New Poetry → Sparrow

Sparrow

Calico asleep at her side,
She murmured. Quaked may be the word.
Morning sun aslant, I set down the tray,
And looked at what I love
Most. In this world and any other.

You were restless, I say.
Bad dream. Bad, she repeats. Turns.
Hides, for I was in it. Again.

It is unfair, the tricks the mind plays.
I told her this, my hand in her hair
As the cat, yawning, stretched,
And jumped down.

Her back, in that moment,
Was a wounded sparrow.
So I touched it.
I brought orange juice, I half-whisper.

And what else? What else?

Moving the tray, I get back in bed.
I get next to my own heartbeat.
And eyes that have not yet been open
This day, know, and see
That the air beneath, will be safe.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007

Splash du Jour: Friday

I want to stand with you on a mountain.
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever.
Until the sky falls down over me.
-- Truly, Madly, Deeply – Savage Garden

Have a great Friday!
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Ahh... The Dichotomy

I just finished reading it!
Good Granny / Bad Granny.
It’s fabulous.
I, [an old guy] love children’s books.

And as such, I am not sure who will love this book more, the kids being read to, or the adults that are reading it to them!
The latter will be snickering, and alternating between nodding and shaking their heads. The kids will just be giggling.

“Good Granny prepares nourishing lunches of salads and whole wheat bread.”
“Bad Granny orders fried chicken by the bucket, with a side order of fries.”

“Good Granny takes her grandchildren to the mall to shop for educational toys.”
“Bad Granny takes them to the mall and teaches them to max out their parents’ credit cards.”

The above examples are two of my favorites in this new book.
Written by Mary McHugh, and wonderfully illustrated by Patricia Storms.
With each turn of the page, a reader, [or listener] is greeted by a new dichotomy of the ages-old conflict between Good and Evil…. no, not so much “evil” → just bad.
Good to the left ←→ Bad to the right.
And no, not so much “bad” even, as “flawed”.
Or hmmm… delightfully misguided! As so many grannies tend to be.
Let’s face it, it’s the bad grannies that give us the giggle-moments.

In fact, this is perhaps the only downside to this book.
It is sure to engender a two-fold conundrum.
Firstly, kids will wish that their “good” or even half-bad grannies were a bit more badder.
And secondly, “good” or even half-good grannies will be reading and thinking, “You know. That second scenario does sound like a lot more fun!”

“Good Granny takes her children to the science museum and walks them through the giant model of the beating heart.”
“Bad granny takes her grandchildren to Daytona Beach and drives them around the track at 180 miles per hour.”

And as for me?

The old guy?
Well, my chances of ever being a grandparent [good OR bad] are slim to none.
However…
← another book by Mary McHugh might be just the thing for me.



More about Mary.
More about Patricia.

Splash du Jour: Thursday

Poe's theory about the necessity of writing short poems is in accord with the Industrial Revolution. As societies grow, their poems tend to grow shorter. A peasant will listen to interminable epic poems in the village square; the literary man in big cities reads sonnets in his bath.
-- W.H. Auden –

Have a great Thursday!

In light of Auden’s statement, here is my own → shortest poem.

Splash du Jour: Wednesday

When a poem is finished, you can't move anything around in it -- you can't substitute one word for another, you can't change a punctuation mark or a line division or anything sort of phrasing without diminishing the effect to some degree. So in other words, it's language brought to a kind of state of perfection. Obviously there is no such thing as perfection, but as close to it as possible. I think that's one of the tests. Most prose paragraphs you can move things around without diminishing the effects, but a poem--everything is in its place.
-- Ted Kooser --

Have a great Wednesday!

Nicole: Just Because...

For further scientific evidence of why I am convinced she is the Top Rung Of The Evolutionary Ladder,
click → HERE!

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Splash du Jour: Tuesday

Have a great Tuesday!
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Splash du Jour: Monday

Chris Neil celebrates his game-winning goal, Nov.10, 2007.

In Grade 3, Neil’s principal asked him what he was going to be when he grew up. “I’m going to play in the NHL,” said Neil.
“Be realistic,” said the principal.
“I’m going to play in the NHL,” said Neil.

Have a great Monday!

New Poem → Blackwing

Blackwing

Poison lies in wait, not about
To fill three trumpets with spit
While someone beats a drum. Not
Quite. It knows to tread softly up
The stone stairs.

