Words in Motion

 

Fellow blogger and reviewer, Janet Sketchley, sent a review of a book of poetry this week. I loved the fluid nature of the words the poet used, the rhythm, and the word pictures she painted. All in free verse.

While I mentioned to Janet in a personal note that I do enjoy reading well-formed rhyming poetry (Indian Summer, Campbell; Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost; The Song my Paddle Sings, E. Pauline Johnson, to name a few), I do not usually write in rhyme myself. And I found myself wondering, how many of those poets’ work remained in a drawer unseen because the poem did not work out the way they hoped. Happens to writers, poets alike. I have many of both.

 

“Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village, though’

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow…”

       -Robert Frost, Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening

 

There are many gifted poets, and as a poet, I am a student of poetry, with a shelf of poetry books to pull out and read.

 

 I’ve bookmarked a good lot of them with special favourites to go back to. Having been associated with Tower Poetry Society for a number of years, and in the past year have had opportunity to join in their monthly (virtual) workshops, I’ve met even more poets in our home province.

Poetry can be a harder sell than a work of fiction, for example, since it does not translate well to other languages that have their own expressions, their own language and rhythms. I noticed this in some of the poetry reading sessions online this summer with Laurier, McMaster and Western university students when I had opportunity to join in as a Tower poet. There’s promise in so much of their work and many of them perform their pieces as poetry slam without words in front of them.

And yet there are other poets worthy of mention too, both ancient and historic. People quote the Persian poet, Rumi, who seems to be as much philosopher, while I might quote Psalm 23, the Shepherd’s Psalm by David in the Bible. 

 

 

In a minimum of words, the 23rd psalm is both metaphoric and picturesque. Scenes of water, of rest on the hillside, of promises of a full table and restoration. How calming. Of all the psalms in the book, that is probably my favourite for its promises and musical arrangement of words—words in motion.

Poetry then can be a song, a recitation, a string of words that work together to make an image, with a rhythmic beat to hold it all together. And for those who think they don’t get poetry, much of our music is poetry.

 Next time you sing a song or hymn, pay attention to the words and the way they work together.  Next time you read a poem, pay attention to the rhythm… and you will find words in motion.

 

Carolyn R. Wilker

https://www.carolynwilker.ca/

Author, editor, storyteller

 

The Amazing Thing about Autumn—Carolyn R. Wilker

 

Fall display at the Farmers'  Market in St. Jacob's

The poem I memorized in school, when we did memory work, comes back to me each year at this time. “Along the line of smoky hills, the crimson forest stands…” William Wilfred Campbell must have been standing outdoors taking in the wild colours of autumn, watching the birds fly south. His poem, Indian Summer, remains one of my favourites about this time of year. I can see it as I say the words, and I can almost smell the change in air. Unlike the steady greens of summer foliage, the whole landscape changes with the coming of the cooler air. There’s a gradual changeover from summer to fall and sometimes we barely have time to see it when all of a sudden the cool days come sneaking in and we pull out sweaters and warmer jackets and tuck the sandals in the back of the closet.

black-eyed Susans still blooming

the sedum that was green all summer is now in colour

We’re past the hot, hot days we’ve experienced in the summer, and yet many days are still comfortable with cooler nights and mornings. Tonight my husband and I covered our garden plants, particularly the tomatoes, for there are small ones yet to ripen though many of the branches have withered that once bore fruit.

It’s amazing, when you think of it how such a glory of colours should come  just before the earth goes to sleep for winter. The summer flowers are shrivelling but the chrysanthemums burst into beautiful colour and stay with us a little while longer. My morning glories are nearing their end too. There are still some blooms in the morning but the numbers dwindle and now I’m collecting seeds from the plants as the leaves shrivel and drop. I save the seed for next year’s growing season.

Mums showing off their fall colour

When autumn comes to an end in this part of Ontario, we see brown earth and the trees shed their leaves leaving skeletons as silhouettes against the sky. The air grows much colder and soon we’re wearing warm coats, hats and mittens against the cold.

Why the beauty just before the end of the season? I’m glad of it though. It just seems like such a contrast. Winter is often equated with death and dark times of grief when we’re not so productive, but those seasons of growth are embedded in our memories to reappear sometime later, just as spring comes again and the earth comes back to life. 

Just as the philosopher in Ecclesiastes wrote: “A time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant and a time to reap.” We have those seasons in our lives too and a Creator who built in those possibilities. Let us give thanks for the times of beauty, for the times of productivity, and know that God is with us all of those seasons, when we dance and when we weep, when we celebrate and when we refrain from festivities. For now though, I’m going to enjoy the colours of autumn and watch the birds fly south just as Campbell must have done that inspired his poem.

Carolyn Wilker is a writer and editor from southwestern Ontario

www.carolynwilker.ca