http://rclas.com/awards-contests/fred-cogswell-award/
"Fred Cogswell (1917-2004) was a prolific poet, editor, professor, life member of the League of Canadian Poets, and an Officer of the Order of Canada." First Prize: Second Prize: Third Prize:
$500 $250 $100
ELIGIBILITY CRITERIA: Book must be bound as a book, not a chapbook. Book length must be a minimum of 50 pages in length. Selected poetry must be written in English by a single author. Book must be original work by the author (translations will not be considered at this time) Original date of publication falls between January 1, 2015 and December 31, 2015. Book must be published in Canada. Book must be written by a Canadian citizen or permanent resident alive in submission year. Electronic books are not eligible. In case of dispute about the book’s eligibility, the Society’s decision will be final. George Fetherling is the judge for our 2016 Fred Cogswell Award For Excellence In Poetry.
Reading Fee: $25 (all funds Canadian). Payment can be made through PayPal (there is a link below) or by money order (payable to “Royal City Literary Arts Society”). If you pay with Paypal, please include a copy of your receipt with the submission package. Two copies* of the book must be submitted to the Royal City Literary Arts Society, along with the reading fee (or proof thereof), and must be postmarked no later than October 1, 2016. The society’s mailing address is: Royal City Literary Arts Society Fred Cogswell Award Box #308 - 720 6th Street New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5
Shortlist will be announced Oct 15, 2016. Winners will be announced Nov 1, 2016.
Write On! Contest 2016 Non-Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions
4th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016 First Place Winner Non-Fiction LOST IN THE FOREST © Bryant Ross
At nine years old, sometimes a boy senses his manhood like the first light scent of smoke, the smoke that he smells before the discovery that his house is ablaze. In the fall, when I was nine years old, my father and I, as we often did, went out into the forest to cut firewood. I lived in the lower mainland, hardly the wilderness, but still there were areas, half an hour’s drive away, where, when you were nine years old, you could believe no human had ever set foot. In the rain, at the base of a mountain shrouded in low-hanging clouds, my father parked his old pickup at the side of a logging road. I remember the creak and slam of the doors and the cold wetness of the day. I remember trudging off into the dripping scrub alder, knee-deep in wet salal, tripping over windfall branches, carrying the jerry-can of gas, and a jug of chain oil. My father carried the chainsaw and the axe. We didn’t go far off the road, after all, we’d have to pack the wood out in trip after trip till the truck was full. My father found a nice big spruce windfall. It had come down the year before and had spent the summer lying on the ground, drying over the summer. At that age it was all I could do to swing the axe, but swing it I could, and if I could, it became my job, and I was expected to. The summer-dried branches snapped off under the slap of that heavy steel. Even in the cold rain I sweated. I moved up the trunk clearing the branches, as behind me, my father pulled at the starting cord of the chainsaw. There was grunting, mild cursing, some flatulent misfires, and then the highpitched snarl of the little engine. He cut as I cleared. My father dismembered the trunk behind me, the sawdust flying out and laying in wet heaps, regular, evenly spaced, coating the front of his mackinaw, sticking sometimes to his wet face. The scream of the saw encompassed us, rising and falling. The exhaust hung in the wet air like a halo, and steam rose from us and from our breath.
Even though I was only nine, I had spent many weekends doing this with my father. In our lives there was always work to be done, there was always something needed doing. There were no “Days off” And through it all, like sad background music, was the fall rain, not pounding, like it can sometimes, but hissing down, enough to make things miserable. It got down the back of your neck, inside your jacket, making you wet and cold from the inside out. You’d try hard to forget about it, because you were already cold, and the day wasn’t even half over yet, and there was no use complaining. The work had to get done. Before long, that first tree lay in pieces, big disks of wood. Over and over, we carried those heavy sections of tree trunk back to the truck, loaded it, stacked it carefully, went back for more. There was still plenty of room in the truck bed, and still plenty of daylight to work. My father sat down, opened his thermos, poured a cup of coffee, and said “Go look for another tree” I wandering off into the bush, into that grey-dripping wilderness. The rain hissed and drummed on my head, I walked, wandering, looking about, deeper and deeper. Nine years old, and not paying much attention to where I was going, not paying much attention to where I’d been. Nine years old and never thinking about what came next. After a while, I knew I had come too far. I sure as hell didn’t want to pack chunks of wood all the way back. I turned to walk back to the truck, back to my father. Back. But as I looked around, everything looked the same, everything looked confusingly similar. Identical. Grey and wet, and…identical. And no direction seemed the right one to get back to the truck Back to my father No. Direction. Back. At first, the fear was slow to rise. “I can’t be lost” I told myself, as I looked around. “Why not?” a quiet voice whispered in my head. I started to move a bit faster, a bit more erratically, nervous now. “I can’t…be… lost…?” “Why not?” it said, a bit louder now. I spun around, looking frantically. Tree trunks, nothing but tree trunks, salal, blackberry, and darkness in the distance. Darkness in the grey distance In every direction I looked. I felt the panic rising inside my chest, I wanted to yell, but it was strangling me.
“Dad?” It was a croak, not even a whisper, my mouth desert-dry. I tried again… “Dad?” Barely speaking now, and then, the terror like an avalanche thundered down on me “DAAAAAAAADDDDDD!!!!” Nothing. The quiet hissing of the rain on the branches was all the answer I got, The distant silence, horrifyingly loud. “DAAAAADDDD!!!” I ran then, crashing through the fallen branches, tripping, falling, terrified, running one way, then another, nothing looking right, nothing looking familiar, my gumboots sliding and tripping in that goddamned wet salal. Screaming for him, over and over. Hearing only the rain, the smashing of the underbrush under my feet. And the faint echo of my screams coming back off the mountain. Finally, panting, shrieking, my chest bursting, I fell on the ground, and lay there sobbing and gasping, my eyes closed, wishing myself somewhere else, praying, hoping it was all a nightmare. I sat up, trying to catch my breath, and saw, a few yards away Sawdust on the ground. Sawdust… I ran over and there were the piles of sawdust, there were the branches I had cut, it seemed like days before. I knew where the truck was now, and stumbled my way to it, through more deadfall branches, stumbling, blubbering. To find my father sitting on the tailgate of the truck, thermos cup still in his hand, a disgusted look on his face. “Where were you?” he said. “I was lost” I wailed, still sobbing. “You weren’t lost” he said “You were never more than a hundred yards away” “Didn’t you hear me calling?” I asked, the fear still sitting inside me like a cold piece of brick.
