Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 31

Poem 201 – Orchids on the Windowsill & Gertrude’s Writing Room Update!

Orchids on the Windowsill

I’ve been successful at killing plants
something about remembering to water them
mirrors remember to water myself…
perhaps it’s more about forgetting

But the two orchids on the windowsill stand tall
one in fluorescent fuchsia grows like a flock of flying
skirts can-canning up a stem stairway to the sky
the other, angel-wing white, giant and dare I say
grotesquely stunning, labellum dripping like lust
foreign and familiar at once

Three ice cubes a week they each need and
three ice cubes a week I give them – something
about the way the ice sticks to my fingertips
the brief panic before my body heat prevails
something about the way the cubes rest precariously
on odd roots like naked legs on a dying woman, exposed, expectant
something about roots without dirt and the brittle state of it all

That doesn’t match the thriving aliveness of the flower
it is all a mirror, remembering forgetting – the ever-changing
expression of success that over time I have stopped
killing plants

Poetry Anthology Submission Call, Poetry Circle & Crafty Afts at the writing room!

For submission guidelines on the open submission call for poetry on the theme of community, CLICK HERE.

For information on the monthly Poetry Circle let by Windsor’s Poets Laureate and Vanessa Shields, CLICK HERE.

For information on Crafty Afts, CLICK HERE.

Poem 200 – Perfect Sun & First Impressions w/ Alexei Ungurenasu

Perfect Sun

The sun is a perfect circle of glowing orange.
I look into her, my eyes shivering at her circumference.
She’s perched behind a cluster of maple branches
like all the potential of today in one stunning ball 
of magic light. When I blink, she puts her face on my
eyelids, a flash of golden mirrored from the sky
over words on the page as I write.  

Before I beheld her, my dreams yelled
Orenda
over and over. We were looking for each other.
I felt how far back my soul’s roots tangle in 
a chaos so peaceful I could see harmony
like waves of silk robes on the wind.

The sun climbs the horizon…
nearly beyond maple’s leafy border now,
her face imprinting on my vision – what a day
that begins with a star I can put into my body.

First Impressions with Youth Poet Laureate Alexei Ungurenasu!

Join Windsor’s current Youth Poet Laureate in his first of many sessions of exciting conversations with youth writers in Windsor. On Thursday, July 22 at 7pm via Facebook Live on Museum Windsor’s page, he will be in conversation with writer Serafina Piasentin.

To register for this event, please CLICK HERE!

This is a free event, but please register to let them know you’re attending! Otherwise, please share!

We’ll see you Thursday evening on Facebook live!

Poem 199 – Dermaptera (Earwig)

Dermaptera (Earwig)
(From Greek; derma – skin, ptera – wings)

Those old wives, whoever they are, told
a tale that cursed the pincer bug into now:
said insects crawled into ears & laid eggs in the brain.
A silly story for a shy critter whose nocturnal tendencies
feed its shyness. The earwig wants a cozy, moist, dark
place to eat & sleep, & hunt when they’re up to it.

Like the butterfly, the earwig undergoes metamorphosis –
Though obviously their final form is a different kind of beauty.
Wings, they’ve got two sets, remaining mostly hidden.
Pointy pincers make noses scrunch & skin feel attacked
yet in the insect world these ferocious-seeming bugs
clean house. Environmental janitors, dermaptera feast
on the dead & decaying.

Spiritually speaking, the earwig represents a call to make
big changes. So when you lift that patio cushion, pull out
that leafy lettuce, open a wood-framed window or door
& a load of darting earwigs come at you in biblical downpour
– after you scream & swear, as you will, consider that even

the ugliest insect has purpose. Even the creepiest bug
emerges anew. Change comes big & small, constantly.

Poem 198 – This Other Resistance

This Other Resistance

one thing
that takes a lot of time & energy
that moves in like a hungry lion
though I’ve fought the lion
I’ve tamed the lion
I’ve rocked the lion to sleep
it still roars mountains of resistance
sucks the air from my lung like a punch to the gut
tricks me into believing I can’t do it
though I’ve done it before
I’ve been the lion
hungry for a feast of joy
but damn this one thing
this jungle of mirrors
confusing the face of I can

such a strangle it can cause
I am grateful for legs to run out of the jungle
for stones to throw at false reflections
a million fractures that
I put back together slowly

Poem 197 – High Intensity Resistance Writing

High Intensity Resistance Writing
For Paul

Resistance is a fierce ability every writer cultivates
It is a practice for flexing creative muscles that should
be honed every day for at least twenty minutes

The higher the intensity resistance
the higher the creative output
Writers need six-to-eight cups of curiosity a day
to keep confidence hydrated

Stretching fingers and forearms
twisting spines and sciatic nerves
is also beneficial during
peak productive spurts

The key to a daily positive process
comes from a simple but rigorous work-out regimen:

Sleep. Stretch. Sit. Resist.
Stand. Scream. Write. Resist
Laugh. Eat. Write. Resist.
Walk. Write. Read. Resist.
Weep. Focus. Research. Resist.
Write. Write. Write. Resist
Read. Revise. Growl. Resist.
Repeat.

Following a high intensity resistance writing
routine effectively increases word count
Group exercise is highly recommended
for sanity and sanctuary

Resistance is a necessary part of
the writing process and should be
partnered with patience – though
procrastination is wont to intrude
it too deserves a rung on the high
intensity writing ladder of creative living

Also chocolate cake coffee tea and the
complaint department (which is always
open even during a pandemic)

Happy weekend! Keep up the great resistance!

