v e r l i e b u r r o u g h s

 I am leafing through a new novel by Icelandic writer Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir searching for a chapter title to use for my poem. Choose a chapter title from a favourite book   is today’s poetry prompt. I’ve looked through all my favourite books for chapter titles, but they all use numbers. My favourite book is ‘The Tree’ by John Fowles  and Frank Horvat, but it has no chapters, only photographs of trees. This won’t do. It’s the same with every book I pick up. Chapters are numbered. There is no poetry in that. I go back to ‘Miss Iceland’ (my friend Jen sent me on her birthday last November). I thought of you the whole time I was reading this , she wrote. Graceful...this winning tale of friendship and self-fulfillment... is sprawled across the cover banner. I read the book and searched for myself,  and recognized our friendship in its story. The protagonist is a single girl; a writer who lives with a poet in Iceland. And works as a serving girl in a coffee shop. It is 1963. I recognize the

 Birds are puddle bathing, Got me laughing. Golden crowned sparrows; Tiny rainy day Pharaohs. Arrived on a spring day. I wonder if they’ll stay. Attracted by my trees, And of course the seeds I sprinkle on the ground When they come around. We didn’t plan for rain But they don’t complain. Splashing exuberantly Out in the driveway.

 Oh how I long for the Sound of Loredo Near the end of April, or the first part of May. My old fishing buddies, that is where they go; To Aristabel Island and Kitasu Bay. There’s Keith, and Chuck, and Rosalie Pete, Wayne, Sparky, John, and Dennis to meet. Now they are not rich, and famous and all, But if I was in trouble, they’re the ones I would call. It’s a wonderful feeling to get under way. First trip of the season, what a glorious day. Across Queen Charlotte, up Fitz Hugh Sound. Along with the geese, we are northern bound. But when we arrive, we hear to our sorrow No salmon today, maybe tomorrow. But they finally come, and they’re big and they’re mean. The wildest spring salmon that you’ve ever seen. Everyone’s laughing, Boy this is the life; We’ll keep the banker happy, and also the wife. Now what I like to hear, when the weather is tough; “Let’s head for the bay boys, the sea is too rough”. Put the spoons in the bucket, and coil the lines neat. Last one in the bay has got dirty

 V Ver Vera Verla Verily Valerie Vickie? V e r l i e  is my given name. It has no ethnic origin. It has no meaning. It’s an invention. A British stage name from the turn of the Century is how it was explained to me. (By my Professor of History) My Mother named me after her best friend. And that is how I came to be me.

 I read the news today, Oh boy. No News Today the headline said. No fake news No bad news No having a heart attack news No pandemic No polarizing politics No rhetoric  No Donald J. No disasters  No mass extinction No Amazon Basin deforestation  No News Today the headline said.  Oh boy. Breaking news is taking a break. Ironically it was this very day an earthquake, and ensuing tsunami swept our little town away. News will be back the following day, listing the missing on the front page. Oh boy.

According to the mythology of the ancients, the souls of the virtuous after death would go to Elysii Campi   where their happiness would be complete.  Their pleasures would be innocent and refined. Bowers evergreen, delightful meadows with pleasant streams. Where the air was wholesome, serene, and temperate. Birds continually warbled in the groves. Everything in Elysium would be just so. But wouldn’t you know... Achilles and his cohorts would be there also, waging war on the wild beasts.  Trojan chiefs would be placed there too,  (specifically to manage hoards) And the Poets! Having continual feasting and revelry. Gratifying low desires of the debauchee. If the ancients only knew what they were heading into. No inkling of the extraterrestrials travelling in the everywhen, through all dimensions, free falling fuggheads  too numerous to mention. Slipping through gateways and portals, Replicants, Androids, and all manner of space trash, drawn to earthlings to clone them and relive their p

Dear friends, School is going better (thanks for your support). My writing instructor scolded me in front of the class for submitting poetry  (when we are supposed to be writing short stories) And to further the humiliation, he said it was not very good poetry.  So I am sending you some to see what you think. Would appreciate any feedback you can give. Thanks. Dear Verlie,      Your battles with the creative writing teacher sound great. Re: haiku —- for sure just counting syllables doesn’t even start  to define the form...to simply tell a feeling doesn’t make it—- three quick brush strokes and the SEEING is in the listener. Too bad you don’t tape record your better confrontations— they must be beauties. I like the Frog Haiku, the image that is. Too many words wasted connecting the lines. Frogs who  sang a round All starless night til dawn have left  moons in the pond. Let me  make the connections  Uh, I’m a little hazy on this, but  how about something like xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx

First starlings sing at               sunrise a squeaky sound like           the slightly off-kilter                          hinge of an old          door opening. 3 plaintive notes        then a melody          almost          imperceptible               undecipherable yet so gently told. perhaps discussing the             leap they are    about to make       into the  deep blue pool of the sky?

