dust. I looked over to my brother Brad and his buddy Darren. The red metallic paint of Brad’s new bike bore fresh scratches from the gravelly ride. Darren stood, balancing with the tips of his runners, on his rusty over-sized bicycle. “Is that their house?” I asked. We had been riding for over thirty minutes on this lonely stretch of forest road. I was now tired and hoped we had found the place at last. “Yeah, this is their place,” said Darren as he squinted against a shaft of sunlight that shone down from between the canopy of trees. We rode up to the trash-strewn clearing where the house stood and we dropped our bikes under some trees. Though it was a hot summer day, I shivered. It was cool in the dark of the shade and the smell of smoke hung in the air. Closer up, the house was more like a shack —not much bigger than some of the garages in my own neighbourhood. It had peeling black tar paper and there were weathered pieces of panelling nailed to the parts of the walls. All the windows were smashed and the door was kicked in; it just swung from its hinges. “OK, Theresa, we get to go in first,” said Brad, “being as we’re boys and we’re bigger than you.” Brad and Darren were both eleven. Three years older than me. I was lucky they brought me along. My sister Tracey didn’t cut it because she wasn’t even seven yet. No babies allowed, they told her. I peered into the gloom of the dark interior. “Sure, go ahead. I don’t care,” I said, rubbing the goosebumps on my arm. Yuck, Martin’s family lived in that? Martin Leblanc was a small shy Indian kid I knew from my grade two class at North Nechako Elementary School.
I held back and watched as the boys cautiously approached the doorway. Darren and Brad could almost pass for brothers with their matching black hair and summer-brown tans. They pushed the hanging door aside. There was the crunching sound of broken glass as they stepped inside. “Boy, what a mess,” I heard Brad exclaim. “Smells like pee in here, too,” shouted Darren. Brad poked his head out the doorway. “C’mon in, Theresa. It’s ok. There’s nothing scary in here.” I hesitated, “Are there... any blood spatters on the walls?” I asked. “It’s too dark and trashed up in here to tell,” Brad said gesturing impatiently for me to follow. I stepped inside. The pee and smokey smell nauseated me. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the wreckage of the interior became clearer. Some of the walls were charred black, and there was broken furniture and garbage all over the filthy floor. “Looks like vandals tried to burn the place,” Brad said solemnly. He started to pick through the refuse with the end of a stick. “No gun left here. I guess the police must’ve taken that for evidence,” Darren said authoritatively, hands on his hips. “I can’t believe she actually shot herself right in the mouth.” He made an exaggerated shudder and started pulling open drawers in the kitchen. “They say her brains got blown out.” “Poor Martin,” I whispered. I stifled a tear. I didn’t want look like a cry-baby in front of the boys. He must’ve been really sad when his mom killed herself last spring. I couldn’t imagine my mother ever being dead. Not like that. With the toe of my runner, I flipped over a stiff, moldy sweater and started as some tiny bugs scrambled out from underneath. “Kids at school said she was fed up of Martin’s dad beating on her all the time,” said Darren. He picked up a bent spoon and dropped it with a clatter back into the drawer. Brad lifted an old T-shirt off the floor with his stick and made a face. “I heard lots of things made her sad. Like that old man who owns the candy store near our school. He never let her shop there. Kicked her out of the store when she tried to come in. Said he didn’t serve squaws in his store and that they’re all thieves.” Darren’s face darkened. “Yeah, that old crab sometimes picks on me and Deanna too. ‘I’m watching you!’ he says. ‘Don’t you even think of stealing anything!’ Bastard.” Darren slammed the drawer shut.
Darren Mitchell’s mom was Indian and his dad was white. His sister Deanna was also my friend. I really enjoyed play dates at the Mitchell house because their mom always made us fresh baked cookies. I knew what Darren meant about the old man in the store. Sometimes that guy looked funny at me and Brad as well. Maybe he thought we were Indian too. I guess we might look Indian being as my dad is Chinese and my mom’s white. My little sister never got picked on because her skin is lighter. “Well, have you guys found anything?” Darren asked. “Nothing I want,” said Brad. “I don’t like being here... doing this,” I said. I walked over to a broken window and looked out at the trees. The wind had picked up and the trees swayed, sprinkling leaves all over the clearing. “Hey, it’s only fair,” Darren said, “They stole stuff from your house. You guys should take something from their place.” Darren was talking about the time when our house burned down last winter. The newspaper said it was the worst house fire in Prince George in 1969. Dad figured it was from paint chemicals on some rags in the garage. We were all lucky to get out without a scratch; all except for our dog, Penny. The poor thing died from breathing smoke. Right after we moved back into our newly rebuilt home, a bunch of our friends from the neighbourhood told us that after the fire, they saw the LeBlancs snooping around in the burnt-out remains of our old house. “They were taking stuff out of your place and putting it in their old pick-up truck,” they said. “Furniture, toys, clothes...” I remember feeling really mad about this because my favourite doll went missing after the fire. My Mattel talking Cinderella doll had curly brown hair, a gold dress, and, best of all, plastic see-through shoes. I had simmered at the possibility that they could have taken her. Brad was mad when he found out his bike was stolen too. After Mrs. LeBlanc’s death, we never saw Martin at school again. His father must have moved them out in a hurry because, according to Darren, they left a lot of their belongings behind. Their home now sat abandoned and Darren had said he knew where it was. “It’s hidden deep in the woods. Kind of creepy but would you like to see it?” Darren had asked. “Maybe you’ll find some of your missing things.” We jumped at the chance. We hoped to find our belongings, but also, we’d never seen a place where someone died.
