Feed your mind, feed the hungry!

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As an advocate for literacy and with the sincere belief that reading is the key that ensures continued knowledge and personal growth, I was twice pleased to discover through my friend's website, http://www.pozvibes.com/ ,that learning can serve yet another cause close to my heart. Feeding the hungry.

The link to http://www.freerice.com/ has been on my menu of sites worth visiting for a few days now, but I decided to bring special attention to it for those who don't bother with La Charpente's sidebar. Spending just 10 minutes a day has already improved my vocabulary, and with the added bonus of knowing that I am putting rice in someone's bowl, well . . . How great is that?

With so many North American funds going towards supplies of mass destruction, and the corporate world more concerned about the price of gas than they are the homeless person they may need to step over on their way from the office to their $40k pair of wheels, someone needs to keep their eyes and hearts open. Don't you think?

Here's to a proud & happy

Canada Day

to every citizen of this vast and beautiful land that is ours!

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the longest road

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the path obscured
by shadows cast
from footprints
made
long ago
the journey warns
of dangers
born
in fear.
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KLIMPT
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Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!

Live the life you've imagined.

As you simplify your life,

the laws of the universe will be simpler.

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HENRY DAVID THOREAU

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Trust that still, small voice

that says,

"This might work

and

I'll try it."

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Diane Mariechild

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Slammin' it with the Best!

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This invitation is a copy & paste from Drek Daa, who runs THE CYRK, Winnipeg's finest underground venue!

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Now to the news of the day ...
Join us for the best spoken word show of the year:

The WINNIPEG POETRY SLAM FINAL!

where this season's best Winnipeg poets will compete for their chance to represent Winnipeg at Canada's largest and most dynamic spoken word festival - the Canadian Festival of Spoken Word (held this November in Calgary).

Featuring

NEREO,

unquestionably one of this planet's most talented spoken word artists.

Friday, June 27, 8:00 @ The CYRK, 254 Young Street

$5-10 suggested donation/BYOB

And here's how it works:
1. Marjolaine Hébert, Paul Friesen, PC Miller, Leif Norman, Bonnie Holmes, Tai Pu, and Andrea von Wichert are this slam season's seven best poets who have qualified for the final.
2. There will also be 3 slots open to any last moment artist who would like to compete - sign-up on first come first serve basis.
3. Every poet does 2 poems, no longer than three minutes, on any topic, in any style, no props, its OK to read.
4. Judges randomly selected from the audience will give the poets instant numerical feedback.

The four poets with the best total scores will represent Winnipeg in Calgary.
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jours de plaines - journée pleine

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. . . . .Il fallait que je me tourne vers une autre vie, un autre pays, l’ouest.

Grand-mère était une jeune femme quand elle décida de voyager vers l'ouest pour se marier. Mais l'étonnement de son premier coucher de soleil sur la prairie Manitobaine demeura avec elle jusqu'à son dernier soupir, quatre-vingt-une années plus tard. Elle arriva au Manitoba le 1er septembre, et dès . . .

. . . . .Le 2 septembre 1920 – une belle journée. Avec du soleil comme j’en ai jamais vu! Un climat splendide, une bonne aire qu’on respire à plein poumon, comme j’en ai jamais connu. Le climat sera pour moi un bienfait, comme me l’avait dit M. le curé Roy de Ste-Rosalie. Il était en faveur de mon mariage avec Lucien, qu’il connaissait même pas.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..... . .. . . . . . . .Des journaux de Bernadette Gosselin

Je pensais à la jolie petite Québécoise qui était ma chère grand-mère en me promenant ce soir aux environs de vingt-deux heures. Entourée de montagnes, la jeune fille ne s’était pas rendue compte qu'un soleil pouvait se coucher si tard, et je sourie en marchant à la clarté ce soir.

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. . . . .Nous nous sommes promenées ensemble ce soir, mémère. Mes pieds bien conscients de la terre sous eux, mes pensées remplies de jours de prairies, cette terre me manque déjà, même avant que je puisse me distancer d’elle . . .