 - write, write or die - almonds, pecans, without salt, scatter them near some sand coast for a wind break - endure - stand apart, keep away - decipher my own fate - look up creuset, the crucible that I called a flat dish when I wrote [3] I would enter your senses through burnt resin and pine-cones - finish what I have begun - emulate goodness - choose, right, left, win, lose - look up/find more on the Angels - find Asmodele - find my identity - find a moment’s breathing-space - recognize this unfathomable, dauntless separation, this retreat from the world that yet holds the world, in the mind’s closed recess - scrape a small pine-cone from the sparse sea grass - cherish my personal treasures - sit here on my rock-throne not moving or moving with everything - be part of the lacquered sea grass - track down Asmodele - strike first - light candles - wait - wait for a letter - maintain the rose, the fire, the flame - recover the human equation  - stumble along, grope along, find my way -

  Anna-lee They say it was a sad day when I passed away. But I don’t recall feeling sad at all. My old man was abusive, my children were cruel. I cared for them the best I could. I was famous in the neighbourhood  for cakes and cookies, I’d send to school. But my old man was mean, as I said. And I would have hell to pay, when he came home late, in a foul mood. (and demand his food) The last time, he hit me with a stick. And that was it— A stick no wider than his thumb (he wasn’t dumb, he knew the rule, he was nobody’s fool) When the coroner’s court held a hearing he got off Scott free For killing me! It was the way in those days. He hasn’t come around since they put me in the ground. He’s drowned himself in booze, and the children roam loose all over town. And me? I’m free of all that now.

 A Raven Regent in the yard. All ruffled and hurried, all winter worn and worried. Scattering the crows, wings flapping like a goose,  for a few bread crumbs and seeds.  The new kid in town.

 Now, it’s the rain, always the rain. Gutters overflowing, the deck a lake. But then, there was snow. When we drove all night through the canyon. The car drifting like a boat. But you never lost control, Driving quite relaxed, In your element. (In your elegance) I felt safe. (That may be the last time I did) Wishing now was then, and That snowy drive would go on forever.

 —My poem in a form borrowed from Archibald MacLeish poem: ars poetica A Robin’s song before the rain As sweet as a summer day Dear As a sky blue egg in a green moss nest Soft as the sound of a wood wind flute Or a wind chime in a breeze A Robin’s song is tenderness A soft caress A Robin’s song seems to float on air As night falls Lasting, calling in the half dark Tracing through the dappled trees Lasting, as if a memory of a memory The longing lingers in the melody A Robin’s song is infinite joy As fleeting as a dream A Robin’s song is sweet But brief

 Beside a pile of snow, at the back bay doors of the Town ice skating rink. A caged tiger pacing, camouflaged by the shadow of the bars, back lit, blending stripes in the afternoon sun. Beside a mound of snow that grows higher  each time the Zamboni driver adds another load. Removing the ice for the travelling Circus  performing tonight.  Child: admission free  reads the sign. I see the tiger, eyes gleaming half dreaming (of a snow covered tundra back home in northern Russia, perhaps?)

predictable  surprise vagabond sky  diary  stalled  cracking hollow night’s heirloom  dream  winter wings, song,   air,  rose scented cold moon kissed  hovering  twilight  gaunt  destiny  clothed holy,  tenuous, earnest bubble life.

 I too took the road less travelled, and I followed it,  through pine meadows, and woods, to your little house, at Fish River. Looking back, I have to concur,  with the wise poet,  Frost. Had I not taken that path, I surely would have been lost. Thankfully, you drew me a map (and that made all the difference).  

 A wink of the moon for an eye. Smile painted in silvery stars. Night waves a gentle goodbye,  to the tune of an old blue guitar. NaPoWriMo Day One... And a little musical interlude https://youtu.be/y_goHl-GuNk

 ready or not the iron is hot. lead the way leaden thought, laden with words unspeakable. the early bird is hunting, the late bird is full of seeds, nesting nearby, in the trees.