Monday, October 31, 2011

"Let it snow ... "

"Once it starts snowing, they’ll be gone," I overheard someone predict last week about the Occupy Wall Street encampment.

Like a little snow will dampen spirits and cause cause-motivated occupy [insert name of city] campers to cease, desist and depart.

Check out the determination of the Occupy Albany group:

Power to the Peaceful and Persistent.

[Photos by  Sotto Voce]

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Stand Up for Tibet

From the time they get up in the morning to the time they go to bed at night, Tibetans live in fear.

All they are asking is to be able to freely practice their religion, keep their own culture and identity, and be accorded equality and justice in their homeland.

Instead they are:

-forbidden to be educated in their own language
- forbidden to have a photo of the Dalai Lama in their house
- Their women are sterilized without anesthetic.
- They are watched by cameras everywhere
- They are met with soldiers with guns at every crossroads
- They are imprisoned if they speak out about their Chinese occupiers
- They are not allowed to leave the country

Tibet has  been calling for freedom for over 50 years.  
Their continuous, strong, non-violent screams for help 
continue to be ignored by the West.

Tibetans simply want to remain who they are, in their own land.  

Last week, in India, Austria, France, England, Italy, Australia, Japan, the U.S and around the world, people stood up for Tibet. 

On  November 2nd, protests will be happening in 60 Cities in 26 Countries over 5 Continents
You are invited to join, to show support.

To express an opinion or write negatively about the Chinese government government in Tibet, you risk being beaten and imprisoned.  The crackdown on human rights has become so severe in Tibet that Tibetan monks and youths are sacrificing their lives rather than continue to live under Chinese rule, signifying a situation of deep desperation..

Tapey, age 20, self-immolated February 26, 2009, shot while being burned.
Phuntsok, age 21, self-immolated on March 16, 2011
Tswang Norbu, age 29, self-immolated on August 15, 2011
Lobsang Kelsang, age 18, self-immolated on Sept. 26, 2011
Lobsang Kunchok, age 18, self-immolated on Sept. 26, 2011
Kelsang Wangchuk, age 17, self-immolated on October 3, 2011
Choepel, age 19, self-immolated on October 7, 2011
Khayang, age 17, self-immolated on October 7, 2011
Norbu Dramdul, age 19, self-immolated on October 15, 2011, beaten & dragged away.
Tenzin Wangmo, age 20, self-immolated on October 20, 2011.
Dawa Tsering, age 38,  self-immolated on October 25, 2011.
[Details here]

People around the world last week expressing solidarity with Tibet in their struggle for freedom of religion, language, culture and human rights:

You are invited to sign the pledge here to show your support for global diplomatic intervention for the people of Tibet.

List of Planned Protests Around the World, here.


The Chinese government has sentenced Tashi Rabten to a 4-year prison term, following a closed-door trial, for writing poetry and essays and editing the banned literary magazine Shar Dungri (Eastern Snow Mountain).

Choepa Lugyal (penname Meycheh), a young Tibetan writer working at the National Publication in Gansu province was arrested by the Public Security Bureau police in Lando (Chinese: Lanzhu) city, Gansu province on 19 October 2011.

100 Thousand Poets for Change is organizing a Global Action Day for Tibet to stand in solidarity with the Tibetan people against oppression from China. Local poets will be reading and passing out poems by Tibetan poets Tenzin Tsundue, Tsoltim N. Shakabpa, Jigme Dorjee DAGYAP, Woeser, and Tsering Dhompa, at the Chinese Consulate on Wednesday, November 2 from 5:00 to 7:00 pm. [On Facebook here].

If you cannot be at any of the planned events around the world on this Global Day of Action for Tibet, you can support them by signing the petition, and perhaps mentioning it on your blog.  Spread the word!

Friday, October 28, 2011

A voice too good not to share


Singer, songwriter, composer Lokua Kanza, was born in 1958, the eldest of 8 children; his father was a Mongo from the Democratic Republic of Congo, his mother a Tutsi from the mountains of northern Ruwanda.  At the age of 13, he decided to become a singer, after hearing a performance by Miriam Makeba.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011


The Grammar of Lines

A line is a dot out for a walk.
—Paul Klee

Monday, October 24, 2011

Down the Memory Hole

A proposed rule to the Freedom of Information Act would allow federal agencies to tell people requesting certain law-enforcement or national security documents that records don’t exist – even when they do.

Under current FOIA practice, the government may withhold information and issue what’s known as a Glomar denial that says it can neither confirm nor deny the existence of records.