Now here we were, and I didn’t care about finding my talking Cinderella doll anymore. Maybe it actually burnt in the fire. There certainly wasn’t anything around here that I recognized from our place. The wind picked up outside and blew through the window. As a cloud had passed over the sun, the shack began to feel cold. Brad rubbed his bare arms, “Geez, let’s head back. I didn’t care about my old bike, anyway. My new one is way better.” Darren, nodded and looked out the window, “Looks like rain soon.” I followed the boys back outside. “See, Theresa. That wasn’t so scary, was it?” Darren teased as he and Brad picked up their bikes. “No, just stinky.” I glared back. The wind whipped leaves and litter around the clearing. I picked up what looked like a faded photo that landed near my bike. It was a picture of Martin, at about two years old, sitting on Santa’s lap. He had a rosy cheeked smile and shining dark eyes. I let it go and the wind carried it away into the sky. We all jumped onto our bikes headed back down the dirt road. As we started on our way home, I felt the first warm drops of an oncoming summer rain on my bare arms.
Since graduating from Emily Carr College of Art and Design in the eighties, Theresa Henry has worn many hats. She’s worked as an artist in the computer gaming industry, was a painter in Vancouver’s pop art scene, and as a cartoonist/illustrator/writer she’s had various works published internationally in comics, magazines, weeklies, and anthologies (Women’s Glib, 1993, & The Best of Contemporary Women’s Humor, 1994, The Crossing Press, and Pearls 31, 2012, & Pearls 32, 2013, Douglas College Press). She is an active member in the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and Canada West Illustrators. Presently, she is building her illustration portfolio for her website, raising two teenagers, and scrambling to finish the first draft of a historical fiction novel for middle school-aged kids. Website
http://theresahenrysmith.com
Family Photo from the ‘60’s includes Mom, Margo Prentice. Theresa is the little girl on bottom left.
RCLAS Write On! Contest Third Place Winner Non-Fiction The Green Dress Margo Prentice
When I was a young teen, I had many Aunties; I remember with great fondness my favourite, Marie. She was in her thirties, with large expressive dark eyes and black hair. Marie was thin and waif like. She had a bad heart and did not have long to live. I associated heart disease with the color red. Red and blue remind me of her. It was 1952 and heart disease was a major killer. I remember her blue lips, blue nails. I wondered if my beloved Auntie’s heart and the blood flowing through her were blue and no longer red as well. I was thirteen when she moved in with us, she was dying. Her bad heart, with its blocked valves, was a residue from ravages of rheumatic fever. Her heart attacked frequently. In spite of being frail and weak, Marie still liked to shop. When she came back from her shopping she would struggle in through the door and collapse in the hallway. I would set her comfortably on the sofa and gather whatever was in the bags and put them on the table. Then I would talk to her as she relaxed trying to catch her breath. At night, when she couldn’t sleep I would go into her room and it was my chore to help her roll cigarettes on a small wood apparatus called the Vmaster. A long strip of special cigarette paper was put into a slot and filled with tobacco. The paper was wet with a moisten cue tip, and then two handles were pulled forward to complete the rolling of a foot long cigarette. The big cigarette was then cut with a razor blade into smoke size and placed in a tin. Marie took one out and lit it. Then would give me a cigarette and light it. I was given lessons on how to smoke like a lady, holding the cigarette between my middle and fore finger and holding it away from my face as a blew out the blue hazed smoke.” It always helps me with my breathing,” she would say relaxing after the first puff, the contrast of white tobacco paper on her blue tinged hands. Marie received a phone call from a friend who had read an article about a doctor who was a heart specialist surgeon doing experimental surgery on
heart patients with blocked valves. He used sheep valves and transplanted them into people. Still in the experimental stage, most of the patients died and so far no one had survived more than ten days. We lived in Winnipeg and the doctor was in Toronto, many miles away. Marie now had and inkling of hope! For her it was a small light at the end of her tunnel of death. Laughing she said, “I’m still going to buy the green dress, my chances for survival are so slim, but you never know, I might get lucky not have to wear it!” Marie wrote the doctor and asked if she could be a candidate. He replied yes, but because it was experimental surgery, it was not covered by a medical plan. She would have to pay $1,400. The money was collected, a hundred dollars from each family until enough money was raised to pay for the operation and the train fare to Toronto. It was a tradition for the women in our family to wear a beautiful green dress in their coffins. So, off we went my Aunts, me and two cousins with Auntie Marie to buy the “green” dress. We picked the most beautiful dress for Marie to try on. It was satin, a lovely emerald color, long sleeves, slightly scooped neckline with a small waist and flowing skirt. She walked out to ‘ahs from us all. Looking beautiful she walked slowly, looking frail her pale skin lily-like against the color of her dress. There was a mythical air about her, she looked liked she just walked out of a fairy tale, mystical and ethereal. Marie took the dress home and put it in a box lined with silk, on display like a wedding dress. Soon after buying the dress, Marie got a call from the doctor for her to come in for a pre-surgery interview. Train tickets had to be purchased, hotel room booked. Because her chances for survival were so slim a coffin was put on the train bring her back in. Just in case, off she went, coffin and green dress to her heart surgery. We all wondered if she would come back alive. The operation was a success! Newspaper headlines in Canada and the United States told the story of her operation. Our home became a pilgrimage to those suffering from serious heart disease. People came from all over the country and the United States to talk with her. I keep track of people making the appointments for their visits. Auntie Marie welcomed them as she sat in comfortable arm chair and I would serve tea. This lasted for months! There were many heart breaking stories of broken hearts, most left with hope when they had nothing else.