And fear as a signal fails the wary
At a point where trust meets what
Love should be. Would be.
Easier to run from a killer than from
One who meant for you to end
Yourself.

There is no rhyme in this tale, yet
You look. Dammit, do not look.
It is not here in what happened
Nor in the poem of it.
No rhythm. No meter.

You know you survived.
Let that be enough for now.
Enough, even as you yet pant.

Hiding your face in your hands,
I urge you to part two fingers.
Friend, the stone steps are silent.

Remember. In the ascension,
You knew it to be an angel.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007

It's About TIMER

Hey, last night I couldn't take it anymore.
The timer on my stove is busted. It's been busted for about a year.
Now it’s dead.
You know the thing that you set and then it buzzes when whatever is in the oven is appropriately burned?
Yeah, that thing. I killed it.

For about a year it was just buzzing whenever the hell it wanted to. Out of the blue.
I would then just go and turn it off. Sometimes in the middle of the night I would wake up to the buzzing. It got progressively worse, and I began to really have to fiddle with the thing to make it shut up.
There were times when I’d come home from work and the buzzer was blaring and poor Jack was meowing and I'd be thinking like HOW LONG has he had to listen to that damn thing buzzing? All day? Poor Jack. [No wonder he pukes in my shoes all the time.]
A normal person would have called the Superintendent about it, long ago.
A NORMAL person!
But me, I have just put up with it for a century.
And so, last night I was sitting at my desk and all of a sudden → BZZZZZZZZZZ the thing starts buzzing...
I looked over at the stove and said to myself...... "No more!"

I went over and with my bare hands literally RIPPED the entire front face of the stove off, where the clock part lives.
All the wires were exposed and all. At the time I cared NOT how it was all going to be re-assembled, if ever. In this pre-surgery state, the buzzing was even louder. Agonizing.
Frig the anaesthetic.
I opened the kitchen drawer and got the trusty flathead screwdriver and I stabbed the living hell out of the entire buzzing apparatus thing. I stabbed blindly, over and over.
The buzzing sort of stopped and started and stopped with my repeated jabs, so I felt around back there and actually found the actual buzz dealie. It was quivering away, wanting to buzz every time I let go of it.
So, I shoved the screwdriver in there and twisted. It was brutal, yes. Like, I twisted the life out of the thing, bent it straight into hell. But you have no idea the satisfaction. The silence. My God, it's over. So over.
I looked down at Jack. He was nodding in approval of the murder.
And amazingly, the whole shmeer popped right back into the front of the stove.
Like, you would never know what had just gone on!
Popped right back in there, good as new.

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Splash du Jour: Friday

Religion is based, I think, primarily and mainly upon fear. It is partly the terror of the unknown, and partly… the wish to feel that you have a kind of elder brother who will stand by you in all your troubles and disputes. Fear is the basis of the whole thing – fear of the mysterious, fear of defeat, fear of death. Fear is the parent of cruelty, and therefore it is no wonder if cruelty and religion have gone hand-in-hand.
-- Bertrand Russell --

Have a great Friday!

THE PILLAR$

← Why is this man smiling?

I’ll tell you why!
He’s smiling because he just found out he can buy that mansion that is twice the size of his current mansion!
He’s smiling because his name is Ken Follett, and his 1989 bestseller The Pillars of The Earth has been selected as the next “Oprah Book©”.
For any writer, even one with the stature and sales record of Mr. Follett, that sort of thing has to be earth-shattering. The hearing of such an announcement must be accompanied with that cliché sound of the cash register opening… CHA-CHING.
The news is fresh, Oprah only announcing this yesterday [the 14th]. And now, as I sit in the Starbucks section of Chapters, I can see the area where the new Pillars display has already been set up. And these are right next to his new novel, which [my God, this guy REALLY fell up the stairs this time…] happens to be a SEQUEL to Pillars.
The new one is called World Without End.
I myself have been waiting for this book to come out since the twelfth century, it seems. I have so many other books on my “To Be Read” list that I have not yet gotten to it, but I will.
Thing is, BOTH of Follett’s books are now bestsellers!
Like, without a doubt, they will be #1, and #2 on all lists everywhere, because obviously, those who will be picking up Pillars on the advice of Oprah will see the other book, the new one, and take it along with them up to the cash register!
Nothing this mind-bogglingly colossal has happened since…. well, since Jed Clampett stuck his shovel too far into the ground!
Next thing you know, Pillars will be a movie.
Like House of Sand and Fog. Remember that book? And then the movie?
Well, perhaps you did not know this, but the author, Andre Dubus III, wrote that book while he was living in his car! Then Oprah latched onto it. [The book, not the car.]
Hmmmm…. I wonder how many cars are parked out front of the Dubus estate, nowadays?
I wish Oprah would say something on-air about Bookpuddle©!