“Sure I did, but I thought it would teach you a lesson if I let you find your own way back. Besides, we have work to do and I don’t have time to run around the woods looking for some idiot kid who doesn’t have the sense not to get lost in a grove of trees.” I’m sure if he were alive today, my father would tell you that day taught me to rely on myself, and not panic in crisis. I’m sure he’d tell you that it helped make me a man. I’m sure he would tell you it served to toughen me up. And in some ways he’d be right. I learned a lesson that day. Standing there in the cold rain, wet through, my heart still pounding, still gasping, snot and tears smeared on my face, I learned a lesson that I never forgot. I learned, that when I became lost again, as I grew into a man, not to bother calling him for help. Because my father would not answer.
4th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016 Second Place Winner Non-Fiction
JEREZ DE LA FRONTERA Š Carol Narod For years, my flamenco teacher has regaled us with stories about a small city in Southern Spain, Jerez de la Frontera. "Student recitals in the suburbs of Vancouver are fine, but you're a real flamenca only if you've danced the bulerias with the gitanos (Gypsies) of Jerez." So I fly to Seville, train to Jerez, and bus to the ancient city centre. On the cobbled streets of Jerez, fancy footwork matters little. What those-in-the-know are looking for is compas, rhythm, the beat. They look for is flamenco-speak, SAYING something with your dance, giving the truth. Otherwise, "No me dice nada," they say. "It don't say nothin". They demand aire, arte, gracia and orgullo. Words that are difficult to translate. Something like attitude, pride, heart, and cheekiness combined. Unfortunately, most of his rarified dancing goes on behind closed doors, and it's elusive for an outsider, a middle-class Canadian, like me. So I keep my eyes out, ears tuned, hoping to run into a spontaneous party, or juerga, break out in the street, and there shall I be, front and centre, strutting my stuff like I was to the barrio born. In the meantime. I wait. Now waiting in Jerez isn't bad. Its ancient architecture (Baroque, Gothic, Moorish) is wonderfully well preserved. The dancing Cartesian horses are astonishingly delightful. They prance about, moonwalk, and shimmy to classical Spanish music. The riders are outfitted in black Cordoba hats and jaunty red riding jackets. As I watch them, an audible "O!" escapes my mouth. Jerez means sherry, and there's plenty of it in the bodegas that line the pedestrian promenades. As I sit in the sun, balmy even in winter, tasting the local speciality, a pregnant woman comes by, begging. I give her a coin, but then on closer attention, I see no pregnancy at all; I've been tricked by a prosthetic belly. The tourists are indignant. Then along comes a scruffy guitarist, in want of a shower. I hear a British accent caution, "Don't encourage him, Henry." The guitarist passes the Brits by. But I request a fandango. And he plays it, real good, for free. It's first class flamenco. He sings with the requisite raspy voice, aged on cigarettes and liquor, full of emotion, and it's the best cante I have ever heard. He draws out the melismas, the WhitneyHouston-style ay yai, yais. This is what you get in Jerez. FIamenco puro. In other Spanish cities you might find expensive dinner shows with the hyper-sexualized Bugs Bunny flamenco that impresarios peddle to tourists. In Jerez, it's the teenager on the bus tapping the rhythms on the railings. A solitary old man singing in a narrow alley. Flamenco CD's wafting out of taxicabs. Dance classes in dark-smelly-crowded studios where dust gets kicked up from particle-board floors. It's fantastic.
Then there's the shopping. Silk shawls, hand-embroidered and edged with metre-long fringes, flounced skirts, flowery dresses, and most prized of all, the shoes. Solid flamenco shoes in acid lime, turquoise, or burnt orange. The heels are studded with nail heads for extra percussive volume. They are hammered in by hand, the way the gitanos have always made them. I ask the receptionist at my hotel, "Can you point me in the direction of the barrio Santiago?" "You don't want to go there. That full of Romanians." She means the Roma, or to be precise, the Calo, the Romani people of Spain. Her racism is showing. But I DO want to go there. I enter the barrio. The streets are quiet, except for some feral cats picking at last night's fish. I hear the plangent wails of flamenco song. I follow the music through a winding, narrow alley to a small pub. The window shutters are flipped open to the street. I stand on the sidewall, watching, listening, trying to photograph this in my mind to tell the folks back home. Then an old man notices me and waves me inside. He fetches a stool to add to the cluster seated around an Lshaped bar. He places a glass of wine before me, offers me some of their olives and small bits of Iberian ham. It's hard to gauge the ages of this group, with all the nicks and burns and broken teeth. Some are rapping their knuckles on the counter: flamenco percussion. For the most part they ignore me, except the old man, who is happy to see I'm doing the palmas, the hand claps, in time to the beat. Then a woman, tall and thin in a well-worn track suit, looks me over. I'm guessing she might resent my intrusion. But she asks me, "Can you dance the bulerias?" Now's my chance. Finally, to dance with the gitanos of Jerez. The apotheosis of flamenco accomplishment. But I lie. "No, I don't know how." Because I realize, this belongs to them. It's their cultural treasure. Its roots lie in the poverty and strife amid the arid hills of Anadalucia. It's their gift to me. If I dance it now, I would feel like a thief. I shake my head, and they carry on. I sip my wine, and watch.
4th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016 Third Place Winner Non-Fiction
SHOELESS IN HALIFAX Š Monika Forberger I arrived in Canada without shoes. Not that I had needed them much on our dreadful ocean voyage from Naples to Halifax, on an immigrant ship no bigger than one of our smaller Gulf Island Ferries. For an eight-year-old it was probably a feeling of freedom not to have to wear some dreadful shoes that likely would have been too small for me. That Atlantic crossing was nine days of sheer hell. A storm extended the trip from six to nine days. Almost everyone became seasick - even the Captain and crew. My mother and the Chaplain were the only ones who didn't succumb. There were three deaths on board, including a baby. Burials at sea were my first witness of death. I can still see that tiny lump of a body covered by an old blanket as it was rolled off a wooden slab into the giant maw of the Atlantic. Men and women on the voyage were housed in separate quarters. My mother and I shared a cramped cabin with two other ladies from Lithuania and Estonia. There had been an incredible shortage of water and fresh vegetables and fruit on board. The Estonian woman sharing our cabin had somehow managed to bring a small supply of fresh lemons, which she hid under her pillow, until my mother demanded (and surprisingly) got her to share them with us. Other challenges included running out of drinking water half-way through the voyage. I still recall drinking hot chocolate that tasted decidedly salty. Even with these difficulties I still made friends. One gentleman, who I thought oddly wore a towel around his head all the time, was a particular friend, carrying me on his shoulders around the ship's decks and talking to me in a language that sounded very musical. My father wasn't too happy about my spending time with him. It wasn't until years later when I realized that the "towel" was probably a turban, and my father, slightly prejudiced, didn't want me mixing with "strange people." Safe arrival in Halifax on that warm, sunny September day in 1949 meant a brand new life. Pier 21 is famous now, but for me on that eventful day, it was just a huge, noisy warehouse building with hundreds of immigrants and displaced persons being processed and shipped off to other parts of Canada. We were bound for Taber, Alberta, where my father was to work as a farm hand for a Hungarian farmer.
I don't remember much of our arrival but I do remember the shoes. New shoes. Shoes just for me. My last pair of good quality German leather shoes had been stolen from our coach in the train in Naples station; lifted from underneath my seat as my mother and I had made a last foray to buy fresh fruit at the station before we were to travel to Naples harbour and board our ship for Canada. The Red Cross was my benefactor, bestowing on me a pair of women's summer sandals, a couple of sizes too large for me. They were beautiful. Leather. White, open to let in the air and they were mine. At one point one of the Red Cross ladies tried to pry them out of my greedy arms, thinking that perhaps she could find a pair that would fit me better.I wasn't having any of that. I had tried them on and they were perfect. Afraid that perhaps these too might be stolen, I clung onto them with both arms and a great deal of youthful determination. These were my shoes -- my first gift in a brand new country that I still incorrectly thought of as America. I didn't even realize there was a difference between Canada and "America." The process to complete the paper work for our family's arrival in Canada took quite some time. Before he returned to the Immigration authorities, my father took us to the train that was going to bring us to our new home. Placing the one trunk we owned in the world in the centre aisle of one of the CPR cars, he ordered me to sit on the trunk and wait. It wasn't difficult to follow orders. I was wearing my new shoes and they provided enough interest and happiness to prevent me from straying from the trunk. I was going to like this new country, our new home. The shoes were not the only gift I received upon my arrival. Sitting as quietly as I could, I waited for my parents in an almost empty rail car. People did come and go, but it wasn't until a Canadian soldier, returning from post-war duty somewhere in Europe tried to befriend me that my interest was taken away from my shoes. I even recall the colour of his uniform - different from what I had seen English, American and German soldiers wearing while we were living in Austria and Germany during and after WWII. The Canadian uniform was a soft brown that I liked. The Canadian soldier came up to me and tried to ask me some questions, which of course I couldn't understand. But he had such a warm smile that it wasn't difficult to look upon him as a friend. And what a friend he turned out to be. He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a gift for me: a whole box of Pauline's Chocolate Celenos. Delicious fingers of soft coconut, covered with sweetest milk chocolate. I, of course, was ravenous and would have cheerfully devoured the entire box had my mother not appeared at that moment. She and the soldier exchanged some pleasantries and my
mother tried, in her broken English, to thank the soldier for his generosity. He smiled and went on his way, probably not realizing that he had made one little girls daygo from great to perfect. New shoes and Pauline's Chocolate Celenos. Canada was going to be a fabulous home!
4th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016 Honourable Mention Non-Fiction A PROBLEM OF BREEDING © Julia Schoennagel The other day I got on the elevator and was greeted by a neighbour balancing two huge garbage bags of clothes on a pushcart full of stuff. Yes, stuff. He rather shamefacedly told me he and his wife were clearing out closets, cupboards, and lockers. "We've been here nearly twenty years," he explained, "and this weekend I found boxes in one closet that we've never yet unpacked." I sympathize. Stuff breeds, I read somewhere, and I’m absolutely sure of it. Else how could an otherwise spotless, organized, orderly apartment get so out of control after only a few years? I thought I’d been getting rid of things. I thought I wasn’t keeping unnecessary plastic objects or clothes that don’t fit or other miscellany. I’m positive that every few months I go through my closets, trashing the superfluous and shabby. And yet I am still over-run, just like that neighbour. And because I so love my possessions, how can I possibly get rid of any more of them? I’ve come to believe that we are what we keep. We latch on to things, perhaps to fill up the spaces people have left behind as they have moved, or died, or gone on to other relationships. We can’t say no when someone offers us anything, however many we may already have of the proffered article, for fear of offending the giver. We know that we don’t need half the stuff we have, that we should pare down, that we don’t possibly have room for everything. We can (almost) admit that we’ll never wear some of those clothes again, but we keep them just the same. Our emotions rule our closets. When our less-than-understanding friends proclaim, “Just get rid of it!” they make it sound so easy, but in fact it’s not. They have no sympathy for us clutterbugs, and they cannot understand our penchant for collecting. Obviously, they would never have accumulated so much stuff in the first place. Look around their living rooms. They are devoid of souvenirs, keepsakes, and sentiment (and therefore boring!). Easy come, easy go. Give it away without a backward glance. Sorry, that’s just not me. Why is it that no one talks much about how painful it is to part with possessions? That’s the last glass remaining from the set Ma and Daddy gave me for my first apartment. That’s the serving bowl given to us on our fourth anniversary. Those towels, threadbare though they are, were my favourites when we had the heritage house on G Street. That deep fryer (never opened) was a birthday gift. Those scruffy collars belong to beloved pets now crossed over. Each item is a memory, a reminder of people and events that were significant in my life. Another friend agrees. She says she likes looking around her living room, and seeing the gifts people have given her. Mind you, I’ve never seen her house. Can it even be seen under all those gifts?
And so my closets are bulging, my drawers, fit to bust. I am becoming paralyzed with the junk, and quickly find myself on overwhelm whenever I try to start, yet start I must, before I have to move out because there’s no room here for me. Time to call in the big guns: a friend who is a de-junker by profession. She will declutter, re-organize, and relocate anyone, and swears that all her clients love what she has done for them. I invite her to dinner. Barb is bouncy and humourous and thorough and compassionate. She puts out four big boxes in the middle of the living room floor: Garage sale, Garbage, and Generous Donations. The fourth is for Maybes. I expect it will be filled the most quickly. When she opens my first cupboard door, I squirm in apprehension and hold my breath. “Three stock pots? How much soup can you possibly make? Your favourite cookbooks that you use nearly every day? I wouldn’t dream of making you part with them. When was the last time you . . . ?” She doesn’t ask about the empty little boxes I’ve been saving (in case something needs wrapping up); she quietly tosses them into recycling. I wince. Golly. For a logical, commonsensical person, I sure have some hang ups about hanging on. But it gets easier as we go. Yep, toss that lonely towel that doesn’t match anything in here. Out with the dozen empty bottles I’m saving in case I make wine again—it’s merely ten years since I brewed up the last batch. Maybe I really don’t need six wooden spoons. Once I got over the fear of losing a small part of myself every time something went into a carton, it was okay. Over the next few days, I surprise myself by adding even more items to the waiting boxes. I still have huge pangs of regret as I say a silent goodbye to some of these things that have lived with me for so long. I hope they’ll be going to a good home, where they will be loved and treasured—and kept forever. I try not to panic. Soon I’m able to move some of the “Maybes” into a final resting place. The empty spaces on the shelves are far more pleasing than I’d thought possible and strangely the air is lighter and more breathable. Crating them all up and carting them down to the car for transport to new destinations is surprisingly exciting, too, for suddenly I can see carpet I’d forgotten I had. Bare space has appeared in the hallway where once two towers of boxes stood. I’ll be able to vacuum without fear of injuring myself. And as the containers are finally off-loaded at Sally Ann and the local church and thrift stores, I exhale gleefully. What unanticipated relief! Over the next few days I enjoy the fact that I can reach into a cupboard without the fear of something falling on me. My clothes are hanging straight and unwrinkled in my closet. Drawers now close easily. I vacuum. Everywhere. The entire carpet. I find myself musing over the fact that in a curious way I don’t feel quite so burdened as I did a few weeks ago. Gone is the feeling of overwhelm. De-junking has actually brought me a measure of freedom. Yes, it was painful parting with some things, several of them extremely so. However, as I look around at my newly uncluttered space, I feel an enormous sense of satisfaction. Somehow not having so much stuff around isn’t as bad as I expected.
Admittedly getting rid of clutter is easy for some people, but not for all of us. A number of us are simply sentimental hangers-on. However, divesting oneself of stuff is a necessary, cleansing procedure, to be done regularly, though for some it must be done in stages. Every time it gets easier, every time we manage to jettison a little more, and every time it is more liberating. We must of course promise not to acquire more things to replace the stuff we’ve purged. The Golden Rule of Clutter-Not is "one in, one (or even two!) out". In fact, I have even made a pact with my friends that gifts must now be consumable. We’d all rather have tickets to a play or the theatre, or some fabulous coffee or tea, a bottle of wine, some yummy cheese and crackers, or— naturally—a box of chocolates to share. And now there is always room in the cupboards for these indulgences. Ah, yes. I gaze around at the fresh, unsullied landscape I inhabit. My rooms look far more elegant now without the surplus. The few treasures I have kept are, indeed, most special, and I will never part with most of them. Maybe. Now, to work on that second locker . . . . De-junk, de-clutter, de-lovely!
4th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016 Honourable Mention Non-Fiction NEW YORK DISPATCHES: Dispatch #2 - SITTING ON THE STOOP © Rick Carswell We rented an apartment in Brooklyn – the lower floor of a three story brownstone located in a “hip” area of the borough. This allowed my wife a full kitchen in which to cook her food for each day’s journey into Manhattan. Our first days were a wonderful surprise during which we found such an energetic and revitalized area of Brooklyn with trendy coffee bars, excellent Italian restaurants and even a specialty wine store – only footsteps from our temporary home all of which lured us daily to stay and enjoy. My first task was to find food and a full service organic produce store just four blocks away offered everything we required. Now laden with bags and returning to the apartment, I espied an older black fellow sitting at the bottom of his stairs – he looked exhausted. I quickly saw why his shirt was plastered to his back with sweat as he was trying to move bags of concrete from the street, up those long stairs into his apartment. It was likely 90 degrees in the shade and at his age which had to be above 70 he clearly shouldn’t be doing this. Seeing me, his face blossomed a wry smile - a sly one. Eyes gave away thoughts. “You look in excellent shape, young fellow, and as you can see I’m having a little struggle at the moment. You aren’t from around here though, are you?” “No sir. We just arrived from Vancouver, Canada today and have taken an apartment in the next block.” I looked pointedly at the sacs of concrete and then back to him: “Shall we get started?” His smile was electric then. I became his newest friend and visited him in the evening after this, several times during our stay to share in his stories of life and the changing neighbourhood of Brooklyn in his youth. Clearly, the steps we take to travel become as simple as the steps we sit upon with new friends. It is moments such as these that let you know how the world works beyond one’s own streets. Brooklyn only became part of New York City in 1898 and that, after a bitter partisan political fight. Since then, she has served as the home to poor, to many immigrant hopefuls starting a new life, and to a huge black community. As a place of safety this area of Brooklyn began falling apart in the 60’s through the middle 90’s. Apparently and according to locals, only six years before our visit we would have been confronted by major drug activity, shootings, a growing underclass along with the decay of an older historically important remnant of NYC. Then, in the mid-1990s, Mayor Giuliani appeared. “It's about time law enforcement got as organized as organized crime.” Rudy Giuliani. His push was to eradicate negative components of New York and the boroughs; to stop activities which pulled everyone down. His answer was to eliminate the beggars, the homeless, the drug