She did survive the surgery and lived many years with two lamb valves in her chest. The Green dress hung covered in the closet until she died. I wasn’t able to get to the funeral, and nobody mentioned the dress, if she wore it or not. Maybe the curse had been broken! Curses are broken when the fear is gone. The Green dress superstition had been lost in the generations. But why green? I’ll never know. I got over the fear of wearing green and bought my first green sweater at forty. I wore it and nothing terrible happened to me. The curse was over! We had a saying in the family if you saw a female relative in a green dress; it was because they were dead! “Bury me dead; bury me deep you’ll see me in dreams. You’ll know it’s me I’m wearing green.”
Margo is an active member of the Waves writing group here in New Westminster. She has been published in the Vancouver Sun and poems in the New Westminster anthology. Margo is the artistic director of the Golden Age Theatre and he has written a number of plays which have been performed with this group and in Vancouver. At the first Lit-Fest Margo gave a workshop on, "How to Write a Play." She is the originator of a senior creative writing group at Century House. She is a regular reader of her poetry and prose at open mikes at Renaissance Books and Poetic Justice. In the past few years she has written over one hundred and fifty stories and has written a manuscript for a book that she hopes to publish. Her latest project has been as the Senior worker on the Heart2Art Project where she was a leader in spoken word. Margo is a stand-up comic who has worked extensively in the Vancouver and surrounding area. She writes all her own material and enjoys writing comedy. (That's it!)
View video of Jonina Kirton reading Dream Kitchen here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3STW-B15ro View video of Antonia Levi reading Uptown Strays here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rd9Ixqwy7l0 including introductions by Arts Council of New Westminster President, Rick Carswell and our RCLAS representative, Alan Hill at the gala showcase event. literaryartssociety on youtube ***Note all Copyright remains with the authors we have published in this issue.
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
http://newwestartists.com/
NEWS and EVENTS The Holy Wow Poets' Momentous May Movement Show is on May 7th at the Act Theatre in Maple Ridge at 7:00 p.m. and they are privileged to have as honourary guest Lilija Valis. She is reknown for her governmental and private works helping people out of poverty and personal misery. She performs at various literary events as well as political/philosophical/economic international conferences in Vancouver. The list goes on. She will certainly sweep us off our feet with her ingenious savvy. Bar concession is open and open mic is available to all who believe they are poets and know it and are proudly showing it. Holy Wow! Thank you, Helene Levasseur
Upcoming In 2013 June 6 evening reception "Art inspired by the Poetry of Candice James" Place des Arts 1120 Brunette Ave, Coquitlam
Blue Pencil Session scheduled for Tuesday June 11 at The New Westminster Library July will be sponsoring an event with Manolis featuring the poetry of Pablo Neruda More workshops to be announced in August and September with Deborah Kelly and Sylvia Taylor. Poetry in the Park Summer 2013 Queen’s Park Bandshell Wed eves starting July 3.
See more LitFest photos here https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.560359993985928.1073741836.210914705597127&type=1
About Us
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Pay by Paypal on our website www.rclas.com or send cheque or money order to: RCLAS – Royal City Literary Arts Society Box #5 - 720 – Sixth Street, New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5 For further information: Phone – 778-714-1772 Email – secretary@rclas.com
May 20 13
Wordplay at work
ISSN 2291-4269
Membership Application - Annual fee $28 including tax Pay by Paypal on our website www.rclas.com or send cheque or money order to: RCLAS – Royal City Literary Arts Society Box #5 - 720 – Sixth Street, New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5
For further information: Phone – 778-714-1772 Email – secretary@rclas.com Drop me a line at janetkvammen@rclas.com I would love feedback and comments on the newsletter