The new proposal – part of a lengthy rule revision by the Department of Justice – would direct government agencies to “respond to the request as if the excluded records did not exist."

[At Truthout  today.]

"Records?  What records?"

Not good news for researchers.  :(


Seems to be a trend:

Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Established by Congress to investigate and expose government waste, the Commission on Wartime Contracting in Iraq and Afghanistan has decided to not reveal its volumes of materials to the public for another two decades.

After three years of work, the commission officially shut down last week, having concluded that the U.S. misspent between $31 billion and $60 billion in contracting for services in Iraq and Afghanistan.

But it won’t allow its records to be opened for public review at the National Archives until 2031, because some of the documents contain “sensitive information,” according to one official. [1]

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Lawsuit Seeks Arrest Against Bush in Canada Today

Amnesty International has also called on the Canadian government to arrest Bush and either prosecute or extradite him for the torture of prisoners in the so-called "war on terror." Meanwhile, four men who say they were tortured in U.S. prisons under the Bush administration will lodge a private prosecution today against the former president in a Canadian provincial court.

The Center for Constitutional Rights and the Canadian Center for International Justice have already submitted a 69-page draft indictment to Canada’s attorney general, along with more than 4,000 pages of supporting material, that set forth the case against Bush for torture.

Transcript on Democracy Now


Bush was not arrested.

500 business people paid $599 each to hear George Bush and Bill Clinton speak at the Surrey Regional Economic  Summit earlier today.[1] A crowd of about 200 stood outside chanting, "Arrest Bush", holding up signs saying "You are not welcome here."

Bush, who won the Plain English Campaign’s Foot in Mouth lifetime achievement award, has pulled in some $15 million in speaking fees since leaving the Oval Office, a former spokesman told iWatch.[2]

And so it goes.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Neighborhood scenes

On my way back from tai chi this morning, ran into a pumpkin man, getting ready for Halloween I presume.  He had wires running out of him and there was a mini speaker hooked up to the porch roof.  I can only imagine what he has planned for little ghosties and goblins coming 'round for trick or treat next weekend. (That is a leaf blower, not a wood chipper at his side, right?)  A second before I clicked to take the photo, the black cat appeared out of nowhere and got caught in the scene.  [insert soundtrack from the Twilight Zone, ha ha]

How autumn leaves are like people -
Some go out in a blaze of glory, notably transformed.
Some stay the same as they ever were, unchanged.
All get scattered, equal.
Tree cycles, recycles, leaf cycles, life cycles
they, we

Speaking of scattered . . .

Last leaf, standing

This is Maurice, our baby (now pre-adolescent) yellow birch tree, originally the size of one of those twiggy limb sprouts.  As of yesterday there were 17 leaves left on him.  (I counted them.)  This morning -- one left.

It's not yet cold enough but I smell snow in the air.  We had snow before Halloween last year.  Out walking I took four deep, long breaths, as if trying to absorb a music sensed but not yet heard.  There is something life-enervating about the air in late Fall and winter.  Like gas to a car, or a window out of complacency, it's like energy rushing through again, can't explain it.

People here groan once the foliage passes and frost sets in. Quite a few head for Florida.  Five months of snow/cold/longing for spring, etc., something to escape from, complain about, endure. Once the geese leave (and they have already, weeks ago), the air changes. You can smell snow coming.  Even when the weatherman says it won't, you can tell when you breathe in outside, he's wrong.  Is this an inherited thing, or something you acquire through affinity?  In any case, it's always invigorating, that first felt hint of arrival.  Not the fact of it, but what it awakens, vis-a-vis consciousness. Hard to explain but without it, certain fires inside would just plumb go . . . out.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Chat with a Poet

Samuel Menashe (from Life is IMMENSE) from Neil Astley on Vimeo.

A short 2009 film by Pamela Robertson-Pearce.  Here Neil Astley visits Menashe in the tiny New York apartment where Menashe lived for 55 years, from age 31 to 84. He could still recite every one of his poems by heart.  He died on August 22 this year at the age of 85. [Obit/review].

Saturday, October 15, 2011


Where are you, V – you hide from
me you make me look I can’t discern
if that is you it sounds like you but then
it’s not -  I can’t decide which you is which, of
course just when I stake my claim and take
the plunge you re-emerge, you mock and say
well looky that, a different tune but it won’t fit you
know it won’t so why don’t you come back, you just
can’t just leave me you’d be voiceless, so      said     V.

