Seeds

In Amherstburg?   Srsly?   Yup.  AND, it was awesome.

A small art gallery called the Mudpuppy in my town celebrated its 1 year anniversary by organizing its second open mic poetry night today.  The group as a whole, has as its goal, the promotion of art and creativity in the community.

As the Amherstburg I knew as child continues to morph into the Amherstburg I live in today, I am always amazed and inspired by the efforts of the people of the town to express what it means to live in this little stretch of riverfront civilization.

Fancy restaurants, little pubs, "Snack Attack" (may it rest in peace).  I love that they come into being, regardless of how long they exist or their commercial success.  But the mudpuppy and this poetry night filled in a little part of the whole in my being that was left by the disappearance of Boblo, Bruins Bakery, the bowling alley and the movie theater.  Tonight I found something I was ready for, and apparently, so were many others.

Published poets, both local and formerly local (Penny-Ann Beaudoin, Dani Couture and Robert Earl Stewart) shared the mic with unpublished locals like myself and my cousin Lorraine. (to name those who's names I can remember.  There were more, and they were great)

Julie read a poem I wrote for the occasion called "Seeds".  I accompanied her on the shakuhachi.

It was a wonderful night, and it illuminated the soul of this town and its people.  Thank you to all who made this such a wonderful event.

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Seeds


Spring air, freshly warm.  It still has that new car smell.


So young, this season stumbles in awkwardly, table to sofa, like a wobbly infant.


Even now, in the midst of birth and potential.....    Summer is dying.


Leaves of gold, brown and red spy on children in the park, concealed behind a mask of chlorophyll.


THESE are the cool winds of Autumn,  Incognito.  Distorted.  Played backwards like a Pink Floyd album.


And yet...   the odor of cut grass overwhelms.


Distracted by the smells brought forth by propane flames, I head out in bare feet,


Willfully ignorant of the end that awaits.

...

There only ever was just this.
Being just so, expression pours out.
The canvas is blank.
Twitch, and create it all.

Given

Expended.
Heaped upon the sand, grey corpses rest.
The life that was, has burned away,
transformed in a life combusted.
Others take root and burn with purpose.
Consumed by the one purpose.
Giving up form for form,
never losing the essence.

The theme I am working with in art practice these days is "complete giving".  My current subject is incense.

Yuyake

Day softens.
Intentions and activity settle.
The world is at rest
A cat's belly warms my legs.

Today was the first day of the year which no one could argue that it felt like spring.  I spent far too much of it indoors.  The windows were open and we were in and out for groceries and some attempts by our youngest at riding a two wheeler.  Without adding any activity, the day was full.  The day was fullness.  Now it is night.  Good bye day.  Time for sleep.

Spring River

Ice flows dot the river's edge.
The last exodus of Winter.
The bright Spring sun
brings little heat to the day.

I have written poetry before, but lately I have begun reading  more poetry.  Until recently, my only book of poetry was a little coffee table book of haiku by Basho and other poets,  but recently I picked up a collection of poems by Shinkichi Takahashi.  I don't know much about the author right now, but I am really enjoying the work.  The brevity and  Zen vibe is strong, even though there are few Haiku in the book.  I picked it up at a book store in London Ontario that I used to go to a lot when I was in university.  It's called "City Lights" book store.  It's a small store in the heart of the old city, with shelves to the roof, all built out of pine planks with varied weathering that suggests they were bought as needed from the local hardware store.  There are no bare shelves, and no empty walls.  Just being in the place is inspiring.  I had not been there in a long time, but going back to the very shelf where I bought my first Zen book (Three Pillars of Zen) (and yes, I remember it clearly) pulled my distant past into that exact moment.  I seek to carry it forward.  Not that it can be.


This poem is new.  I wrote it this week.  I went back to the source and photographed the river that it is about.

Art Practice

Again and again this moment.
Always expressing, what could be brought forth?
Ink upon paint.
A universe.


I wrote this poem after I finished reading "The Zen of Creativity" by John Daido Loori.  It immediately felt incomplete.  So I wrote the following response.


There only ever was just this.
Being just so, expression pours out.
The canvas is black.
Twitch, and create it all.

Lamp

In the warmth of the house all seems to be at peace.
Through the window the night reflects the calm of the cold and dark.
Only by the lamp-post can the wind and snow be seen.

Over and over tonight I looked out the window.  It seemed calm and peaceful.  Each time I turned to the light of the lamp-post to see the wind and snow.  Which of these is the true night?