One more thing and I’m done. About Ken Follett’s success, with Pillars.
HE DESERVES IT! Or rather, the BOOK deserves a greater audience.
This book is flat out, one of the best books I have ever read in my life.
I will not go on about how much I love it. If you have a hankering to hear more about what I think of The Pillars, click → HERE.
In Oprah’s words, Follett is “a best-selling author that everybody has heard of, but this novel is unlike any of his books he’s known for around the world.”
She’s right. It is totally different than his “thrillers”.
Follet says [on his website], “My publishers were a little nervous about such a very unlikely subject but paradoxically, it is my most popular book.”
Keep smiling, Ken!
Pillars is about to become a whole lot more popular!

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Splash du Jour: Thursday

Have a great Thursday!

Splash du Jour: Wednesday

If you love large, you've got to hurt large.
If you've got a lot of light, you've probably got an equal amount of darkness.
-- Sarah McLachlan –

Have a great Wednesday!

Splash du Jour: Tuesday

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup . . . .
from "Barter" by Sara Teasdale

Have a great Tuesday!
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C-I-P-R-I-A-N-O

Inspired by what Dorothy at Of Books And Bicycles did with her Nov.7th posting, I am going to do a meme-thing involving the letters of my blogname.
Here is the criteria, the rationale, the raison d’etre:
List one fact, word or tidbit that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your first or middle name.

C → Canora. A small town in Saskatchewan, Canada…middle of the prairies, heart of the breadbasket of Canada, where I was born. My hometown.
Average age of residents there? → Amazingly, 112.

I → Irving. As in, John. An author I have recently discovered, who has made me wonder why I have not been reading him, before now.

P → Pocket. This will sound as though I am stumped and therefore, am making this up as I go along, but [here goes] → I have always loved the word “pocket” best, among words.
I love saying it. Love how it sounds. POCKET.
Think about it for three seconds. Is there a more perfect word, anywhere?

R → Reading. The pastime without which I [literally] do not want to live.

I → Geez! Another letter “I”. Umm… Illinois. It is my favorite state of America.
In recent years I have become somewhat of a collector of all manner of Illinois paraphernalia, and increasingly so, it seems!

A → This one is easy. My favorite novel of all time? Anna Karenina. Written by some old beardy Cossack named Leo.

N → NOTHING. The thing that I most like to do, on weekends.

O → Ahh, this is a great one. I have a fantasy about a place called Orangedale.
I want to live there one day with my favorite person. Orangedale is my post-working-days paradise. It’s where [among other beloved varmints] the dog named “Found” lives. And two horses, one named Bree, the other, Shasta.
And there is a calico cat that sleeps with us. Above the table in the breakfast area of Orangedale [and breakfast is always a big deal at Orangedale] there hangs a lovely print of the painting shown at the top of this blog posting. Renoir’s, The Canoeist's Luncheon.

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Splash du Jour: Monday

There's really nothing like a woman's purse to tell whether she is prospering or languishing. It's not about the money inside so much as the BRAND of the purse. The smaller the better too. Mine - the one I like best - is a Fossil. Never in a million years would I have bought it for myself. Kids. Kids buy moms stuff.
-- Anonymous Woman –

Have a great Monday!