Side of Le Lupin resto, au centre ville last week

An Art-Official Flower

Their violetness drew me
such perfect alignment
that day – where the wind was wreaking havoc,
ripping fragile petals from pansy stems
sending street grit into my eyes.

I realize (they’re so discrete, these lavender gems –
peeking mavericks at play!)
I must rescind this counterfeit sign sent.
Their fakeness knew me.

Bled Dry, Oh My

Inkless pen :: wordrust

*V = voice

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Ten Days of Poetry

The 27th annual International Festival of Poetry

Trois-Rivières, Sept. 30-Oct. 9, 2011

Ten days of poetry, all day, every day, from 9 a.m. to midnight.
       93 invited poets, from 5 continents
              320 separate events, taking place in
                     cafés, restaurants, theaters, schools, art galleries,
                            museums, libraries, bookstores, the park

Strung across from tree to tree, sheets of poems
from regional & national poets, school children, senior citizens.
[click on photos to enlarge]

Winner of the $15,000 Grand prix Quebecor this year was poet Louise Dupré ; a $1,000 top prize was given to a teacher for innovation in teaching poetry; $2,000 prize to an unpublished poet, $1,000 for best poem from a senior citizen, & other cash prizes. One is encouraged not just to come hear other poets but to participate and submit poems as well. A woman [not in the photo] looking for her poem among the hundreds hanging in the park, told me over 400 were submitted in her particular category alone.  I was especially moved by a 7-line poem from an unnamed 12-year old child, who wrote of realizing, for the first time . . . that "life is not eternal".

Park bench sitters commenting on one of the poems
 Parc Champlain, a veritable garden of words last week.  Each poem was encased in a transparent waterproof pouch, in case it rained, which it did the first few days.

Continuing on with the virtual tour -

If you visit downtown Trois-Rivières you will see these permanent little plaques all over the place - 300 of them to be exact, outside of restaurants, in walkways, on walls of buildings--even  the sides of houses--extracts of poems by Quebecois poets, as well as 100 poems in 21 languages on the Poetry Walk down near the port. 

This one, by poet Anne Hébert,  says:
"You and me, island in the city, 
under the rain, into the world . . ."

"Into the
world . . ."

as in:

 Four wall poems hanging out together, their only audience that day:  the three waiting bicycles [below].

A slim little 100-page booklet with details of all the reading events was available for free at local libraries, shops and restaurants. One poet told me, on Friday, that she'd given 26 readings so far and was having the time of her life meeting and spending time with other poets, townfolk and poetry lovers.  

With so many events going on simultaneously, it's sometimes the case where you'd go to a scheduled reading and find 5 poets lined up to read but only three people in the audience.  If you happened to be one of those three, you'd then have had a chance to sit and talk, individually, with each of the poets, from as far away as Russia or Japan or Argentina, whom you might've otherwise never gotten an opportunity to meet.

Muffins et poésie at Café Morgane inside the Clément Morin bookstore, a rainy Sunday morning at 11:00 - U.S. poet/translator/publisher Andrea Moorhead (seen here with Gérald Gaudet)  - reading and discussing all things poetry.  Especially interesting to me was the discourse on the difficulties (and joy of discovery vis-a-vis  nuance in language) encountered in the process of translating poetry.  Andrea publishes a journal called Osiris, out of Deerfield, Massachusetts, which features international poetry in original language and English translation.  

Wednesday morning poetry breakfast at resto Le Sacristain, with poets Marius Daniel Popescu (Romania/Switzerland); Nathalie Handal (Palestine/U.S.); Rei Berroa (Dominican Republic/U.S.) and  Sedley Richard Assonne (Mauritius Island). I will be posting some of their work at the cove in the near future.

At noon, Diner-poèsie in the foyer of the Maison de la culture - with  Dmitry Legeza, Olga Khokhlova (Russia), Felipe Garcia Quintero (Colombia), and François Guerrette (Québec).  This was a "Bring-Your-Own-Lunch" affair.

On the way back to the terminal to catch a bus home I passed Le Lupin restaurant where yet another reading was taking place upstairs - and through the open windows on the top floor,  poetry floated out onto the street below. Ahead of me, a puzzled passerby stopped, looking up at the sky, searching for where that melodic voice was coming from.

Six poets reciting poèmes en langue anglaise at St. James Episcopal Church on Friday.  Left to right: Nela Rio (Argentina/New Brunswick), Christine De Luca (Scotland), David Musgrave (Australia), James Norcliffe (New Zealand), Alice Major (Alberta), and Anna Swanson (British Columbia).

