My Poetry: Point Sublime

Point Sublime

We placed her on a rock wall

Half a mile above the canyon floor

It makes a good picture:

The mile wide chasm hides

the grassy outcrop two-feet below.

The photo hangs in our hallway

You can just make out my fingertips

intruding into the frame. Ready.

She smiles from her perch,

and behind, lays the map of her life.

We didn’t see it then, at that Point.

If we had known, we would have hired

small horses, followed the path down

searched the generations of strata

mapped-out the peaks and troughs. Trekked

beyond the tourist trail.

We had thought it would just be a wide trench

deep enough to take our breath away,

a talking point with friends and wine. Straightforward.

Instead we looked down on mountains, walls

within walls. Saw the lightening scars.

The glorious shadow of a wheeling

eagle made the backs of our neck prickle.


(Written circa 2000)

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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

My Poetry: You

               

You rushed early into this world

eager to see what it was all about

locked your eyes on mine

and didn’t look away.

Then I knew. Knew

that it is possible for a heart to grow,

like cells building new life.

You take your time, assessing,

finding your place. Charming strangers

with your smile. Absorb the world

from my shoulder. Thank me

when I chase away the night-time

monsters. Take little imp as a compliment!

You share, without hesitation,

your treasures  -  your opinion,

and the mysteriously melted chocolate-buttons

smeared across your hands. 

If only time didn’t rush

if only it would be more sharing         

if it would

     trickle

just a little. Not a lot to ask.

(Written in the early 80's)

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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

My Poetry: This Boy

This Boy 

This boy trains worms;

Chases geese, not seeing the danger;

Shakes his head that we don’t know they are only laughing.

Strides the mountain path, self-peeled stick in hand.

This boy wanders;

Digs in the rocks by the loch  

on his own and wonders what the fuss is about.

Makes dandelion-chains because no one else does.

This boy. This boy;

before he could talk, grasped my hands

and we laughed and couldn’t stop, at something

or nothing.  How can it be that someday this boy…

This boy will be a man?

(Written in the early 80's)

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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

Prince Dhruva, Aged Five, Sees Eye To Eye with God

He stood in that one place

in the forest, on one leg.

Wild pigs foraged his shadow.

He stood, gown as white

as the chunam of palace walls,

like a painting of the women

who danced for the courtiers,

struck in a pose of the nautch.

As he stood in that place

in a clearing by a brook

and saw slender branches

bend beneath the kingfisher,

the child stilled his chest

until a breath spanned a day.

Through the cramp,

he saw the feeding doe start

as hoopoe dipped curved beaks.

As infant bones set,

he saw the giant Chinar tree

trap snow in outstretched arms.

Through splayed toes green shoots

spread, embracing, winding

tethering - he soared in the wake

of the crows who followed

bears for pickings, saw a beetle grasp its prey,

a tiger groom her young, finite forest on finite land.

Saw the world cupped in the palm of Krsna,

saw his own heart, and looked eye to eye with God.

And the child knew that he was blessed,

for if he followed this austerity

with celibacy, piety,

equanimity and charity, he might

perhaps, atone past-life sin.

And as the child was carried from the forest

he tried not to remember the despair

he had witnessed when he looked

into the eyes of God.

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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

My poetry: 1960's

1960’s

My paper dolls. My fish and chips

My Tiny Tears. My pick-up sticks

My invisible horse. My invisible friend

My den. My castle. Days without end.

Snakes and ladders. Etch-a-sketch

Sindy. Trolls. Dogs playing fetch.

My hula hoop. My magic wand

My tiddley-winks.  A stinky pond.

The Secret Seven. The Famous Five

Swallows and Amazons. The Call of the Wild.

My roller skates. My spinning top

Hopscotch. Elastics. Parachute drop

Pink school milk. Climbing trees

My fishing net. Scabs on knees

Whist. Gin Rummy. Memory games

Rosehips. Brambles. Country lanes.

Read here for my workshop on writing a similar poem.
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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

My Poetry: The Cull

The Blackfoot brave chose not to take part

in the driving of the buffalo. He was young

and by definition, foolish.

Instead, when his people, the Plains people

drove the buffalo over the sandstone cliff

he chose to stand below the overhang

and watch the bodies fall. Feel the thrill

of a black bellowing waterfall.

When his people came to do the butchering

they cleared the last carcass and found

the brave, with his skull crushed in.

A hell-of-a-way to get a town named after you.

(Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump – Alberta, Canada.)

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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

My Poetry: To an Egyptian Working Man

To An Egyptian Working Man

We met in Toronto.  I’m the woman

who couldn’t keep her eyes off you, stood

stock still as the crowd peeled past.

Embarrassed, I took your photograph.

My husband wandered off, used to my ways.

He’s been really good about it all.

I talk about you often, have your photo

propped on the mantel clock.

He gives me a look now and then, but doesn’t comment.

Probably feels safe, with you being

on another continent.

But something did happen…

You looked so vulnerable, vacant,

slack-mouthed and dreaming.

Dreaming of eyes? Of painted hands, of perfumes that teased

the weaver, in the workshop of the temple of the King?

They’ve placed a square of lint across your groin.

I saw the x ray, fluorescent with hunger, infection.