Smack, Booze, & A Life of the Blues

First off, I am a longtime Eric Clapton fan.
I LOVE HIM.
Hence, from the “interest” level alone I was drawn to the autobiography like iron filings to a magnet.
I’ve waited for this book, for years.
And apparently, I’m not alone in this.
Clapton: The Autobiography has spent all four of its first weeks of release [since Oct.9th] on the Globe & Mail Non-Fiction Bestseller List, here in Canada.
The book has not disappointed me.
It is an engaging, enthralling read.
It starts at the start, with Eric, the illegitimate son of Patricia Clapton and Canadian airman, Edward Fryer, being raised by his grandparents [Patricia’s parents, Rose and Jack] in a little village called Ripley, in England.
Early on, he began to suspect the truth, and withdrew into himself. One year, just before Christmas, Pat visited and Eric blurted out, in front of his grandparents, "Can I call you Mummy now?"
She replied, "I think it's best, after all they've done for you, that you go on calling your grandparents Mum and Dad."
Clapton writes, "in that moment I felt total rejection."
The disappointment was too unbearable, and he traces his decades-long inability to form lasting relationships with women to this early sense of inadequacy.
His interests in art and creative expression soon led him towards an appreciation for music.
He writes: "It's very difficult to explain the effect the first blues record I heard had on me, except to say that I recognized it immediately. It was as if I were being reintroduced to something that I already knew, maybe from another, earlier, life."
His grandparents supported his passion, and supplied him with his first guitar, a Hoyer that was too big for him, the strings a mile from the fretboard.

Rather than provide a synopsis of his entire life here I will just say that the book goes on to chronicle his movement through a succession of bands, from The Roosters, to The Yardbirds, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos, and a myriad of other projects and collaborations, where it seems his shyness and sense of inadequacy never so much as left him but became increasingly shoved into corners with the aid of narcotics.
The life story of Eric Clapton involves a lot of smack [heroin], cocaine, booze, women, real estate, and money. And always the music.
Even if he performed one or two concerts laying flat out on his back… he played.
Invited by George Harrison to appear at the benefit concert for Bangladesh, Clapton accepted only after being assured that he would be provided with enough heroin to feed his habit.
While some of his friends and lovers could keep their drug use in moderation, Clapton found that in his case, “…addiction doesn’t negotiate.”
Addiction wanted all of him. And got it.

The most moving and memorable parts of the book for me, are the ones in which Clapton so honestly opens up the darkest rooms of his life. I paused, as I read him say: “In the lowest moments of my life, the only reason I didn’t commit suicide was that I knew I wouldn’t be able to drink anymore if I was dead.”
Sad.
This is definitely not a book wherein a man boasts of his accolades. [For instance, there is not one mention anywhere of Mr. Clapton’s 16 separate trips to the Grammy podium!]
It’s an unsparing, searing look at a very famous and wealthy man who could not even drive his Ferrari the 300 yards home from the pub, without smashing it into something along the way!

One thing that rings clear, throughout the history of Eric Clapton’s career and life, is that he was a blues purist.
His early frustrations with the bands he had formed always involved staying true to the purity of the music, to the blues. He despised selling-out. He despised trying to make the hit record, for the sake of sales.
His utmost desire was sincerity. Realness. To be real and true.
And yet, it was his very addictions to narcotics, and later, to alcohol, that kept him from being real and true to himself.
That was then.

Clapton is now 62 years old. And 20 years sober.

In this review I am not saying much about the good parts of his story. The recovery. But it’s all there, in the book’s home stretch, culminating in his marriage to Melia McEnery, who became the one stabilizing figure in his adult life. He and Melia have four daughters.
Admittedly, this book is not going to win the Pulitzer Prize or anything, but I do love how Stephen King put it, in his review of Clapton → “…he writes better than most memoirists play guitar.”
Damn straight!
At one point, Clapton says, "When I try to take myself back to that time, to recall the terrible numbness that I lived in, I recoil in fear."
And yet this is exactly what he has done, with this book. Courageously, [I think] taken himself, and us, “back to that time.” To those times.
And shown us that he has more than survived. He has triumphed.

Read an excerpt → CLICK

To purchase → CLICK
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Cip Wins A Contest

Hey!
I won a writing contest!
Well, I share the prize with several other writers, who wrote darn good stories.
This was the Good Granny / Bad Granny writing thingy, over at BookLust.
When Patricia told me I had won, I almost wanted to make a COLLECT call to my mother, and tell her the good news!
To read my award-winning little dittie, in honor of dear old Mom while she was having a “Bad Granny” moment, simply click → HERE.
Thank you Patricia, for selecting me among your roster of fine submissions.
Now…. if I could only win the Lotto 6/49, I’d be set for life!
Cheers!
I wish you all a great weekend!

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Splash du Jour: Friday

Have a great Friday!
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