Christine De Luca read poems in a Shetland Island dialect; one of Nela Rio's poems was an imagined dialogue with 16th-century poet Leonor de Ovando;  James Norcliffe entertained us with an animated recitation of Yippee!, about a bunch of escaped podiatrists who can teach one something about frustration/ irony/ scorn/    . . .  and hate.  Poems from Alice Major and Anna Swanson will appear in an upcoming Salamander Cove posting.

I also went to diner-poèsie at Le Manoir  and heard poets Coral Bracho (Mexico) and Jean-Phillippe Bergeron (Québec).  My only regret is that I did not have the time or opportunity to get to more events this time around.  Of course there is always next year, different poets but same times, same places, same ten whole days and nights of poetry; you just have to choose (and plan ahead!).

A small sampling:

Sedley Richard Assonne,
"Madame Eugene"  read/sung in Creole

Rei Berroa

Marius Daniel Popescu

François Guerrette

Some photos -   taken while walking from one poetry reading to another:

A sidewalk mural as part of a peace exhibit
at the Museum of Popular Culture

sign at top:   "Justice for All"

October leaves blown & scattered:
gathering, unnoticed

Water from the park fountain, bursting by

Alleyway graffiti

Up close and personal

Monument to the unknown poet, in homage to poets worldwide -
in the plaza outside Le Bibliothèque Gatien-Lapointe

Reaching to the sky

"Open - Prison".   There are no inmates incarcerated there--this refers to an historic building that once  housed Trois-Rivières' criminals in the 1960s and '70s.    The guides  who give the tours and answer visitors' questions are former inmates.   Originally built in 1822 to hold around 40 prisoners, it was sometimes  packed with over a hundred. When it closed in 1986, it was the oldest functional corrections establishment in Canada.

You are invited, should this be of interest,  to experience a one-night sentence  behind bars:  You get booked, spend a night in a cell, and receive  breakfast fit for a prisoner. (You can go in a group of 15 to 39 others  if you'd rather not do this alone.) 
La vielle prison de Trois-Rivieres

Before you leave, you get a discharge paper with your fingerprints and mug shot (to take as a souvenir).   At least that's what happened when I  took this tour some years ago (though I didn't do the overnight-behind-bars part of it).  I did, however, step into the dark and dismal dungeon, and hear some very harrowing tales about what it was like to  have been a prisoner back in the 1800s.  Just imagine, you could be sent  to prison then for inadvertent impious utterances or swearing on the street.

 rue des Ursulines

 A bit of house history
[for the white house in photo above]

Outside St. James, en route to yet another poetry reading

 Inside St. James church, at the baptismal font, this sculpted bird descends from the ceiling on a kind of pulley when the font is opened.  Erected in 1764,this Anglican church served as a garrison chapel, a hospital, a court and a prison.  Today services are conducted there in both French and English.  Across the street is an Ursuline convent built in the late 1600s. Down one street and over a hill takes you to the port.

Three minutes away by foot,
a shady grove with dancing sun shadows

Earlier, at Végétarien, autumn squashes!

Tree-limb Rorschach on pine needles

Scene from last year's poetry festival

A fine week, all in all.  [A belated happy birthday to Sedley A., we would have toasted you on the Friday at table had we known!]


*street photos © awyn photography

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Real and Not Real, Voices, and the Layers in Between

In a brief conversation with a poet recently, the subject came up of the poems and stories we write as creative imaginings versus those based on things personally experienced.   "A lot of my poems are made up," he told me.  "Sometimes the ones made up seem real, and the real ones seem made up." Getting fired from an ice-cream factory for bleeding on the fudgsicles, for example, actually happened; a poem about his father dying--which elicited condolences--was entirely fictional.

Speaking of the real and the imagined in our writing, here on my desk sits fellow blogger William Michaelian's recently published novel, A Listening Thing, of which I have copy #84--of the Tenth Anniversary Authorized Print Edition.    "I am Stephen Monroe: a fictional character," says Michaelian  in the Preface. "And yet I'm also Stephen's creator, and the author of his harrowing introspective tale."

The Afterword repeats this affirmation  quoted in the Preface:  "I am  Stephen Monroe" (with the  "I" italicized), and is signed "Stephen Monroe."   (Me, not that Michaelian dude, I felt his italicized "I"  insisting.  As if to imply: Well, he might've created me but he's not me!  I'm Stephen Monroe.)  If you've ever read any of Michaelian's reported dreams you will not find this sort of situation unusual.  He has many faces, and his writings, like his artistic renderings, keep evolving.  This first novel is ample proof.