Learned of parasites that stole your strength.

Were you handsome once?

Did the palace women ever notice the weaver?

Or were you, even then, a guess at a man.

Spent twigs, bound with dirty cracked leather?

One floor up, your starched, ironed shroud

stands outstretched.  A mottle-brown moth.

They’ve placed three saucers by your side:

Heart of Nakht, Liver of Nakht – each a child’s fist of hollow wood –

torn from the tree where you crouched to chew bread.

Brain of Nakht – two dapple black stones – plucked from the beach,

beneath the cliffs that you sucked you dry.

Your dignity label was missing,

The one marked: Private.

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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

My Poetry: Carved by Gravity

Hey Bri,

you know

that fractured piece

of de Chelly sandstone

we saw, the one

that rises

eight hundred

and eight feet

above the surrounding

landscape of

Monument Valley?

Well it's called

The Totem Pole.

Still looks like a willy to me.

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Denise Howie World Famous in B.C. 

My Poetry: South Gare

South Gare  

She looked at the man

Summed him up:

On his own,

Sunday afternoon,

Three kids...

He smiled, she smiled

Called her children from the water's edge

So he would know -

From the beginning.

His girls hauled him up.

She studied them,

Younger than her own,

She could grow to love them.

He looked again, smiled again.

They would say she was mad

Taking on his kids -

So soon.

She kept her bare left hand in view.

Could he see the thin white line

That stood between then and now?

She hugged her children,

He smiled,

Gathered-up her future in a blue-cotton

Beach towel. And left.

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Denise Howie

My Poetry: New York Directions

Illustration: Victor Kerlow

New York Directions  (1996)

Follow the twin shadow to its extremity. Slap

your feet over the sidewalk - hard. Dodge

yellow cabs, electric people, the tramp brushing the street

with the end of his scarf. Politely, steer through smiling sightseers

and buy a can and a dog - hot, from a stand with the man with an accent

from all the American movies you've ever seen. Make

like a bee for the green line of railing and hedge. Step

through the open gate. Step into the dormant chamber

buried in the chest of this city. Sit on a slatted seat in the shade

of unfamiliar trees, feel the tremble of traffic against your back.

Acknowledge the hum, the drum of the streets, beneath

the cocksure call of a Downtown pigeon.

Smile at: Sitting on the Gravestones is not permitted.

Trace mossed etching with your finger

           

                        Ce Tombeau  

        Qu'a fait eriger Mmm. Catherine Gentil

                         A In Memoire

Toss crumbs for the sparrows building nests

in the cracks of the tombs. Sigh. Step back

through the gate.

                       Then, my friend

it is up to you.

Denise Howie: World Famous in B.C. 
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Poetry Prompt: Be a Picker!

---

In this disposable age - where new is king and old is considered garbage - TV shows like Market Warriors and Canadian Pickers remain hugely popular. Pickers travel the country, rummaging through barns and sheds filled with apparent junk, hunting for hidden treasures to restore and resell for profit.

Pickers, antique stores, and flea markets don’t flourish because someone desperately needs a two-by-four metal sign advertising motor oil, or a child’s three-wheeled tricycle. They flourish because one object can trigger a web of memories and emotions from a particular moment in a person’s life - or even from a bygone era they wish they had experienced.

I use the following exercise in my Writing for Fun creative writing workshops:

• Brainstorm a list of childhood toys and activities

• Compose a poem using only items from that list—no adjectives, similes, or metaphors

• Use short sentences and specific images to create a fast-paced, dynamic piece

This is my poem (inspired by Bill Manhire’s 1950’s):

---

1960’s
My paper dolls. My fish and chips
My Tiny Tears. My pick-up sticks
My invisible horse. My invisible friend
My den. My castle. Days without end.
Snakes and ladders. Etch-a-sketch
Sindy. Trolls. Dogs playing fetch.
My hula hoop. My magic wand
My tiddley-winks. A stinky pond.
The Secret Seven. The Famous Five
Swallows and Amazons. The Call of the Wild.
My roller skates. My spinning top
Hopscotch. Elastics. Parachute drop
Pink school milk. Climbing trees
My fishing net. Scabs on knees
Whist. Gin Rummy. Memory games
Rosehips. Brambles. Country lanes.

---

Poetry works best when it is sparse and specific. As author and humourist Mark Twain observed, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

A few points to remember when composing this type of poem:

• Use “my” as often as possible to show that the list is personal, not generic

• Play with the order of the lines - say them out loud until you find a natural rhythm

• Rhyming can be helpful; it often forces you to dredge up forgotten details and moments

Living in a disposable age means that even young children can easily create a list of games or activities that firmly date their childhood. I’ve watched eight- and nine-year-olds become nostalgic while doing this exercise.

Any single phrase in my poem instantly catapults me back to my childhood. Which items or activities do that for you?

Post your picker poem in the comments—I’d love to read it.

If you teach creative writing you can find this and other exercises in Creative Writing: A Teacher’s Guide and Creative Writing for Children (for tutors and home-schooling) on the Amazon link to the right. Download to Kindle for PC to print off lesson plans and worksheets. I use the same workshops to teach both adults and children but do plan to create a book specifically for adults shortly.

Denise Howie: World Famous in B.C. 
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