RCLAS Nov 2018 Ezine, Wordplay at Work

2018 Winners with comments by judge Miranda Pearson Winner First Place Book: Linger, Still Poet: Aislinn Hunter Publisher: Gaspereau Press Comments from our judge: Linger,Still is a humble and quiet work, but also powerfully ambitious. Here are poems of vision and compassion, steeped in history and philosophy, always alert to their music. They ask essential questions, whilst never failing to reveal the familiar to us in new and beautiful ways.

Aislinn Hunter is a poet, essayist, and novelist. She is the author of six books, including the novel The World Before Us, which won the Ethel Wilson Prize. She lives in British Columbia.

Winner Second Place Book: Table Manners Poet: Catriona Wright Publisher: Signal Editions, an imprint of VĂŠhicule Press Comments from our judge: Table Manners takes the material of food as a subject and metaphor to celebrate not only the oddness and sensuality of gastronomy, but to create something bright and vivid. The language is inventive, funny and brave, the handling of the line expert. As a debut collection, here is a shining new poetic voice.

Catriona Wright is the author of the poetry collection Table Manners (VĂŠhicule Press, 2017) and the short story collection Difficult People (Nightwood Editions, 2018). Her poems have appeared in Prism International, Prairie Fire, Fiddlehead, and Lemon Hound and have been anthologized in The Next Wave: An Anthology of 21st Century Canadian Poetry and in The Best Canadian Poetry 2015 & 2018.

Winner Third Place Book: The Celery Forest Poet: Catherine Graham Publisher: Buckrider Books, an imprint of Wolsak & Wynn Comments from our judge: This book succeeds in creating its own world, using magic realism, fairy tales and a skilled and sure ear. We are led and follow the path of images both frightening and fabulous, until, surrounded, we're lost. Exploring a subject that's hard to make new, The Celery Forest is a rare and compelling achievement.

Catherine Graham is the author of five acclaimed poetry collections, including Her Red Hair Rises with the Wings of Insects, which was a finalist for the Raymond Souster Award and the CAA Award for Poetry, while her debut novel Quarry won an Independent Publisher Book Awards gold medal for fiction. Graham is also the winner of the International Festival of Authors' Poetry NOW competition and teaches creative writing at the University of Toronto, where she has won an Excellence in Teaching Award. She also teaches at Humber College's Creative Book Publishing Program. Published internationally, she lives in Toronto.

Call for Workshop Proposals for 2019 Submissions accepted until January 31, 2019 Royal City Literary Arts Society is seeking proposals for exciting interactive workshops to take place in New Westminster in 2019. Selected workshops will be scheduled in 2019 for predetermined Saturday afternoons at Anvil Centre as well as during LitFest New West.

Proposals should be centered on the art of writing; successful proposals will spark interest in either a wide variety of learning writers or in a highly-engaged niche. Topics may include (but, are not limited to) the business/art of writing, prompts, poetry, fiction, and non-fiction, screen & stage.

We wish to highlight how diverse our community is, and in order to break down any exclusionary barriers and create a platform for marginalized voices, artists on the LGBTQ spectrum, non-binary artists, artists of colour, Indigenous artists, and disabled artists, are strongly encouraged to submit. Presenters will be paid for their work on an honourary basis.

Eligibility:

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This Call is open to all artists and workshop leaders.

All workshop proposal submissions will be considered.

Please note: Preference will be given to workshops that have not been presented in New Westminster over the past 12 months.

Please include the following in a Word Document when submitting a proposal: 1.

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Title Presenter’s name, brief bio (50-100 words), relevant CV (this may include references, testimonials, or video clips, particularly if working with RCLAS for the first time), and photograph Workshop description (250 words or less) Please emphasize audience participation and interaction Workshop objectives Equipment needed.

Marketing suggestions and insights

Estimated Timeline: Nov 1, 2018 January 31, 2019 Early February Mid-February Late February

Call for Workshop Proposals launched Deadline to submit Workshop Selection Committee meets Facilitators will be contacted Workshop dates confirmed, contracts signed and returned

Budget: RCLAS monthly workshops are needed for our Spring/Fall/Winter programming, with an honorarium of $120-150 provided (dependent on our projected 2019 budget). In addition, 4 workshops will be selected for LitFest New West and an honorarium of $250 will be provided to each workshop facilitator.

To submit, or to seek more information, please email secretary@rclas.com with the subject line “Workshop Proposal”.

Deadline: January 31, 2019.

Royal City Literary Arts Society: www.rclas.com Arts Council of New Westminster www. artscouncilnewwest.org/ LitFest New West www.litfestnewwest.com

RCLAS WRITER OF THE MONTH

JERENA TOBIASEN “The thrum of city life runs through my veins, and I draw energy and inspiration from my west coast lifestyle. I’ve had stories swimming in my head my entire life, and when I returned to the west coast, those stories surfaced with a determination to be heard.”

Jerena Tobiasen grew up on the Canadian prairies (Calgary, Alberta and Winnipeg, Manitoba). In the early ‘80s, she returned home to Vancouver, British Columbia, the city in which she was born.

Although she has written many short stories and poems since her return to Vancouver, it was not until 2016 dawned, that Jerena began writing her first full-length manuscript, a novel set primarily in Germany during World War I and World War II. When that draft was complete, she travelled to Europe and traced the steps taken by the story’s primary characters.

“I wanted to see what they saw; feel and smell what they might have; understand what they might have experienced.”

Jerena not only travelled the routes that her characters followed but visited historical museums (including the Bundeswehr Military History Museum and the Verkehrs Museum, both in Dresden, and the Ethnographic Museum in Tarnów). She also drew from her previous travel experiences, and her knowledge of the two world wars - including tours in 2004 and 2014 of battle fields, cemeteries, beaches and museums in northern France and Belgium. She embellished her stories with advanced research of various military issues, locations, weather and sea conditions, military and nautical terminology, a study of the Roma culture, an understanding of the languages of the times, and an interview with an individual who lived in Germany during WWII. Most of Jerena’s 2016 travels were by car (note her short story “Source Material” published in the March 2018 issue of Wordplay at Work), but sometimes she walked, and on one occasion she cruised the Oder River in Poland by boat.

Then, she rewrote that first manuscript, embellishing it with experiences, observations and newlygained understanding. The manuscript evolved into three volumes, the first of which tracks a family of German soldiers through two world wars (The Crest). The second volume tracks a family of Roma who are forced to flee Germany during the early years of Adolf Hitler’s round-up of undesirables (The Emerald). The third volume reveals what can happen when the paths of two very different families collide (The Destiny). Together, these volumes became the saga The Prophecy.

The Crest will be available on Amazon in early November 2018.

Visit her website http://jerenatobiasen.ca/

THE HAUNT’S OF WAR

by Jerena Tobiasen

“The face is damaged. The head will have to come off. Put him over there, and I’ll attend to him shortly.” The index finger of a bloodsoaked hand holding a saw clogged with bits of pale flesh pointed to an empty table. The table was draped in white cloth and stained with drying blood.

Richard felt the strong hands of orderlies holding his arms fast and dragging him toward the table. He looked about the room, realizing it was not really a room. It was a corridor. A dimly-lit hospital corridor.

As the orderlies dragged him toward the table indicated by the doctor’s gory hand, they passed several other tables. One had legs, neatly placed side-by-side, some wearing the owner’s boot, others naked, pale blue, and lifeless. The mangled knee and lower left leg

of his friend George sat at the end of the row, dressed in a boot, one of a pair especially ordered for him. In it was stitched a sheath to hold a small knife. George was left-handed so the sheath was stitched into the left boot for easy access.

Another table had rows of arms, some still encircled with a wrist watch, again neatly placed: all pale blue and lifeless.

A hand twitched, displaying its manicured nails and a wedding ring. He watched as another curled into an angry fist. The table nearest his destination held a row of heads, some wearing helmets, others merely bone, and yet others with flesh and eyeballs dangling, missing ears or hair. The head of his schoolmate, Paul, lay at the end of the display.

“My eye. Have you seen my eye?” anonymous torn lips asked.

Exposed light bulbs dangled overhead, humming with menace.

Richard licked his lips, tasting metallic red.