sellers, the gangs and profiteers off of the poor – all these were targeted and systematically removed. Starting with NYC it took a few years longer to achieve the same in Brooklyn but with vast legal powers given to the police, it was done. Understanding this history is important when one chooses to sit on the stoop of a home in Brooklyn. The stairs out front of each brownstone are the porch and the very eyes of the community. In our own city of New Westminster, in Canada, porches have been the rage since 1880 or so. We understand the importance of eyes on the street and the friendly part of meet and greet strategies. On the streets in the early evening in Brooklyn we saw locals sitting on the stoop apparently holding court in their neighbourhood. The warmth of the evening included a drink and exuded chatter with each neighbour, and with travelers as ourselves, such a wonderful openness. We weren’t local – they knew it, but there was a more than friendly curiosity about us. So now, let’s fast forward to our last evening in Brooklyn and NYC. We had found the habit of sitting on the stoop each evening but, this night, we had a dilemma. We were stressing over the large remaining amount of foodstuffs we had amassed during our stay. Everything from flour to oil; greens to pasta; sugar, salt, beer and wine. How to deal with this food? Certainly, we couldn’t throw out such a valuable asset. Food matters - and in this community I certainly had it in my mind that our excess was local treasure. Our answer came in the diminutive form of Roderick – astride his silver white steed. He, being but 8 years old, an excited little black child riding his refurbished silver bike while clanging his bell each time he passed, left us smiling. He was simply so charming while beaming widely, as like any kid, he wanted to show off his skills by repeatedly and too closely dodging the garbage bin and the pedestrians. Head to toe he was dressed in sports gear, basketball I thought; his hat on backwards and teeth whiter than white. Only after we had applauded him enthusiastically many times for his bike riding skills did he stop to talk to us. And at that very moment I too stopped, but with a realization: I was about to say something really stupid. I was about to ask if his family needed our food and that might be the wrong approach: perhaps it would be deemed an insult to even offer this food? At that instant, a young girl rode up on her own bicycle. She was Kaela, the 12 year old sister of Roderick. Her job clearly was to watch over him. Right away she seemed defensive and not knowing us, she was careful. “Who are you? Where do you come from?” We replied: “We have stayed for 10 days in this apartment.” She, with emphasis: “Yes, I’ve seen you and, you know; Roderick is my brother!” So I said to Roderick, (and indirectly to Kaela): “We have a problem and we need your help. We leave for home tomorrow and we have a lot of leftover food and do not want to throw it away. Can you help us?” A longish pause ensued while Kaela grappled with our request. Finally, she blurted, “My mother doesn’t accept gifts!!” and abruptly rode away – proud, or perhaps in a huff, we had no idea and could barely speculate. Roderick, bless his lovely soul, an innocent to these dynamics, said: “What stuff do you have to give away?” His smile was so beautiful it brought order to the world.
Like a Shakespearean set piece, at that very moment, Roderick’s own grandmother entered our scene. Age has a measure and that is shown in the way we elders interpret life – part hope, but mostly experience. She said to Roderick, “You aren’t bothering these fine people are you? To which Roderick quickly told all: “These guys have food and need our help ‘cause they don’t want to throw anything away!” Grandma asked, “Well, okay, Roderick, how do you suggest that we help them?” We introduced ourselves to Grandma and talked about our Manhattan adventures; how much we loved Brooklyn and then, only a few minutes later, Kaela returned to say that her mother “Would like to help us deal with this problem, and she would accept the food – but only so it won’t be thrown out!” The inner sigh that my wife and I both felt was palpable. We were so glad to have approached this the right way and now, we were so happy to have the food in good hands. Already bagged, the foodstuffs were pulled out of hiding from under the stairs of the stoop, and handed over. As Roderick and Grandma walked away home Grandma saw the wine in the first bag and said to Roderick – “that wine is Grandma’s wine, Roderick! Mind you tell your mother that!” Postscript: The apartment above ours was occupied by a young interior designer named Jonathan, his wife and two year old child. A lovely family who enjoyed stoop life which is where we had met a couple of days prior. The way Jonathan spoke his design company appeared to be thriving. Some days before the Roderick moment, I had decided to offer the food to Jonathan. I texted him. No reply. Cell phone message. No reply. Not one hour after we had given the food to Roderick’s family, Jonathan knocked. “Could he retrieve the food?” “Sorry, I said; gone to a lovely family down the road.” Jonathan’s face sagged telling the true story– it was he in need of some help!! I felt some solace though having gone to the local specialty wine store to buy a bottle for Jonathan. On the bottle, a note: Thank you for sharing your stoop with us!
4th Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2016 Honourable Mention Non-Fiction BIRTH OF LIZARD BOY © William Crow Shaving my balls was the least humiliating part of my vasectomy experience. The ordeal started the day after the birth of Lizard Boy. My son was a mewling lump of peeling hunks of skin, but I thought he was one good-looking kid. Filling my quota of two perfect children, I planned to relinquish my admirable skills of procreation, to snip them in the bud. “Okay, Carol,” I said to my wife, breastfeeding our baby on the couch. “You promised. I’m getting neutered by Doctor Ned.” Doctor Ned only performed vasectomies. And circumcisions. His laser focus on masculine genitalia sounded creepy, but Doctor Ned was a non-creepy guy. He looked like a dour accountant. I guess that’s the same as a normal accountant. “We should wait until we’re sure,” replied Carol. “I’m 45. I’m SURE,” I said. Apparently, we weren’t sure yet. Six months later Doctor Ned cupped my clammy testicles in his reassuringly warm and gentle hand. “Everything looks okay,” said Doctor Ned. “Before we schedule your procedure, we should discuss freezing some sperm.” “I thought I didn’t need my sperm anymore, because, you know, because of the strong scientific evidence it leads to children.” “It’s like an insurance policy.” Doctor Ned washed his hands, which I tried not to consider an insult. “I’m not putting kids on ice, Doc. I’m 100 percent confident I don’t need to save some kids for a rainy day.” Returning home, I learned from Carol that we weren’t 100 percent confident. “We should freeze some sperm,” she said, “for a year or two.” “WE should freeze sperm? Are WE masturbating, or am I masturbating in a hospital, with all the lights on? C’mon, you know that’s not my favourite activity.”
“It won’t be too bad,” Carol said. “It’s not as hard as having a baby.” She had to bring out that little chestnut. The argument which trumped all others. I made an appointment with the fertility clinic for sperm storage. Before this call, I never had a detailed conversation about my sperm production when I wasn’t drunk. “We’ll need a sample for cryopreservation,” said the bored technician. Cryopreservation? Isn’t that what Ted Williams’s kids did to his body after he died? Of course, it would have to be after he died. “You’ll produce your semen in our private facilities.” “Really? The semen production room is private? I thought I’d put on a show in the middle of West Broadway.” Not even a giggle. “Oh no, sir. It’s a separate room with a door and everything.” The “and everything” was the part I only fully understood when escorted into a small room in Vancouver General Hospital. The petite, 25-year-old female technician said, “There are pornographic magazines for your use. Adult movies, too. Please don’t take them home. There’s also a collection of towels. When you’re done, put the specimen through that little door. I’ll be waiting, but take your time.” The first disgusting feature of the room was the lone chair. An overstuffed, faux-leather recliner, facing the television. I imagined the upholstery allowed hose downs after each client. No way was I was sitting on that. Curious, I turned on the VCR (yes, a VCR). Seventies-era porn starring an ursine Burt Reynolds look-alike, administered by women of unnaturally balloon-shaped breasts, voluminous hair, and rugs to match. The film didn’t produce the desired effect; I turned to its stationary cousins. Twenty dog-eared magazines, piled messily beside the sink. The top cover showed a disturbingly young-looking girl in a school uniform, well, almost in a school uniform, being spanked. I wondered what market research dictated the choice of reading material in the “sample-producing room,” but it wasn’t working for me. I eschewed carnal aids and took matters into my own hands. My efforts proved unsuccessful. I should’ve practiced more in high school. Was it the ticking clock, or seeing the stupid look on my stupid face in the mirror? I wanted to reschedule, but I couldn’t get another appointment before my vasectomy. I’m not a doctor, but I suspected cryogenically freezing my sample after the vasectomy was counter-productive. Clearing some mental hurdle, I suddenly rallied. I produced that sample faster than a teenage seaman on shore leave, and placed the overflowing vial in the wall compartment. It had a door on my side and a door in the adjoining room, like the place where the milkman left bottles in my childhood neighbourhood. Exiting, I made a lame joke about needing a film with higher production values, and the technician said, “It would’ve been okay if your wife was there with
you. Some patients find that helpful.” “What?! Now you tell me?” I dreaded “V” Day Eve, because of the aforementioned testicle shaving requirement. Doctor Ned provided a special razor for the delicate job, performed on a bumpy, ever-shifting worksite. I cut myself so many times my testicles resembled the pelt of some exotic Dr. Seuss creature, spotted by moistened pieces of toilet paper, each with a congealed red bullseye. As instructed, the next day I slid an athletic supporter over top of my underwear, then stepped into my jeans. My bulbous package made me look more virile than I expected to feel by day’s end. I intended to shoulder this ordeal with dignity. My dignity vanished at the clinic’s reception desk. The waiting room bursted with moms holding whimpering bundles, and men with bulging groins. The receptionist shouted at me, “Sir, have you shaved your testicles and removed all hair from your scrotal area?” Several heads leaned forward in anticipation. “Clean as a whistle.” Patients sat back in their seats, disappointed. As infants wailed with nervousness, their baby lead singer, off stage and in the hands of Doctor Ned, shrieked his displeasure with AC/DC style. A post-operative man stood quickly, and fainted at my feet. Amid the bedlam, a reticent man approached the receptionist and everyone, even the babies, quieted. “Mr. Weddigen, have you shaved your testicles?” Almost too soft to hear, he replied, “Not yet.” “Uh-oh,” said one patient. “Oooooooohhhhhhhh!” said everyone else. “Marcie! Get ready for Marcie,” they laughed. “That will never do,” said the receptionist, frowning. “It was very clear in the welcome package. You just earned a date with Marcie.” The unshaven man’s sheepishness turned to terror. A hulking, glowering Amazon, with a cursive “Marcie” embroidered in pink on her smock’s breast pocket, entered the room. She marched the man away. The next scream I heard could’ve been the man, or another baby being circumcised. An expressionless nurse led me into an operating room, with a table of surgical instruments and a bed covered by a paper sheet. Doctor Ned wasn’t there.
“Please leave your shoes and socks on, but lower your pants, underwear and athletic supporter to your ankles,” said the nurse. I’d known her for only 30 seconds, such time period greatly reducing my taking-down-my-pantsin-front-of-a-woman-I-just-met record. Naked from waist to ankles, my nether regions refused to leave the warm cocoon of my body. The nurse asked me to hop onto the bed. With ankles shackled by denim and underwear, my hop became an awkward teeter, ending in a loud floor splat. Lying face down, my fish-belly-coloured butt greeted Marcie as she entered. “Everything okay in here, sir?” asked Marcie, in a flat monotone. “I’m fine,” I said to the linoleum. Marcie flipped me over, cradled me like a baby in her brawny arms, and deposited me on the bed. “Okay, sir,” said the nurse. “Lie back and don’t be embarrassed.” That train had long left the station. Water skiing in the ocean on New Year’s Day the previous year caused significant shrinkage, but I longed for a comparable display of manhood. The nurse reached below the bed and turned a crank. The bed slowly rose until my frightened penis was level with her face. From a drawer she withdrew a thin rubber hose. She tied one end to my glans in a squeaky flurry of hand movements, like a clown making a balloon-twisting dachshund. Grabbing her rubber lasso, she yanked my penis so it stretched toward my chest, and secured the free end of the hose to my tshirt with a metal clip. “Is that necessary?” I asked, vulnerable. “We don’t want it flopping around during the procedure,” she replied. I mentally thanked her for the compliment, but suspected she’d used this line before. Opening a jar of an antiseptic-smelling liquid, the nurse painted my scrotum bright crimson. It was the same colour as the iodine moms put on scraped knees in my childhood. It was cold. With my shaven, exposed, retina-searing balls, I looked like a Mandrill monkey, hairless red genitals sticking out of my fur. I lay in that position for 30 minutes, waiting for Doctor Ned. Humiliation complete.
2016 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS: Non-Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions Bryant Ross is the host of Vancouver Story Slam, Vancouver’s longest-running monthly storytelling event. Bryant was the Vancouver Story Slam champion in both 2009 and 2014, and has featured at numerous literary events including the Under the Volcano Festival of Art and Social Change, the Vancouver International Storytelling Festival, and the Main Street Car Free Day. He is a father, an artist, a thirty-five-year veteran of the Township of Langley Fire Department, and a damn fine baker of pies. Carol Narod studied French and English literature at UBC, education at the University of Alberta, and theatre at Langara's Studio 58. She first taught in the public school system, but a classroom of 30 kids drove her nuts, so she switched to adult ed. She's been teaching writing skills at Langara College for the past 10 years. Carol recently discovered the joy of creative non fiction in 900 words, and her pieces have been published in the Globe and Mail. Carol attributes her knowledge of writing to her mother, who early in life, coached her line by line. Carol now tutors writing one on one. Monika Forberger began her writing career as assistant to the Editor of the UBC Alumni Chronicle. She then moved into the wonderful world of retail advertising writing and ad agency work. Radio beckoned in Victoria and Vancouver, where she was a copywriter and on-air interviewer in the arts. She also ran her own company -- writing, typesetting, layout and design of print materials. In 2002 she began Entertainment Vancouver dot com -- writing about artists and arts events in the Lower Mainland. This was a natural progression from her work covering the arts in Vancouver for radio stations CHQM and AM 1040. She recently completed her first novel, which she hopes will be published soon, along with its sequel, currently a work in progress.
2016 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS: Non-Fiction Winners & Honourable Mentions Current president of New West Artists (NWA) and a poetic participant of RCLAS (Royal City Literary Arts Society), Julia Schoennagel is a representational artist whose work reflects her deep spiritual connection with the serenity of nature. A book editor who loves cats, Julia retired from desktop publishing and no longer does webwork if she can avoid it. Julia paints, writes, and reads as often as she can, also giving private readings and creating colourful pastel auragraphs. Julia lives in New Westminster with one idle but agreeable senior cat. Rick Carswell has studied travel writing with Ruth Kozak. He is a furniture designer and builder by trade but the lure of words and writing has long been an interest. Rick is a regular travelogue presenter with the New Westminster Public Library. William Crow is a graduate of Western University and the University of Ottawa. He snuck his way into the legal profession, and for 25 years tried to sneak out. He almost escaped once, taking a two-year sabbatical at Laval University in QuĂŠbec City to learn French and watch hockey in bars with separatists. But he was dragged back to lawyering, where his surprising success muzzled the rebel within. After his second sabbatical, a clichĂŠd year in Provence, he was convinced he was temperamentally unsuited to be a lawyer. He closed his legal practice to chronicle his journey from hotshot lawyer to struggling writer in his upcoming memoir Saved by Provence. No self-respecting company would ever hire a lawyer with such a publicly bad attitude. If just one of his readers decides to quit their boring job, the one their parents and society said would bring security and happiness, then he will have achieved his goal as a writer. Provided he sells 999,999 more books.
In Their Words with Alan Girling In Their Words: a Royal City Reading Series is still in its infancy! We launched during LitFest this past May and July saw our second installment. All signs thus far indicate we are achieving what we intended, to bring lovers of reading together. As the producer and host of the event, I am most interested in the enthusiasm I know is out there for people to share the authors they are passionate about. RCLAS is a literary arts group, but that doesn’t mean it’s by and for just writers. Whether you’re a writer or not, we all love to read. It’s what our members have most in common.
Let’s look at a few of our readers so far. On May 17, our very first presenter was mayor of New Westminster, Jonathan Cote. He chose to read Jane Jacobs, May 17, 2016 who wrote the urban studies classic, The Death and Life of Great American Cities. It was very evident from the passages he chose and his commentary that his reading of Jacobs greatly informed how he thought of his role in the Royal City.
It was a great example of the impact reading can have on our social reality. That same evening, Lilija Valis read the poetry of a wonderful Russian writer, Osip Mandelstam. Again, the intersection between art and life came to the fore with Lilija’s passionate account of the struggles Mandelstam faced in Stalin’s Soviet Union.
At our last meeting in July, Toni Levi brought her obvious interest in the fiction of Margaret Atwood.
Left to Right: RCLAS President, Nasreen Pejvack reads Romain Rolland. Host Alan Girling
Toni chose passages that highlighted how far Atwood had come in her craft as a writer of fiction, finishing by recommending Alias Grace as not only her best novel but one of the best historical fictions ever written! Great to hear a fresh perspective a Canadian icon. And Christopher Hamilton shared his love of the writings of mythologist Joseph Campbell, sharing mainly from his book, The Power of Myth, one chief message being to pay attention to what is and what is not essential in life, and not to forget to find our bliss. In those four examples, you can see already the range and diversity of authors chosen, and they were joined by Mordecai Richler, Neil Gaiman, Romain Rolland, Dorothy Livesay, and Mary Renault. Looking forward to this month and beyond, a group of new presenters will be introducing novelists Patrick O’Brien, and Karen Connelly, memoirist and painter Emily Carr, poet George Elliott Clarke, and songwriter Laurie Anderson, among others!
As the event continues, I will be looking for new people to step up and share their passion, and it is passion and the desire to share that are truly the only qualifications for inclusion in the event.
If you’re interested, drop me line at kalgirl@elus.net. Hope to see you on Tuesday September 20th, 2016 starting at 6:30pm at the New Westminster Public Library, 716 – 6th Avenue. Our readers will be Don Hauka – Patrick O’Brien - Historical Adventure Franci Louann – George Elliott Clarke - Poetry Mohamad Kebbewar – Edward Said - cultural criticism SheLa Nefertiti Morrison – Karen Connelly - Literary Fiction - Alan Girling
July 19, 2016
Top Left to Right:
Christopher Hamilton, Bernice Lever, Alan Girling, Nasreen Pejvack, Toni Levi
Nasreen Pejvack Are Our Young Mothers Protected? What About Our Hardworking Citizens?