Poem 196 – Something to learn from this

Something to learn from this

for Alice

Slut, she called her
Cover up, she hissed
She threatened to
sick the boys on her
for wanting attention

How does a mother
respond to these daggers?
Her breast tenderly feeding
her freshborn son in the
shade of maples tightening
their roots in anger – what
could she do

vulnerable, scared, enraged
utterly protective & pure?
This blight in a park by
an ignorant other – what
motivates this ruthless rot?

A mother’s love flavours
her breast milk, so does her
fear, her protection, her
empowerment, her ability
to choose – a mother’s
being liquifies for her child

Motherhood expands
into public places
where hate lives &
ignorance seethes
how do we navigate
the dark actions of
other people’s pain?

This issue is beyond
the breast – it lives
in the freedom of choice
of body rights
of human rights

We are alive to
keep others alive
in compassionate
unconditional love,
are we not?

Poem 195 – Prayer for Opening Day

Prayer for Opening Day

please bless this space
with joy and grace
as we gather to write & read
let us build community
& blossom our special seed

in little nooks filled with books
& crannies filled with treats
let laughter paint the walls
with love & friendly greets

this open house is
for our souls to play
& learn & grow
let inspiration burst
our hearts & teach
us how to glow!

The Croissants are Delicious!

The big day has arrived! Gertrude’s Writing Room is [re]open for gathering! Up to 8 writers can gather in the space! Join us for free coffee, tea and buttery croissants! 10am- 3pm! For the rest of July on Wednesdays and Thursdays!

I’m feeling very joyful that this day has arrived! We’re going with the slow and steady flow!

Happy writing!

Poem 194 – Elegy for the Morning

Elegy for the Morning

Oh humid-heavy hours
Frothing off dawn’s rounded cheek
I gave in to more dreams
& awoke feeling weak

Too delicate to bless your
Entrance with my heart
To put to page my devotion
In such poetic art

Before I could admire your
Dazzling morning’s grace
I rushed to dress &
Leave my humble place

Into the ruddy hours ten to noon
You slipped by me – shadowed boon

You see the morning’s role
In every day
Is to expand the soul
Through gentle sway

But now I’ve missed
Your joyful thrust
I will mourn you like
A lover mourns her lust

I’ll whimper through
To drowsy darking eve
& wake to be tomorrow’s
Heart upon your sleeve

TOMORROW IS (RE) OPENING DAY!

Do drop by and say hello! See the space! Take a seat and read whilst sipping a hot tea or coffee. Bite into a fresh croissant and let the Paris vibe take you away!

Gertrude’s Writing Room is located in the heart of Willistead Park!

Look for the big sign, the bistro table and the pull of creativity!

Poem 193 – Dervish

Dervish

Nothing arrives
yet nothing is something
The candle flame is fat
flickering hard like it’s yelling
like it needs attention

My skin is chilled from the morning wing
It’s too cool for July
yet it’s too hot for July also

There’s a frilly itch in my right ear
I can’t quite make it stop spinning
it’s a whirling dervish of an itch

Have you ever watched a dervish spin?
It’s incredibly something
When you’re caught in a nothing
google ‘whirling dervish’ –
you’ll see what arrives

It’s re-opening week at Gertrude’s. I’m feeling…excited and mostly ready. There are some last minute details to take care of, but I know that whatever needs to be done in the space is part of a big, beautiful flow of slow and steady, so I’m repeating in my mind the words: don’t rush, trust, slow and steady.

Under this excitement is a feeling of being behind on other things. Does that ever really go away? The nature of ‘work’ continues to act like an accumulating weather front. Like a thickening, rolling body of cloud that comes at me. I am both fascinated at its speed and girth, and worried about a bad storm.

But the truth of it all, still deeper under the excitement and the weather, is this high-pitched, airy weeping. I can’t figure out who or what it belongs to, and if the breathy notes are for joy or…something else. It’s like when Pages sits in front of me and lets out the same airy whimper. She’s smiling, she’s so excited to be near me, but since I’m not touching her, she cries at me. When I put my hand on her, she stops making the sound. Maybe there’s a collective touching that needs to happen. Like, a world-wide stop-and-hold-hands, give-attention-to-the-closest-person-beside-you kind of collective connecting. I don’t know.

I finished reading ‘A Secret History of Witches’ by Louisa Morgan last night. It was really great. It’s a long one, but spanning and scry-filled and fun.

I’m not sure what I’ll read next. There’s a stack of books to choose from…more witches? A mystery? Non-fiction? We’ll see tonight when I head to bed what story world my heart wants to play in.

Poem 192 – Our love – porcelain

Our love – porcelain

true porcelain, for centuries resonant,
soft to the touch – beautiful
fired in Love’s kiln, glazed in tongue kisses – heat-centred

today is eighteen years since vows in this lifetime
were forged, re-committed & strengthened on
the stage beneath a full moon & dazzling stars

in the kind comfort of this landscape of devotion
we will sip coffee, gather groceries, share the sofa
I will take off his socks after a long day of work &
hold his naked feet, our intimacy is sole touch

our souls touched & lasting like bone
breakable always, yet we know how to
navigate the fine halls of pain, how to greet
the froth-fanged face of fear in each other’s
eyes with patience & laughter

we understand the gravity of slow-dancing in the kitchen
how to leave the dishes dirty, how the sloppy bliss
of the stand-up orgasm is a necessary pleasure,
a dialect of the language we express with our bodies

we are teacups, we are dinner plates,
we are figurines fashioned in the
longevity of the timeless
treasure of true love