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Kate Braid is not only an accomplished poet but also a carpenter. This joyful celebration of trees led to her admiration of the painting of Emily Carr. Studying the exhibition in a local gallery moved Braid to search out Carr's journal, Hundreds and Thousands: The Journal of an Artist. She combines selections from this work and color reproductions of Carr's surrealistic paintings of trees with her poems "creating a dialogue with Emily by pairing my descriptions of the impact of 'meeting' her through her painting..." In this manner the reader is gifted with the work of two artists.
Never achieving success during her lifetime, Carr writes, "So, artist, you too from the deeps of your soul, down among dark and silence, let your roots creep forth, gaining strengthÉ Draw deeply from the good nourishment of the earth but rise into the glory of the light and air and sunshine" sitting on a camp stool deep in the forests of British Columbia. In her work, British Columbia Forest, Braid replies,
Emily, I could taste you.
the salad of your palate,
bitter chocolate of tree trunks
and totem poles climbing into skies drenched
with green and blue and light.
And down below,
when green ran like smoke through the forest,
ripe with the smell of feasts coming,
what did you do then, hungry
on your little camp stool, in your caravan,
with only the poles and the trees and the paint?
Braid's work is vivid, reflecting not only on Carr's work painting trees and totem poles, but reflecting on the hardship she endured and overcame. Carr's work was often compared with Van Gogh's, her boldness demonstrated in a painting titled The Red Cedar, echoed in Braid's poem of the same title:
Saucy as a sadist. she whirls
her whips around,
seeking contact that promises
naughty or else.Her great green skirts
swirl faster than any cancan
can flip a forest.A copper red penny
for your partner.
Join in! Join in!
Already the dance moves on
without you.
Through her poetry, Braid connects the emotion and joy of life that Carr felt through her painting and communion with trees, and feeds it to her readers. -- P. Crossland
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In 1971 Edith Schade was given a volume of poetry by May Sarton and from that time has been a great admirer of the poet. In 1983 the two met and discussed the pairing of their work. Schade began her collection of quotes and a friendship that supported her own exhibitions of her photographs.
The theme of this book is taken from a quote that Sarton often used in her poetry readings: "The delights of the poet as I jotted them down turned out to be light, solitude the natural world, love time, creation itself." Schade seeks out images from the poems, acting as "a piano to a lyric singer." Her photographs are crisp, without clutter, a wonderful reflection of the prose and poetry she harmonizes with so well.
Sarton's prose often reads as well as her poetry. In the chapter, "The Natural World," she writes: "We are aware of God only when we cease to be aware of ourselves, not in the negative sense of denying the self, but in the sense of losing self in the admiration and joy." Schade illustrates this point with a deceptively simple photograph of a thin branch with two leaves, one attached and one falling to the ground. Flowers, Sarton says, keep her attached to the continuity of life, as they change before her eyes. "They live and die in a few days; they keep me closely in touch with process, with growth, and with dying." She reminds us that nature is the symphony of life in "Mozart Again":
I learn this loving fresh, in ancient style (Lightly time flows), And mine a green world for pure joy awhile. Listen, a rose!
This book, and the lives and work of both artists, passionately demonstrate that we are receptacles for life to flow through. We must keep our channels open to pain at the same time we appreciate the joys of life. Sarton concludes "civilization depends on true joys, all those that have nothing to do with money or influence--nature, the arts, human love." -- P Crossland
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Born in England and raised In Cairo, Mansour wrote in Paris where her work was embraced by the French Surrealists. Her poetry has largely been ignored in American collections of surrealist and/or French poetry to date; hopefully, this new translation will go some distance towards changing that. The collection comprises a number of short, untitled poems or staccato "screams" containing sharp images of the body, blood, madness, violence, and nightmarish dreams. There are also many sensual images to be found in lines like "On the silvered beach of suspected sighs
Near crucified pines on an absent sky
I wait." The first person voice and direct address of many of the poems adds to their powerful impact. Anyone familiar with the work of French feminist theorists like Helene Cixcous or Julia Kristeva will find much of interest in Mansour's poetry. Recommended for university and college collections of women's writing. -- R. Schlegl, University of Alberta
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Maude Meehan takes us on the journey of her seventy-five years as a poet, activist, wife of fifty-seven years, daughter, mother, and grandmother. She reminds us that we are connected to each other in the roles we share, the battles we fight, and the people we love.
She begins this volume by confronting her mother's mortality, and through that, her own. She relates how her daughter lectured her on the proper care of her ninety-year-old mother after an operation. Absorbing the instructions, she cannot help but remember the old woman, in an earlier time, coaching her on the care of her newborn daughter. She concludes,
Here in this room, invisible, yet strong
I sense our lifelines joined, and pulsing still.
Perhaps because of this continuity from one generation to another, she is an activist against nuclear power. In "A Question of Time," dedicated to Rachel Carson, she declares,
We are told there are levels of mercury
of nitrate, of radiation, that are acceptable, that in war there are acceptable casualty rates ...
We must relinquish the illusion of safety,
form a shield for the old and the innocent,
the helpless ones. Cry out
in our rage, in our passion for life, 'None of these are acceptable.'
She also shares the loss of a daughter born prematurely and grieved privately. In "Reclaiming Emily," Meehan tells of empty words of comfort when she is told that she can bear more children, of the pain of those who turned from her in silence, placing the blame for the death on her shoulders. She illustrates the theme of community with a ritual circle of women claiming their own losses: "Here in this woman circle, at last, I speak your name aloud, and claim you."
She concludes with a chronicle of losing her beloved husband, Acer, and the struggle through the funeral and beyond, coming to terms with widowhood. She does not pass over lightly this part of her journey; she shows her scars, how
Such simple things-- P. Crossland
a scarf, a scent, a shirt,
to open wounds that spill
not blood, but poems.
Contacts 28 February 1997
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