“That’s right. Hoist him on the table. One of you will have to hold his shoulders down tight. You take his head. Hold it firm.” The doctor’s eyes focussed on Richard’s neck, and the bloody saw lowered in slow motion.

In terror, Richard writhed against the hands that held him firm.

“Shush now,” the doctor said, his voice calm. “Everything will be all right.”

He struggled against his restraints, trying to scream, trying to make them understand. Don’t take my head. He wanted to scream, but the words would not come.

The blade of the saw poked into tender skin. Richard felt the prick and rake of jagged teeth on the exposed flesh of his hyperextended neck. He screamed again in a soundless dream-voice. § “Richard, Richard. Wake up, son! Wake up,” his father urged.

Richard’s eyes fluttered. Michael knelt at the side of the bed, gently shaking his shoulders.

Richard’s eyes shot open, unseeing. “No!” he bellowed, struggling against his father’s hands and panting in fear. “No! Not my head!”

He sat up abruptly, flailing his arms in defence, awareness became shock when he realized where he was. “Father!” He whispered, grasping Michael’s arms to anchor his emotions.

“Shush now. Everything will be all right.” Michael murmured, pulling his son into his arms. “It’s all right, son. It’s just a dream.”

Michael’s hand caressed the back of Richard’s head. “It’s all right. I have you. It’s Father.” Familiar words penetrated Richard’s fear-filled fog.

With his free hand, Michael rubbed Richard’s back.

“You used to do this when I was a small boy waking from a nightmare,” Richard mumbled into his father’s chest.

“I did, indeed,” Michael said. “Then, you had the dreams of a small boy. Now, you have nightmares no man should have.” § In the early hours of the morning, Richard awoke with a start. As he lay still, waiting for his pounding heart to slow, he cracked an eyelid and watched the lace curtains that framed the open window stretch ghostly fingers deep into his room.

The wind picked up, and the curtains thrashed. Lightning flashed and sliced through churning clouds. He heard plops of rain hit the dry road and felt the temperature drop.

Richard rolled onto his side and drew the bed covers over his shoulders. As he drifted back to sleep, he was aware of the pinging of rain pellets on the tiled roof and the boom, boom of thunder following close on the heels of crackling lightning. § Cold permeated through the damp in his clothes. Richard shivered, chilled to the bone.

They were lying in mud, waiting for the fog to lift, but the fog hung heavy over the entire field. The occasional word drifted clearly on the churning mist, some English, a French cry of pain, a German curse. Three men to his left, two to his right. The others were there, lost in the white weight that pressed down upon them.

High-pitched whistles, flares of blinding light, and the rumbling of the earth beneath them. Screams, pain, silence. Not even a bird twittered. Moaning and crying.

“Mama?

“Mommy, where are you?

“Mother, help me.”

Detached pleas crying for a mother’s help. Pleas of the dying.

The fog lifted, teasing visibility, revealing bodies and mangled parts. It lowered again, covering them all in a thick death shroud, sparing them from the vulgarity of war for a few blessed moments.

“Peter! Kirk! Matthew! Where are you? I can’t see you. Paul, where are you?” Richard peered through the fog, brushing it away without success. A rolling helmet bumped his shoulder, as if in answer to his questions. Impatient, he pushed it away. Paul’s empty eyes stared past him. “Paul! No!” The fog shifted again, swirling, lifting, revealing. The mud - it’s too thick. I can’t move. I’m stuck.

“No! No!” he screamed, “Dead! All Dead!” § Richard writhed in his bed, the sheets drenched in anxious sweat, tangling and restricting his limbs. He swam through mud, searching for his mates.

Michael burst through Richard’s door for a second time and dropped to his knees at his son’s side. “Richard!” he snapped, shaking him. “Richard! Wake up!” Richard flailed his arms, trying to break away, gasping and crying, feeling overwhelming grief.

“Willy!” Richard issued one last plaintive cry, and opened his eyes, panting. “Father! What is it?” His voice sounded distant.

“You were dreaming again.”

Richard stopped struggling and surrendered to the stability of his father’s hands. “Father! They are all dead. My men, my mates, they are all gone! We ran together like wolf pups when we were children.

