Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 50

Poem 18 – The Work of Light & Book Launch Date Announced!

The Work of Light

I sit cross-legged on the sofa
tuck a stick of selenite into the 
waistband of my polka-dot pajamas
so it presses against my left lower back

I close my eyes
lay in a field of wildflowers &
tall grasses like the man tells me

The sky opens
a column of white light
tornadoes over my body

Heal my colon
I sing
I am enveloped
by the light

Heal my colon
I plead

My guts bubble & ramble
I am embarrassed by my 
desperation

The dog licks my face

I open my eyes
remind my love to bring 
the leftover shepherd’s pie
to work for lunch

The light clings to my neck
scurries down my spine
seeps inside

Trust me she purrs as she 
straddles my bleeding worries

Hear ye! Hear ye!

Mark your calendars friends! I’m happy to announce the date for my virtual book launch. We will be doing it via Zoom. Specific details for links and such will be available soon. I look forward to celebrating this momentous event with you all!

Poem 17 – Task

Task

Today
Between the
Laundry & cooking
Over the paperwork &
Under the footsteps

I will contemplate the stars

*FREE* Virtual Poetry Workshop – Spots still open but filling up quickly!

Please join me for a three-hour poetry workshop: Intro to Poetry: The Past, The Present, The Power!

When: Saturday, February 20, 2021 – 10am -1pm

Where: Virtual via Zoom (link will be set once you register)

What: In this inspiring three-hour workshop, join poet Vanessa Shields as she leads writers through a brief history of poetry, discussions about the critical role poetry plays in our lives, and how to find and cultivate our own poetic voices so we can write powerful poetry and share it with the world. As Shields travels back in time, writers will learn how to write some of the different forms of poems that have been created through history.  By learning from our past poets, recognizing the poets of ‘today’, and finding our own inner poet this introduction to poetry is hands-and-hearts on! We will read, write, discuss and share poetry! 

*Please bring your favourite poem written by a poet to this workshop. *Please have writing tools ready to go!

To register: Register on Eventbrite before February 17, 2021 as space is limited. Eventbrite Registration Link: https://scplintrotopoetry.eventbrite.ca

These workshops made possible with assistance from St. Catharines Public Library.

Poem 16 – Before The Book Is Born Part I

Before The Book Is Born – Part I

in a straightjacket
my soul treads
back & forth
diagonal & circular
paths eroding the
floor of my Belonging

she bangs her head
against steel wool walls
won’t eat
won’t drink 
can’t sleep
for the lunatic lyrics
mean melodies to
the Songs of Fear
ceaseless in the space
like poison

I do not belong
carved in a corner
from before

Love watches 
waits

Linda sent me a photo of a page from Brene Brown’s book The Gifts of Imperfection. One of the lines jumped out at me and clung to my face:

Love belongs with belonging.

Brene Brown

Yesterday, I chose the date for my virtual book launch. I’ve been thinking about my book launch for months. Alas, choosing a date felt too big a decision to make considering that the future has become a sly stranger. Making plans feels counter-intuitive. But worrying about it (the launch) expanded from innocent stone to heaving boulder to jagged mountain over the holidays. Then I got sick; an ulcerative colitis flare lighting up my guts like a firework. Not the celebratory kind. Worry was winning and wreaking havoc on my health. This is not who I want to be.

Why the worry? Because I’ve been here before. In the throes of near-completion for a book-child’s gestation. The proofs have been proofed and signed-off on. The cover has been designed and confirmed. Soon it will be time to hold the baby in my hands. To lift her to my nose and inhale her inky soul. To celebrate. To share. To be grateful she exists in the world.

But, I am not ready.

I am afraid.

I am worried about how she will be received, judged, read or not read. Loved or not loved.

One voice in my head flicks its wrist and says none of that matters. But all the other voices stomp on her because they want me to feel bad about who I am. There is work to be done in diving into the centre of ‘me’ – the poet – who is shy, cautious, and trembling with a mountain-sized need to belong in the community of other poets. She wants to matter.

Still, a huge chunk of my torso is strong and knows without question that I am a poet. A great poet. A great poet whose words matter no matter who reads them. Love lives here full-time and cooks and cleans and tends to the courage it takes to be a poet.

Still, my soul sneaks off into the asylums in the Worrytowns that move around in my heart like weather.

And so, in full-fledged fear-full transparency, I’m opening these Truths to you as the day of thimbles’ birth arrives.

Love belongs with belonging. I’ll join the two. In time.

Poem 15 – Amaryllis II

Amaryllis II

I kiss the white waist 
of her petal closest
to my face after I 
open the curtains
in the living room

In response 
she arches 
into my cheek
we both smile

Then in the kitchen
on the crumb-sweatered
cutting board – 
a wishbone in wait
dried for weeks
crusted in muscle

I pick it up
consider the 
act of a two-person
tradition reduced
to one

Consider the 
consequence of
testing fortune

In haste I break
apart the furcula
by its silent clavicles
in a pleasing snap

My left hand holds
the longer piece

I feel the rush of 
granted wishes
scramble up my neck
my fingers greasy
with hope

In the other room
amaryllis nods
understands the
gravity of multiple
blooms

*FREE* Virtual Poetry Workshop Announced!

Please join me for a three-hour poetry workshop: Intro to Poetry: The Past, The Present, The Power!

When: Saturday, February 20, 2021 – 10am -1pm

Where: Virtual via Zoom (link will be set once you register)

What: In this inspiring three-hour workshop, join poet Vanessa Shields as she leads writers through a brief history of poetry, discussions about the critical role poetry plays in our lives, and how to find and cultivate our own poetic voices so we can write powerful poetry and share it with the world. As Shields travels back in time, writers will learn how to write some of the different forms of poems that have been created through history.  By learning from our past poets, recognizing the poets of ‘today’, and finding our own inner poet this introduction to poetry is hands-and-hearts on! We will read, write, discuss and share poetry! 

