My name is not
the hollow where I ran, brushing
past leaves, leaping away
from hornet nests, collecting
thick husks and seed pods
My name is not
the echo of a gunshot
across observing mountains,
or the cut of a trail through
thick undergrowth, looking
for wild signs
All of these elements
comprise my story, compose
my mind, but none of them
name me completely.
Dementia
Restless, she roamed
the streets and night, crooning
about ex-lovers, holding
on to fragments of memory,
half-remembered faces, names
that no longer held meaning,
floating like party favors
drawing her back down to earth
with the promise of a history
On her newest poetry collection “Mystic Bliss”, Janine Canan continues to shine through her dedication to Earth –and my humble self, on my signed copy only- her reflections on life, the self, the damage done to women and how they can rise above.
The collection is bilingually translated to German, which mirrors Canan’s devotion to a pan-cultural presence, and a more solid sense of self through her universal meditation on women, God and humanity.
In her sharp, abrupt use of imagery, Canan’s language seems heavily influenced by the Dickinsonian style. Canan is not generous with her words. She uses the shortest form of the written verse to express the meaning she tries to convey. Her meanings, profound as they are, carry the syntax which she masterfully desires. The abundance of layers makes up for the more intentional themes viewed as unfavorable forwardness in some poems such as “Prayer” and Streams”.
Canan’s poems vary from simple, mundane expressions of monotone feelings “Sorrow”, “Stages of Woman”, “Mirror” to the more mysterious ones, laden with complex meanings and oozing with thousand methods for deciphering the subtext. Among those that shine is “Consciousness” in which she ends the poem with a bang;
before we know
we are god
There’s also the emotionally-charged “Headless” which is a testament to the violence women face on a daily basis, or “Idiot’s guide to survival” which mourns the destruction of Earth by the hands of men.
Despite the eerie feelings Canan’s poetry could evoke in you, she always ends on a high note. Like a prophetess her message was not to be a warner, but a herald of glad tidings onto people who will listen to her. So listen closely to what she has to say, for her words would definitely be
Little Woonsocket, little Woonsocket, you’re still figuratively bigger
than a Pomeranian or an Indigo Bunting,
and plumbers here a century back moved out
on horse-drawn carts and carried decent rubber plungers
underneath their hairy arms, and they sported rubber boots
that many-a-time father made to double
as waders come Rhode Island’s snarking trout season.
Little Woonsocket, little Woonsocket, I screamed into town this morning
as two rippling, chunky women were doing boom-box calisthenics
at the end of the open road, up against the city’s lesser gates,
and the only thing I had in my car to barter oral pleasure
was a one-third empty jeroboam of Carlo Rossi red,
though as shit and sweet fortune would have it,
that was more than enough to spear the black girl’s thong
for later framing and ridiculous mounting
as high as I can reach up walls in daddy’s fireplace-d den.
Thank you for the opportunity to read this prescriptive children’s book. I was impressed. This is a difficult subject to undertake. It’s necessary writing and important. As a genre, there may be a terrific need for books for children like this. I don’t ordinarily read this category. Therefore I may be a poor judge or at least irrelevant. I did sell some children’s lit as an agent, so I’m not without some credibility.
I loved the illustrations. They are moody and evocative. The idea was interesting. I wondered if the authors had shown their text to any pediatric psychiatrists? I raise this in response to the choice to describe depression by other phrases. If we as adults have attached stigma to a word such as depression, why would we want to reinforce that in possibly the first book a child might reach for?
I also wondered if the authors had shown the book to librarians in the juvenile room? Since I am not reading juvenile literary works any more, let me just part by saying there is a positive need for books like this. I hope Peter & Lisa leads the pack.
There’s a certain time of year that the rain drops take on different colors.
Instead of falling from the sky, it falls from the trees.
Taking on the form of leaves, with the whistling wind,
driving them in the direction that it wants them to go.
Drifting away in a rapid dance,
they float into the middle of nowhere.
Until the rain of many colors.
reaches their final resting place.
*****
MINGLED GESTURES
The voices of careless words pollute the air.
Someone who is sensitive might happen to be there.
Among the crowd some gesture, while others stare.
Somewhere in the midst of the crowd is a hidden snare.
Tender hearts sometimes are misplaced.
Wounded gestures received in the memory can’t be replaced.
In the mind of the sensitive they’re hard to erase.
It’s difficult when confronted face to face.
Senseless gestures fill the soul.
As negative thoughts roll.
By the act of the will.
Gestures are removed, and joy is fulfilled.
The Village of Bones, by Mary Mackey, is a fantasy that is definitely a must read. it is the prequel to the Earthsong series. It is the story of Sabalah who is a young woman who desires more than anything to conceive a child. She is given a vision she will conceive a magical child; however, she must leave her village and everyone she loves there. So, Sabalah and her lover leave. What follows will keep you on the edge of your seats to the very last page. This is definitely Mary Mackey at her best.
An old man, a poet of the generation of Kerouac, Corso and Ginsburg, is at the lectern tonight in the auditorium of a small college nestled in the Ozarks of Arkansas. Although widely published for many years, both in the United States and abroad, he has never done a reading of his work. He attended a reading once, back in the Fifties. It was held in San Francisco and given by Gregory Corso. All the literati of the day were there, a number of them under the influence of one thing or another. But the reader tonight was so bored he swore he would never do a reading himself.
Not one to fraternize with other writers, the poet usually stays home with his African Grey parrots and Scarlet macaws. He writes at an old roll-top desk in what a romantic might call a garret, which he says is just a drafty attic over his old garage, part of an estate he inherited from his parents. He writes, off and on, day and night because he sleeps very little–two hours here, two hours there. He disdains liquor and dope but is a souse when it comes to milkshakes.
Tonight his friend of many years, an old professor at a local college, has asked him to read. The professor, almost as old as the poet, assumed the man had read his work often at various venues. The old poet for some reason agreed to do the reading. Maybe the money was attractive, although the honorarium was small. Long ago the poet’s four books had been remaindered and now money in any amount helps. Seed for the parrots and macaws adds up. He lives on Social Security and an annuity given to him by his parents long ago because they figured he would never be able to earn a living. They were right.