We pretended to be soldiers in the King’s army. We were just boys!”

Michael’s wrinkled face wore an expression of understanding and worry.

“But we’re no longer those young boys.” Richard sat up and scrubbed his head, trying to find clarity. “They’re all dead now, except George, and he’s crippled. God, my head is all fucked up!”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Jerena Tobiasen

Canned Tomatoes

by Jerena Tobiasen

Pouring rain pounded on the window pane of the mess hall.

“Reminds me of home,” Sergeant Ted Temple muttered to the corporal sitting opposite him, as he gazed over the fellow’s shoulder and peered through the window. “Whatever happened to sunny old England?”

“I don’t know,” the other officer replied, “but I bet it’s sunny and warm in Vancouver.”

“Mail call in five minutes,” Ted said checking his wrist watch. “Let’s go. If we’re lucky, there’ll be mail from home to cheer us up.”

The two men pushed away from the table and exited the mess. They slogged through mud and puddles, across the tarmac to the mail hut, where other soldiers waited expectantly. Ted watched as men stepped

forward in response to shouted names, collected mail packets and disappeared in search of a quiet place where they could open and savour whatever had been sent. His mind wandered.

The camp was filled with a sense of expectation. Something big was going to happen. They had been ordered to run drills frequently, practising over and over all that they had learned before they were loaded onto ships in Halifax, and brought to England. He watched the men around him, anxious without knowing why. Edgy.

“Temple! George Edward!”

He heard his name and pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning.

“This looks interesting, Sergeant,” the postal clerk said. He held a small package and gently rotated it. It made a soft rustling sound.

“Must be from my dad,” Ted said. “His parcels are always interesting.”

Ted carried his parcel to the dorm that he had called home for several weeks and found an empty chair in the corner. As he sank his lanky frame into the wooden office chair, he sat the package reverently on his lap and ran his hand over his father’s familiar handwriting. Slowly,

he peeled away the brown paper wrapper and extracted a letter. His father’s cryptic message spoke of life in Vancouver, and of his family’s love and concern for him. The treasured message closed with the hoped that he would enjoy the cookies made especially for him by his youngest sister, and two jars of raspberry jam made by his mother, and the can of tomatoes from him. Canned tomatoes! Ted thought. Dad knows I hate canned tomatoes. They must have it rough in Vancouver.

Ted stared at the box still sitting on his lap and tugged off the lid. He inhaled the smell of homemade oatmeal cookies, and hastily retrieved one. He stuffed it in his mouth, savouring the memories provoked by the taste, then he rotated the two jars of jam, caressing his mother’s careful labelling. At the bottom of the box lay the small can of tomatoes. Yup! Food rationing in Vancouver is definitely tight.

“Box from home, Sir?” Master Corporal Herbert (“Bert”) Swan asked, as he entered the barracks.

“Yeah,” Ted replied. “Things must be getting tight at home. My dad sent me a can of tomatoes. He knows I hate them!”

“I don’t think you’re the only one,” Bert said. “I’ve heard a few of the lads commenting on odd contents from home. Think they know something we don’t?”

Ted shrugged.

“You might want to hold onto it,” Bert said after a moment of quiet.

“Even if you don’t like canned stuff, it could come in handy in a pinch.”

A few hours later, senior officers called an assembly and explained that within hours every able-bodied man would be dispatched to France by ship. The allied forces would be attacking all along the French coast.

The Canadian objective was code named Juno. ~ Ted sat on a haystack leaning against the planks of a barn wall. His long legs stretched in front of him. He removed his helmet and scrubbed his wavy red hair. His belly rumbled, as he looked around at the company of men who had followed him through the fields of Normandy.

They had survived a particularly nasty skirmish two days ago, taking several German captives. As soon as they had handed the prisoners off to the military police, they received orders to move up and maintain

contact. Earlier that day, they had followed their enemy across the border into Belgium.

It was late June. The weather had finally turned warm and their woolen uniforms had dried out, leaving them itchy, hot and tired. The vacant barn provided them a slight reprieve from the heat of the day.

“Does anyone have anything to eat?” Corporal William (“Bill”) Opitz asked. “I could eat a horse right now!”

“Good thing the barns empty,” Bert said, eyeing the vacant stables.

A private admitted to having a square of chocolate, while the others grumbled that they had none.

“Well, Sergeant, I guess it’s time to break out those canned tomatoes,” Bert said.

Ted was deep in thought, planning their next action. Bert poked him in the shoulder.

“What?” Ted said, peering at his men.

“Canned tomatoes,” Bert said. “Maybe it’s time to share: hungry, no food.” His face was an insistent question mark, as he ticked his head toward the men.

“I guess you’re right,” Ted said. “My little sister Eleanor is driving me nuts! Every time we receive a mail sack, there’s a letter from her asking whether I liked the canned tomatoes. If we share it, I can put an end to her nagging.” Ted reached for his haversack and unclipped the straps.

“Does anyone have an opener,” he asked as he pulled out the can.

A can opener appeared at the end of an extended arm. Ted took it and jabbed it into the can, just below the rim. As he began to saw through the tin, he realized that he was sawing through wax, not tin.

“What the –” Ted exclaimed, as the lid fell away. He jerked in response, expecting red juice to spill down his pant leg.

Collectively, the men leaned toward him to see what had happened.

“Well, I’ll be,” Ted said, as he reached his long fingers into the can and pulled out a mickey of rye whisky. Grinning, he held it up for all to see.

“That’s a mighty pretty tomato,” Bill said admiring the bottle.

“And to think you’ve been carrying it with you all this time,” Bert said.

“Did your dad bless it before he sent it?” the private asked, crossing himself.

Ted quirked a questioning eyebrow at the private.

“Well, sir, how many times have we taken fire, and none’s come close to hitting us?”

“With a thought like that,” Ted replied, motioning to return the mickey to the can, “maybe I shouldn’t share it. I’ll just tuck it back in my sack.”

“No!” the men groaned collectively, reaching to dissuade Ted. “All right,” Ted said chuckling, “I doubt it will fill your belly, but it might provide a respite until we find something better. Pass it around.” Ted handed the bottle to the Master Corporal. “Just save the last mouthful for me will ya! I have to tell Eleanor and my dad how much we enjoyed the tomatoes!”

[In memory of my Uncle Ted and the Regina Rifles who landed on Juno Beach in June 1944.]

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright Jerena Tobiasen

Poems of Remembranc

Upcoming Events – Fall 2018 Info: secretary@rclas.com

2018 FRED COGSWELL AWARD Winners Announcement https://rclas.com/awards-contests/fred-cogswell-award/

Save the Date: RCLAS presents “Fred Cogswell Award for Excellence in Poetry Awards Presentation” Date: Saturday November 24, 2018 Location: Anvil Centre Room #417 Time: 2:30pm - 4:00pm Featuring - 2018 Judge Miranda Pearson and Kathleen Forsythe, daughter of Fred Cogswell

RCLAS and New West Artists wish to invite you to our Holiday Open House Meet and Mingle Saturday December 8 from 3pm to 6pm Located at The Network Hub Upstairs at The River Market New Westminster 810 Quayside Drive Join us for the opening of the New West Artists “Best of NWA” art show and sale.

Meet other New West creatives, writers, and artists.

Stop in for a drink and a nibble!

Interesting conversation. Good company.

Mark your calendar. Free to attend.

We look forward to seeing you.

Happy Holidays!

More Events: Please watch for event updates and news via our website, and social media accounts (Facebook, Twitter and Instagram) RCLAS presents “In Their Words: A Royal City Reading Series” Date: Thursday, Nov 15, 2018 Time: 6:00pm – 8:00pm, Free admission Location: Anvil Centre, Rm 411B Host: Ruth Kozak If you are interesting in reading at a future installment of In Their Words, please send a note to secretary@rclas.com Featured Readers H.W. Bryce reads Robert Service (Poet) Jay Hamburger reads Samuel Beckett (Playwright) The Words; The Writer and his Essence" Lavana La Brey reads/sings Leonard Cohen (Poet/Lyricist) Description: In Their Words happens on the 3rd Thursday of every other month.

Feature speakers present their favourite author from any genre in poetry, fiction, non-fiction or drama. Presentations include a brief commentary about the author and a reading of selections that exemplify what the presenter loves about the author’s work. A short Q&A follows each presenter.

RCLAS Writing Workshop: “Developing Creativity by Playing (and Ending the battle with Perfectionism)” Facilitator: Tatiana A. Bobko Date: Saturday November 17, 2018 Time: 1:30pm – 3:30pm Location: Anvil Centre, Room 413A Pre-register at secretary@rclas.com Workshop Fees: RCLAS Members $15/Non-members $25

Description: We are all infinitely creative beings with limitless potential, but there are times when we just don’t feel very creative. Daily tasks and life responsibilities get in the way. Sometimes we have a time allotted to writing or creating something and the creativity is just not there. How do we kick-start it so we have an opportunity to develop ideas? When does the real flow start? How do we let go and surrender to what wants to come out? If the biggest killer of creativity is perfection then it all starts when we open our minds and hearts, start playing and experiment without expectation and let go of control of how things will turn out. In this workshop we will explore how to help your creativity come out and play when it just doesn’t feel like cooperating. We will use many creativity exercises to open up our minds and spark our imaginations. We are talented, creative humans, it’s just sometimes we need a little inspiration to get the juices flowing. I will provide you with some useful tools and teach you some simple tricks on how to stop procrastinating, accept your limitations (nobody’s perfect!) and play. So let the inner child come out and let’s explore the inner world together. Embarrassments, perfection and writer’s block be gone. Fun, experimentation and flow is what is needed to dissolve writer’s block and battle the endless race for perfection. Writing and creating anything is supposed to be fun, so let’s make it so.

The objectives of this workshop are to play, add to your tool belt some exercises you can use on a regular basis to spark your own creativity, to be surrounded by a learn from a community of writers who are in the same boat as you – we are all flawed no matter how much we strive for perfection and we all go through times when we just don’t feel creative. My hope is you will come out feeling lighter, brighter and feeling more inspired to incorporate play more into your life.

Bio: Tatiana A. Bobko was born in Siberia and immigrated to Canada 23 years ago. She has been manifesting creative works of art – written word, visual art, performing art since as far back as she can remember. She see’s beauty in the mundane, the random and the discarded. Tatiana notices patterns, reflections and symbolism in everything and records it in poetry and prose or captures it through images - through photography, collage, drawing and painting. She is in awe of the intricacy of nature and all the forms life takes place, life’s fragility and kindness and generosity of this planet’s beings. Tatiana is “uber-creative”, from how she crafts her dinner to how she organizes her day to how she makes art. She believes life is a spontaneous creative flow, and she has many tips she would love to share with others. Come to her workshop and play!

*** Book Launch Barry Plamondon - Thurs Nov 29, 6pm at Anvil Centre. ...and a reminder for all you poets and poetry lovers: “Poetic Justice/Poetry New West” Sunday Afternoons (except Holiday Weekends) Time: 2:00pm – 4:00pm, Free admission.

Location: The Heritage Grill, Backstage Room, 447 Columbia St, New West Description: Two Featured poets and Open Mic. Admission is free but donations are welcomed.

For information visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/poeticjusticepnw/ and https://www.facebook.com/groups/215251815176114/ Email poeticjusticepnw@gmail.com

REMINDER: CALL FOR WORKSHOP PROPOSALS DEADLINE JAN 31, 2019

WORDPLAY AT WORK FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS

Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President/E-zine Submit Word documents WITH YOUR NAME and Title on document to janetkvammen@rclas.com General Inquiries: Lozan Yamolky secretary@rclas.com

RCLAS Members Open Call for Submissions No theme required to submit.

December 2018 Issue Deadline Nov 25 Fraser River Form Poetry Nature Poetry, Short Stories, Book excerpts, articles & lyrics are all welcome for submission.

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Thank you to our Sponsors & Venues 

City of New Westminster

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Anvil Centre

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Arts Council of New Westminster

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New Westminster Public Library

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The Network Hub

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The Heritage Grill

See upcoming events at www.rclas.com

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November 2018 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291- 4269 Contact: janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Vice-President