Friendship/Poetics

If I Had A Name Like Wendy Morton

Posted on by stephen t berg / 8 Comments

This was written for the occasion of Wendy Morton’s 77th birthday, celebrated last night at Planet Earth Poetry. As was so apparent at last evening’s standing room only event, Wendy is an inspiration to a great crowd of people.

Wendy handing out free wishes at her birthday party: here with Yvonne Blomer’s son, (Yvonne is Victoria’s Poet Laureate).

Poet, gardener, private investigator, West Jet Poet of the Air, free-spirit, recipient of a host of awards, the latest of which is the Meritorious Service Medal from the Governor General of Canada, for her projects: Random Acts of Poetry and The Elder Project, she remains, quite simply, a friend to many.

For those unfamiliar with Wendy’s work, the following is a riff on one of her many popular poems, “If I Had A Name Like Rosie Fernandez”.

Happy Birthday Wendy!


If I Had A Name Like Wendy Morton

I would wear braids of blue bells,
and a shawl of wild indigo.

I would sleuth the understorey of old-growth forests,
packing pistils of Peruvian lilies,
finding clues under cloak ferns.

I would transcribe the weave of wind in willows.
I would publish the loop and sweep of cliff swallows.

If I had a name like Wendy Morton
I would serve lavender tea to every stranger
willing to waltz me
through a pink blizzard of blossoms.

I’d buy a purple satchel
and stalk the autumnal equinox
to forage a pot of filigreed collards.

I would walk on water
wearing pontoon shoes
of pumpkin shells.

I would recline with sea lions
—we’d watch the geysers of orcas. 

I would sit with a young Inuit poet,
—we’d find the shortest path to each other’s heart.

I would take all the turbulent minds,
the hijacked dreams,
our fears of flying,
and lyric them into oblivion.

Oh, if I had a name like Wendy Morton,
I would shush the mortal creak and moan
and bring on everlasting spring
with a single poem.

Poetics

Geography of Injury

Posted on by stephen t berg / 7 Comments

One year ago today, my friend Connie passed away. This poem, published in emerge 17, SFU’s Writer’s Studio Anthology, was written for Connie. I never showed it to her.

Over the years we met regularly for coffee, always getting around to talk of that quiet mania: writing. Spring before last, feeling the need for a shot in our writerly arms, we (essentially) dared each other to try make the cut for Simon Fraser University’s Writer’s Studio.

I knew she’d be a lock. Her last gig was assistant editor at Eighteen Bridges, an upscale literary periodical. For a string of years before that, having previously aced the writing program at Grant McEwan which helped make her a meticulous researcher, she had a popular alternative health column in Vue Weekly (Well, Well, Well). In the meantime she published articles in the Edmonton Journal and Alberta Views. And…in the meantime, lived with and kicked at cancer’s lengthening shadow. Her blog, which is still up, courageously catalogues much of this time.

She received her acceptance letter first, but didn’t tell me, worried, with reason, I didn’t get in. For a while it seemed like this new opportunity/purpose/direction might so focus her as to send her, again, into remission. The “seeming” was short lived. Within a month of her start date she was forced to withdraw.

I never had the courage (was that it?), to show her the poem: it was dark, the images sparse, the overarching metaphor foreboding, the ending bleak. I had written it in hopes of some kind of catharsis. But if I could go back, I’d show it to her. It was not her way to shrink from reality, she had no problem facing what was in front of her. It’s me that had the problem.

For Jeff, Connie’s kids, family and friends. We still miss you Connie.

This memoriam (and award announcement) appears at the back of the anthology:

A meditation

Beatitudes without attitude

Posted on by stephen t berg / 8 Comments

Blessed are the unassuming: for theirs is the kingdom of gratitude. 
Blessed are the rivers: for they shall carry away the burning boats of sorrow.
Blessed are the still waters: beside which we shall be led.
Blessed are the apostates of money and power: for theirs is the domain of freedom.
Blessed are the intake workers at homeless shelters: for theirs is the kingdom
          of mercy.
Blessed are they who profoundly ignore the fascination of the herd:
         for they shall escape hook, line and sinker.
Blessed are the wrens that dart about in blackberry bushes:
         theirs is the provenance of happiness.
Blessed are the eyes of sculptors and painters: for theirs is the realm of sight.
Blessed are the hands of potters: for they shall be called stewards
         of the second chance.
Blessed are those who topple the idols of mass culture: for they shall be called
         curators of light.
Blessed are the Great Grey owls: given to glide through parallel kingdoms.
Blessed are the gardeners: for they are the tilth of the earth.
   Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
      Blessed are they that linger, astonished at hibiscus: for they shall be refueled.
Blessed are the cigar rollers, brew masters and vintners: period.
Blessed are the prairie sloughs: where kingdoms of cattails await
         red-winged romances.
Blessed are the cardboard boxes: for they shall inherit mountains of memories.
Blessed are they who resist the K-Mart Caesar and all the little Neros: they shall
          sleep well at night.
Blessed are the power outages: for theirs is the reign of lit-candles
          with family and friends at kitchen tables.
Blessed are the bakers: that is obvious.
Blessed are the spiralling, hovering gulls: for theirs is the wisdom of wind.
Blessed is the waggle dance of bees: world of intelligence, truth and understanding.
Blessed is the eternal heretic: whose love yet reclines within us.
Blessed is the rising sun, the enduring earth, the forgiving seas:
         hear their groans of longsuffering grace.

Perhaps a smile

At 63 I have become a particularly good house husband

Posted on by stephen t berg / 18 Comments

earlymorningwalk

At 63 I have become a particularly good house husband
      (a term, by the way, I have no quarrel with).
I am good at sex, even at this age,
and also at making quite a delicious pork tenderloin.
The secret here is a splash of balsamic vinegar.
As for the sex, I’ll let you in on that a little later.
In the meantime I hope the kids don’t read this,
I’m not one to cause any awkwardness or embarrassment
      (even at their age).
On that score, don’t hasten to audit my wife about the sex,
no point risking a red face, yours or hers.
All you really need to know about that is that
it’s critical to vacuum at least once a week and shake out rugs.
Also, take pleasure in doing laundry, which I do
      (does this surprise you?),
and don’t run out of organic bananas, or kindness.
And while the oatmeal is simmering on the stove
be available for an early morning walk
      (here, I’d urge you to learn the names of flowers
      and birds and how the tide works).
Also, learn the components and ratios for good conversation,
as well as for egg salad,
      (a bit of experimentation can go a long way).
Finally, be home no later than 5 PM to prepare dinner.
Certainly, an evening stroll is not out of the question
      (neither is a game of Rummikub),
and every once in a while keep chocolate cake in the fridge
or if you’re gallant and a bit daring,
homemade apple crisp can really hit the spot.