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suicide

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It had been a life well lived, joyful even. The eccentric little man who seemed larger than life had lived a plethora of colourful days and nights. His laughter infectious, his beliefs absolute, one could not be bored in his presence any more than one could be without comment the day after. You could love him or you could hate him, but spending time with him indelibly left its mark. Imprinted on your mind his words worked their magic, indifference never an option. Despite this, it would be that no one who heard of his suicide could identify why the man who was larger than life had chosen to take it away.
.

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Shoot for the moon.

Even if you miss it you will land
among the stars.

LES BROWN

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KLIKkkkkkkklkdfjakdfjkliKLIMT

heaven

.
when i die
. . .and if
there's a heaven
. . .and if
she invites me in ,
will i still be able to smell & taste,
to see & hear & feel?
for there are memories i need
saved for after & forever

like the smell of the sun after the rain
and aretha franklin singing natural woman
and the taste of your lips between sips
of that ginger tea you like so much
and the look in your eyes when I know
that you love me most completely

and the way you shuffle when
we're funkin' out to those sweet soul beats
as we pave our way one room at a time
over every squeaky inch
of this old hardwood floor
flooded by the rhythm
which has taken over
our bodies,
immersed
in a heartbeat
of perpetual
joy.
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do you remember?

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This is just like the time you thought
My mother didn't like you
But now you are best of friends since
Finding out it was really me
My mother didn't much care for.
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do you remember?

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This is exactly like the time that
I was white and
You were black
And we were both wrong, so
We blended into grey.
.

do you remember?

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This is exactly like that time you were late
In picking me up for my grandfather's funeral
Even though you said I promise I won't be late !
Except that no one died this time
And you stopped making promises.
.

And now. . .
. . . . . . . .for something a little different. . .

Since this is where imagination comes to play,

take 5 and let your inner child OuT!

Draw me a picture to post on La Charpente,

or have it published in 'You Draw',

or send someone a unique e-card:

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Just have Fun!

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Chance is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish.............

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OVID

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KLIMT

writer's block (?)

,
monostatic fibrous dysplasia.
oh my god! this was just too close to the bone.
breathe. just breathe. no? okaaaay.
he grabbed a bag for his hyperventilating patient. they’re only words, ms. lumack. we don’t really know anything yet. please, i..i really think you should breath now...please?
she was no good at being a patient. he was no good at being a doctor.
so they switched places.

monostatic fibrous dysplasia!
oh? well. what does that mean doctor?
well, someone else might try to minimize it by saying it’s an abnormality contained to one bone. but i’m not gonna shit with you, man. sometimes...not lots...but sometimes the exploratory surgery can find some pretty wicked-ass scary shit, you know?
oh my. well, so you think this is serious.
don’t know.
but...you just said...
hey, i’m just sayin’ it ain’t always good news. now, shoo! i got other patients waiting.
she played a terrible doctor. he was too brave and sheepish a patient.
so what’s to be done with these characters?

tap tap tap. patients – i’m thing-king. oh, the work of a writer. too-too-too- too-doo-doo-doo-doo...too-too-too...okaaay. focus, marjo-o-o- well, i get the final word and i-i-i sssaay (insert drum roll here) they’re both fired! (the end.)
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rainy day haiku

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Sorrowful sparrow
Sheltered from the mizzle, stay:
Sun is on its way

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A Welcome to Spring

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There is a warmth in the air that wasn’t present just a few short days ago. The weekend brought sunshine also, a lovely surprise. And so once again, Little Italy is abuzz with passersby and motorbikes, the sound of soccer fans flooding the streets after every game and the silence of pedestrians cradling freshly made gelato on their tongues. Michael Angelo has moved back to his spot between the Diesel store and the corner ‘Bucks, his season finally arrived. Do you believe in Magic? I ask him as I walk by every time. And I smile at the expected answer I never stop wanting to hear. Of course I do! Ever since I was a little boy. Ever since I was this big...

The street vendors have taken their wares out of hibernation; the patios are filled well into the night already. My proprietors have turned off the pilot light to the boiler of this centenarian brownstone, the ultimate sign of my personal spring arrived. I have doubled my duvet layers and taken out my thick, flannelette, down-to-the-ground nightgowns to compensate for the still near zero sleeping conditions.