*Please bring your favourite poem written by a poet to this workshop. *Please have writing tools ready to go!

To register: Register on Eventbrite before February 17, 2021 as space is limited. Eventbrite Registration Link: https://scplintrotopoetry.eventbrite.ca

These workshops made possible with assistance from St. Catharines Public Library.

Poem 14 – New Moon Mediation – The Mountain Goat

New Moon Meditation – The Mountain Goat

I envision a mountain goat
It is male
A worn copper bell
hangs under his chin
He has buck teeth
bright white like Chiclets
startling blue eyes 
a smile that lifts more
on the right than on the left
a laugh hides under his
bottom lip

The mountain goat eats roots
My roots
Plunged deeply in the
centre of the earth
He nibbles noncommittally
The laugh tumbles out
stands and shakes a fist
at the goat then hops on
his right hip and sits

My roots are bitter with indecision
lemon-ed with low-esteem
I feel bad for the goat

He takes one big bite
closes his mouth
gags
then jumps up up up
till he gets to the top 
of a mountain where
He spits out my roots

which are actually
long lines of letters
stanzas & sentences
they fly like Canada Geese
in poetic formations

The laugh crawls from the 
goat’s hip back into his mouth

There are letters stuck
in the goat’s goatee

*With thanks to Charis and Zoe for sharing the meditation with me, and to Liz Worth for the amazing guided meditation. Happy New Moon, y’all!

Poem 13 – A Conversation Piece That Comes to a Head

A Conversation Piece That Comes to a Head*
For Charis

Off to Denmark we go
for a visit with John Dillermand
(aka John Wienerman)
A man clad in a red & white 
striped bathing suit (the tank top
shirt & shorts kind)
He often sports a purple & yellow
tuque atop his head & his
bright blue eyes & bushy black
mustache round out a rather
unique look – oh, he doesn’t 
wear shoes & he has a 
magic penis.

Indeed, his red & white
striped ‘diller’ shoots out
his crotch like a determined
snake a sneaky snake 
a proud snake

John’s diller 
pulls apples from trees
walks dogs
saves babies
steals ice cream cones
stops lions
stops traffic
throw things
catches things

John’s diller holds
a second racket 
so john can play
badminton with himself

Dillermand lives with his
great-great grandmother, Oldemor
a bull of a woman unafraid
to use her shotgun to shoot
down balloons John’s 
magic penis grips with
all its might as he floats
upside down across a happy 
blue sky in a neighbourhood
not near you

Off to Denmark we go
for a visit with John Dillermand
(aka John Wiernerman)

*This is a poem about a kid’s show that exists in Denmark called John Dillermand. Thank you to Charis for showing me the CBC article about the show. To read the article, click here.

Poem 12 – Tuesday AM (plus a bonus)

Tuesday AM

This morning is carnelian and coffee
Navy tights and burgundy leg warmers

It is vintage Santas waving at grey clouds
Typewriters holding worlds of stories in their keys

In the photo on the corner of my desk
Nonna’s gentle blue-green eyes are singing

To The Poems I Start When I’m Falling Asleep

My apologies!
You are important. You matter.
Your clever words, deep meanings,
Poignant provocations are outstanding!

It’s just that when you start 
in my dream-woozy state,
scuttling like sacred scarabs
into the welcoming tufts of
lambskin, know that the sheep
are on the run, stealing you 
away purposely.

Luckily, (and luck is a new friend)
the sheep return to the grazing
field in my soul each night and 
I can try once more to 
remember you.

photo link here

Poem 11 – Hearing Aid

Hearing aid

I haven’t heard the
bluejay gossip or the
squirrel shout orders
in weeks

Could be my ears
have stopped hearing
certain sounds – though
the second hand
the dog sigh
the boiling water
slapping against
the belly of the kettle
are very loud

Maybe it’s the storm
of grey Nows tumbling
over themselves
gathering the Bleak
before they finally fall
flatten
place their throbbing
heads down rest

Perhaps the robin
will boast an opera
loud enough to shake
the Waiting from my
auditory canals so
as hope flows in
I’ll hear it
sing along

https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/1618549852876935/

Poem 10 – Remnants of my Saturday Morning Dream

Remnants of my Saturday Morning Dream

The old victorian house
is perfectly rickety
content in the state
of itself shifted and
unevened over time

In the streets around her
panic – human mayhem
worse than termites in wood
or bees behind a wall
yet the same in their
buzzing destruction
to exist

In the sky – translucent
black orbs floating to
concrete and mud
the stepping out of
holograms – ballroom
dancers sashaying
over bridges
into backyards

There is no threat but
the unbelievable –
the seeing of a thing the
eyes don’t know
how to believe

Yet inside the house
as I witness a man
stealing a chicken
from our coop
I do not feel afraid

I can hear the fattening
hum of melodies
our children are safe
in the swaying age of
the wise dwelling

Listen I whisper watch
look at the light
how it explodes from
the graceful legs
the bended arms
the necks curving
around the notes of
an extraordinary change

https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/393783561144796279/

Poem 9: Orbit

Orbit

for Miller

There is no
separation
between
a sun and her rays

I orbit the planet family
four humans two canines
food shelter water
books film art

When I wrap myself
around her shining
tickle her wrist
smell her skin
I tell her
I hope big love greets
you every morning
It will she says it will

In this orbit
I am curled in
devoted
small
yet each breath in
is a galactic phenomenon
each breath out
milky ways like space veins
from my soul

Inside I wish it could
always be me pouring
over her – protecting
laughing holding

To orbit is to believe
in the promise of returning
again and again to the
sacred soft curves of
hanging on and

letting go