The book is by and about Stephen Monroe, as he reflects on himself and his life past and present.  Above and beyond the story itself there's a pocketful of insights about those things we sometimes wonder about but can never quite figure out--such as the possibility that  "Everything that is, isn't" and "Everything that isn't, is." 

Truth to tell, I have known people like Stephen Monroe--lonely, unhappy individuals holding tenaciously to a particular remembered time/place/relationship, unable to stop looking at it, mentally re-living it, feeling it important to preserve, describe and explain, wishing it could be reprogrammed for a different outcome in the now.  "It is in speaking, that I am able to figure things out", Stephen  says on page 133.  His marriage has failed; his wife, and the world, have moved on but he remains stuck in a memory warp, unable to let go.   ("Are you coming to bed?" his ex-wife Mary (who'd left three years before) beckons, in a familiar scene still playing out in his mind.)

"If this isn't real, then nothing is,"  says Stephen.  "And if I am real, everything is."  It's true, though, I thought as I read that.  We construct our own 'realities.'  The past is an integral part of Stephen's reality and his identity as well. "It would be healthier," he admits, "to let go" of it.  But he can't.  Stephen, like his mother with whom he visits on a weekend described in the book, feels "obliged to take care of things"--the way his father did, and the imagined loss of the family home, as with his loss of Mary,  to him signified  "there would be no meaningful place left to go."   Home, family, one's traditions and memorabilia and routine, are everything.  You lose that, and you become unanchored, the "I" part of you suddenly severed from the "we" or "us" that's been dissolved or taken away.

I found in this novel unexpectedly significant little nuggets of perception vis-a-vis universal parallels above and beyond the confines of the narrative, echoing what Tim Hinshaw (the author Michaelian's friend who died last year), noted about the book's "insight into the human condition." How many of us attempt to understand, much less reflect on why we "always do" what we always do, or question who we really are.   "You failed, son", Stephen imagines his father saying; "You always put your foot in your mouth", an everybody's grandmother scolds;  "You always say it's your fault", says his ex-wife.  Always, in all ways, that "always" part exudes.  Everyone screws up at one time or another - who can  not-relate to that?  We disappoint and hurt people, without intending to.  Stephen struggles with a sense of failure and the need to make things okay again.  Unlike his parents' house ("a tight little ship that could weather any storm"), his is on shaky ground. And Stephen is sometimes his own worst enemy, it seems, because his own brain "instinctively ridicules" his efforts.  "Think before you speak!" he reminds himself.

I had to laugh at Mary's habit of piling stacks of Readers Digests next to the toilet.  My mother did the exact same thing!  Reading Stephen's hilarious account of his dread of visiting the bathroom because of those hated magazines and his playful accusations that Mary just did that to annoy him made me think of the idiosyncracies we lovingly tolerate in our loved ones--and those habits we can no longer abide, and in ourselves as well.  In Stephen's and Mary's case it resulted in what Stephen calls "an intellectual divorce." 

Mary chose to leave; Stephen chose not to let her go, even though he couldn't prevent it.  The novel also illustrates something we all recognize but which brings little consolation when returning to an empty life:  the fact that both parties still love one another, that it may be nobody's fault, doesn't change anything. Some things can't be worked out, "fixed", or ever solved.  That, too, is part of life.  All we can do, as human beings, is "muddle through, the best we can."  For some this means changing course; for others, staying put, even if staying put means mostly "Stuck"; and comes a time when we might get tired of words like muddle through, which grip like a verbal harness we wish could be replaced by images of flow or glide or soar.  Can one just decide not to be miserable? Stephen asks.  (Is chronic sadness or clinical depression a choice?)  His reflections elicit even more reflections.  

Just as there's more to the problem of depression than one of attitude, so is there more to reluctant but necessary departures to escape what amounts to an emotional vacuum.  I love you but I can't help you. And he loves her but he can't help being who he is.   Stephen confesses to not understanding what "love" is.  Upon which an image of Tina Turner singing "What's love got to do with it?" immediately began ringing in my mind--and here came another unexpected idea--that maybe, if both parties still love one another, maybe it's not really about love but about . . . self preservation.