The daffodils in my neighbours’ yards have finally sprung! Oh what a very late spring it is. The more exciting become the tulips and other perennials sprouting and dotting the yards in red and purple and yellow along my avenue. Without a garden of my own, they allow me to live vicariously through them during the warm seasons. And they’re just as pleased to show off the life they feared they may have failed somehow, like a pregnancy not brought to term.

Comin’ along, eh? a new neighbour asked today, in need of a cheering section. I do not mention the bald spots on his lawn, rather I keep my eyes on the miniature flowers he has pointed out a couple metres away. Yes! It’s really coming along. But he searches my face for more as he says, It’ll be even better tomorrow.

No doubt, I tell the sweet stranger. Yes, no doubt. One day at a time, right?
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Imprint

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“On my mind, he imprinted his values and his morals. These were worthy of respect, I can’t deny that. But they weren’t mine, you see. Or maybe they were. I don’t know yet. What is it I truly believe with all of my heart? What is just or fair? What is love... I grew up as someone’s daughter. The freedom to create my own path was never an option. I was the daughter of the Great Bernard Sinclair II!

All I ever wanted is to be Anna. And to find out what that meant. Sons and daughters of ‘great people’ ... well ... what hope do we have of growing up to be anyone at all? And now you want to know who I am that I could have killed such a man, this great man, my father? Would I be a better person in your eyes if I’d killed someone else instead?”

“Anna Sinclair. You’re under arrest. Guess you must be relieved knowing somethin' about yourself now."
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Klimt

JUNE . .

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Having spent the month of May as a poet, my mind and imagination ceaselessly filled with too many words on any given day and in frantic need of culling them to form what is deemed ‘poetry proper’, I find myself somewhat out of sorts, here, on my blog (strange, isn’t it?), away from the confines of Mayday mayhem.

I wasn’t prepared for a part ii. I didn’t think there was a part ii, until I decided to participate in last Friday’s Slam at The Cyrk. It was a something I felt compelled to do on the final eve of my 45th year in these parts. And so, I will soon be frantically writing poetry to Slam by, it appears, for the provincial finals taking place later this month. How very cool it was to perform the spoken word alongside the incredible talent I had, until Friday, only been a witness to this past year at The Cyrk! Hmm.. I have a feeling I’m sharing this with you as a way of introducing myself back to my digs..

Over and over, we have to go
back to the beginning.
We should not be ashamed of this.
It is good.
It’s like drinking water.

NATALIE GOLDBERG

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The Withdrawal Method
By Pasha Malla
House of Anansi Press/May

Reviewed by Marjolaine Hébert


It is free, requires no artificial devices, and has no physical side effects. It may, however, leave you feeling unsatisfied. Even so, reports state that most North-American women have had a partner use it. I’m talking about the withdrawal method, of course, though not necessarily Pasha Malla’s first collection of short stories by the same name.

With a title as provocative as this one, I dare you not to open the book to page one. But readers beware – it only gets stranger from here. Below its title, the book’s cover dons a technical looking picture of one male figure in a box. This much seems appropriate, since Pasha presents his characters from a definite male point of view. Reading his stories felt a bit like peeking into the author’s psyche, his female characters sharing very similar connective tissue.

There are thirteen stories in this collection, most of them delving into the male – female relationship. Evocative, imaginative, and at times haunting, Pasha presents his readers with wonderfully wacky plot lines. And despite his primarily passive characters, the endings do surprise. With honest storylines and at times somewhat pragmatic situations, the author guides us one step beyond the expected into his world of suspended disbelief. I had to look over my shoulder and behind the words some thirteen times.

As a forty-something woman, it is clear to me that Pasha Malla is a young man writing for his peers. What maintains a timeless flavour, however, are his boy-meets-girl scenarios, which at any age, it would seem, remains a conundrum. As for The Methods of Withdrawal? They were less difficult to unravel.

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Stop thinking and talking

about it and there is

nothing

you will not be able to know.

ZEN PARADIGM
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my first attempt at finding zen with an air brush
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