Another child has died under the “protection” of our system. And it’s tragic that this isn’t the first time I have heard such disturbing news. A child who was taken away from her mother died in the hands of foster care; that is, in the hands of a system supposedly meant to protect children. If this child was removed from her own family for her safety, then how is it that she is dead? I have many questions in that regard? Don’t you? The mother was very young! Was there enough support for her? Any help with proper education, housing or other supports before the decision was made to take her child away? I do not know about those preceding details, but the fact that the child ended up dead is devastating; and more importantly it wasn’t the first time. In this recent case, the mother reported that her child was not safe and had complained that her baby girl was injured and had bruises. I have heard a few similar stories reported about children perishing in foster care. How does this
happen repeatedly? Where does the problem lie? And as this is happening again and again, why hasn’t the problem been properly dealt with? How is this happening in Canada, said to have one of the best standards of living country in the world? Another important incident: Sometimes ago, employees of Future Shop went to work like any other day; except on that particular morning they found themselves before locked doors, unable to enter their workplace. Behind closed doors; the owners decided it was best to shut things down without any concern for the livelihoods of their employees. So as not to have to deal with messy commotions and criticisms from a worried and upset workforce, everything was set up nicely for the moneyed class that matters, and then the hammer was dropped without warning. Assurances were made that some of the employees would be transferred to their Best Buy stores, but of course not all will stay on, and you know that even if the calculations had meant that they all had lost their jobs, the ownership would have easily done that to preserve the only thing that matters to them; that bottom line. This has become yet another new norm in our society. People lose jobs, others watch, worried that it could happen to any of us, though we say or do nothing. The owners of these huge companies assure us: “Oh, no worries, in the long run these actions will eventually benefit us all.” But do they? The only concerns of the CEOs are their own ideas of a simplified “Global Economy” which most efficiently works in their best interest, not those of employees and their families. The world corporate leaders hold before us their vision of the Global Economy as an idealized integrated structure with unrestricted and free transnational movement of goods, services and labour. They have worked hard at creating an increasingly interconnected world with free movement of capital across borders. They describe this work in progress as one where the regional economies, societies, and cultures become integrated into a global network of commerce through communication, transportation, and trade. And we are
seeing that people are just one part of this chain of money making; a tool like any other in service to the Global Economy. One day you have work, the next day you are out. Should this be a natural phenomenon in our society? No! The consequences are huge. People have families to support. That young mother who lost her child to foster care is not part of the calculation and is of no concern. People first: that would involve a caring community concerned with whether she could support herself, and providing the tools to get back on her feet if she has fallen. We daily hear of or face adversities such as the two small examples I have discussed here. The best standard of living means nothing if those in power cannot protect their citizens from harm or loss of jobs or hunger. Thus the “Global Economy” decision makers are the ones controlling our way of life and the “Best Standard of Living” is lost in translation.
Poetic Justice: New West August 21, 2016 featuring Heidi Greco and Christopher Levenson in addition to a long list of Open Mic readers. Always a great way to spend an afternoon!
Poetry in the Park 2016, you were just here. Now, sadly, brief as the season that birthed you, you’re gone. You shall be missed, but, like a distant lover or friend, will walk with us—refreshed, revitalized—once again. I, for one, will remember as you were. From the opening night wordsmiths Jordan Abel and Joanne Arnott speaking for indigenous Canadians about the indigenous experience, to the finale inside the cozy confines of the ACNW Gallery at Queen’s Park, listening to the cultivated words of Renée Saklikar and Wayde Compton. Each Wednesday galloped in a new direction, with featured poets bisecting and intersecting voice, themes and craft, to create a unique audience experience. I think of contrasts in tone: a sprightly Kevin Spenst paired with the conscientious Cecily Nicholson. The emergence of new literary voices, Kyle McKillop and Geoffrey Nilson, coupled with the established: Timothy Shay, whose rearview observations became emotional volcanoes; and Candice James who reminded us of the grit and glory of the wild west. Rob Taylor’s cunning observations through a Canadian lens while visiting his wife’s family in Europe. Manolis reminding us about the craft of poetry in translation. Jonina Kirton’s courage and gift of sharing new, unpublished work. The wit and witticism of spoken word poets RC Weslowski and Johnny MaCrae. The sweet, and often sharp, musings of parenthood and childhood through the eyes of Elizabeth Bachinsky. Then there are poets—Susan McCaslin and Raoul Fernandes—whose words have the power to mesmerize, reminding us why we make the effort to come. To listen. Thanks again to all of the writers who came and graced the bandshell with their extraordinary talents. Everyone of you contributed something unique to this vibrant mural of readings. And thanks to all who came out and supported with their ears. Yes, Wednesday nights in Queen’s Park brought attention and celebrated the literary arts in a big way. For those of us fortunate to have gathered and listened are better for it! Until next year PIP, I will miss you lover, friend.
Sincerely, Aidan Chafe Director of Poetry in the Park Royal City Literary Arts Society
WORDPLAY AT WORK FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS
Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President/E-zine janetkvammen@rclas.com Antonia Levi secretary@rclas.com
Open Call for Submissions - RCLAS Members Only Poetry, Short Stories, Book excerpts & lyrics are all welcome for submission to future issues of Wordplay at work. October 2016 – Dead Poets & Halloween, Deadline Sept 15, 2016 Poetry Theme: New Westminster, for an upcoming special feature. Contact me if you wish to submit a poem. Submit Word documents (include your name on document) to janetkvammen@rclas.com
VOLUNTEERS NEEDED! If you would like to participate in a single event, or make an even bigger contribution, please contact our event coordinator.
Director/Event Coordinator: Sonya Furst-Yuen sonya.yuen@rclas.com
https://rclas.com/awards-contests/fred-cogswell-award/award-guidelines/
Thank you to our Sponsors
City of New Westminster
Thank you for your donation:
Arts Council of New Westminster
Marianne Janzen
New Westminster Public Library
Judy Darcy, MLA
Boston Pizza, Columbia Square
The Heritage Grill
Renaissance Books
100 Braid Street Studios
The Network Hub - New Westminster
See upcoming events at www.rclas.com www.poeticjusticenewwest.org Facebook
Sept 2016 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291- 4269 Contact: janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Vice-President/ E-zine