What makes A Listening Thing something which its author says we should read?  Because, he explains, "we need an honest look at ourselves, and the freedom of a second chance."   Michaelian took an honest look at himself--and wove a story around it.   It's not autobiographical, he states, but "the personal experiences and past events related by Stephen are really my own."  ("Life is fiction and fiction is life." )

Michaelian and Stephen Monroe invite us to listen as they tell his story, cautioning that if you think you know the answers, well, you're to be pitied. You don't.  This is said with love.  (Psycho-nibbler-babblers, take note:  Stephen Monroe is not a psychological "project", as he was, for years, to his ex-wife.  He's simply a man explaining who he is.  He's brutally frank about it, and intends to devote his life to exploring and maintaining that sense of self and to his writing.  "I am Stephen Monroe.  I am Stephen Monroe!")

Longing for a second chance free of failure and depression, he harbors hope, though neither one is going to cancel out the other.  Which made me think of the sheer duality of all that is, hinted at in this passage where Stephen is reminiscing about "Uncle Leo":

Poor Uncle Leo.  Poor everyone.  Not a happy thing exists that is untouched by sorrow. And yet, there isn't a sad thing we know that isn't sweetened by laughter and light.  Triumph and downfall . . . Love and hate.  Confusion and enlightenment.  Jealousy and serenity.

Included at the end of this passage is the word Possibility, italicized.  ("Possibility.  Dear Uncle Leo.  Dear Everyone.")   Stephen admits he has trouble maintaining optimism, but the mere entertainment of the possibility of Possibility trumps pessimism, one would think.  So too, even with Stephen's daily struggle with depression as a down/up, up/down, down/up, up/down affair; its eradication is graspable.

This is turning out to be far more detailed than I'd intended.  Like the fictional Stephen Monroe, it is in writing, that I am able to figure things out (although he actually said "speaking", not writing).  When a reader listens, not just to the story but to the thoughts that arrive while reading the story, connections can be made, parallels discovered, differences noted--in short, there is engagement on a second level corresponding to the fictional character's own introspections.  A very wordy way to simply say that much of what Michaelian wrote (in the voice of Stephen Monroe) soundly resonated.

So, three things I took away from reading this book:  (1) a reminder of what it's like to have been Stuck in a "harrowing" situation, unable to change things no matter how hard one tried;  (2) that things don't go well when you are prevented from, chastised for, or not accepted as . . . being who you truly are (and no amount of compromise or suppression or denial will keep that self from resurfacing); and (3) who you seem to be--even to yourself--as Stephen Monroe pondered,  may have nothing to do with who you really are.  He likens this to "an identity comprised of layers pretty much all the same"--like an onion!--whose skin you have to peel, one fragile piece at a time, to get to the inside.  And depending on how close you get, what's there might make you cry.

Michaelian's novel made me aware that choosing to be who you are can be revolutionary--and life altering, not only for you but for others.  Whoever said life was easy. "Life itself is a work in progress."   Stephen Monroe's story is just one example.   But somewhere in the process of listening to the listening things, whispers of connections to something larger emerged, kind of like hidden voices beyond the written voice, threading through to make themselves heard.  I'm not saying if you read A Listening Thing you will start hearing voices.   But reading is a form of hearing, no?  Words on a page are like songs to the eyes.

Wait, wait, I hear a voice from behind the fig tree:

 "I will go on singing"

William Michaelian - July 24, 2011

I rest my case, ha ha.

By the way, there's an excellent interview at the end of the book worthy of its own special mention, of particular interest to writers -  of William Michaelian in conversation with Paul L. Martin, teacher and writer, whose excellent 'observations on literature, culture and the life of the mind' can be found over at  The Teacher's View.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Hear ye Hear ye

Simon Bridges
     Philip Dacey
          Rick Daddario 

                                     Margaret Eddershaw
                                         Grant Hackett
                                              Dave King

                                                                    Charles P. Ries
                                                                         Alaka Yeravadekar
                                                                              Vassilis Zambaras

Nine poets, 13 newly posted poems up at

Saturday, October 1, 2011

October the First is Too Late

More years ago than I care to count, a friend gave me this book to read.  When I awoke this morning the first thing that came into my consciousness was its title. I still have the paperback.

Written 45 years ago, this little science fiction story that explores the nature of time and the fate of mankind--prophetic, disturbing, sobering--oddly enough, contains passages that've paralleled my own thinking in weeks past watching my birth country, the environment, and the world in general, on so many levels, seemingly imploding.

Is it, really, too late.

Click on title below to read an excerpt: