President’s note: In true poetic form, BPS member Jennifer Sorensen has given us a poem to contemplate March and the beginning of spring…
Make obvious this time of transition
How time shifts beneath our feet
and all the while
“I am here.”
“I am here.”
when the room is cloudy, “Goddamit, I’m here!”
The wind blows.
March talks to the soil.
Love letters of forgiveness
I’m coming home.
Things thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze, grow
Poetry, like all art, infuses
How we paint, sing, draw, dance, build
and touch with words.
I like how poetry has no rules.
Profoundly, you have no rules.
A propulsion to love,
spare pine trees leaning to the sun, to what is warm.
I’ve been thinking of the ellipsis . . .
Three dots that knit time and space and breath and thought together.
Held together in space like planets.
Orbit here, my love
my March soil.
Da da dum
Da da dum
No poet coined such a stone of a word, a blotch of ink that we invite others to step in so they can seep the world from our colour. Feet in ink. A bodiless soup and swimming.
What would e.e. cummings do with the word “blog”? Perhaps something like this:
the bodiless blanket lets me sleep, it is my bed, my waking, the warmth that pulls me from the hushed hello of all darkness and creaking forest mystery, to the tinkering tatatata of eyelashes brushing day, of you and wonder and word and yes and word and yes…bodiless blog of thinking, trying to catch the river in its net of words to say: “here here here… is beauty, is living, is the never-again-crystalized moment of wonder.” Where we meet has always been sacred space.
The Brooklin Poetry Society … and all places where poets, writers, artists, lovers meet is sacred space. My hope is that we all venture into such sacred space. It graces us with a kind of divine presence and sharing that together is beautiful.
I joined the BPS I forget when now which is a comforting thought, like so many family visits: you forget who brought the casserole two years ago.
It is my first poetry club and this, my first blog.
New beginnings, the pushing of new growth through crusty bark, stiff limbs, dormant heavy soil, feeling newness leak in… a kind of calling that says you can grow, you can be more. Poetry is like that too. Poetry is April.
I suppose you could say poetry is the raspberry that sings like opera in your mouth in June… the room that keeps you warm in winter, the letting-go leaf that shows time has come in Autumn. So alas, poetry is for all seasons, all reasons and why not especially now, in the surge of Spring?
April will ask us to heed new voices, new branches, to let go of what is past, and to flower each and every one of us in whatever colour/shape/size/space we come upon; let us flower.
We always welcome new members to the BPS, perhaps this will be the April of our Club too. And April is #National Poetry Month.
And the first step to celebrate that is with our own feet, our voices, our attention, our own participation.
Check out the League of Canadian Poets for events: