Flickerings: A Collection of Poetry
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About this ebook
This, the author illustrates with his anthology and, especially, with the poem "Flickerings," from which the book takes its title.
Alan J. Yates
Alan J. Yates spent almost forty years working for the mass media in Canada. An expert in broadcast journalism and program production, he earned two graduate degrees in mass communications from Montreal’s McGill University and taught at the University of Ottawa. Yates is now retired and lives in Ottawa, Canada.
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Book preview
Flickerings - Alan J. Yates
Contents:
Introduction
On The Search
for Meaning
FLICKERINGS
LIFE’S STREAMS OF CONSCIOUSNESS
WORDS
YOUNG SORCERER
On Nature and Tranquility
THROUGH THE MIRRORED POND
THE TITANS CLASH.
BRIEFLY SKIING BUT NOT FREEING
PATCHWORK QUILT
FROM MOOSE HALL
DARK SHAPES EMERGE
WHEN GEESE HONK OVERHEAD
TIME OUT
FINE-FEATHERED FRIENDLY FEAST
STEARMAN SORTIE
TAI CHI IN CITY PARK
FROM TURN MILL, TURN.
THE MILL TURNS ON.
MY KINGDOM FOR A MILL
A JUG OF MILK—A CASK OF WINE
BLOOD-LUSTING BULLIES
PROWL THE LAND
SIMPLE PLEASURES
THE VILLAGE GOSSIP MILL
RAGOUT DE RAGONDIN*.
CURMUDGEONRY
MERRY XMAS, CONSUMERS!"
THEY FLOOD THE EARTH WITH TEARS.
WINDS OF CHANGE AT SIDI JIDIDI
ICE JAMS ON THE RIDEAU RIVER
FROM FIGS OF THE IMAGINATION.
ON THE STAGE OF THE MIND’S EYE.
I AM WHAT I WAS
WET DREAMS
THE SPIRIT OF CHILDHOOD
THE PRICE OF THEIR TOYS
MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE
I MET HER ONCE YET
SOUGHT HER IN VAIN
FROM BUTTERFLY WINGS.
BUTTERFLY WINGS
THE YEAR OF THE COMET.
TEA, SCONES & DEBUSSY
THE GEESE AT TROIS PISTOLES
LOVE POEMS FOR CARLA
NOW TO MAGIC POTION I RESORT
RETURN TAE AULD REEKIE
SUPERIMPOSITIONS
OCEAN’S APART
SOLILOQUY ON SOLITITUDE
A HARBOUR FOUND:
MY DAYS AND NIGHTS NOW SING
NO TOKEN BUT A VERSE
DOUBT ME NOT
GRANTED, BUT NOT FOR GRANTED.
TO MY PUSSCAT
SHE DOUBTS HERSELF
ARE HIS MUSES NOW ON STRIKE?
HALF DAYS
DOUBT ME NOT
THE PUZZLE
ODE TO STE. CECILIA
A VALENTINE A DAY
TO C.C.ON HER 30TH.
TWENTY-ONE TODAY!
ON OUR CHILDREN
AND THEIR CHILDREN
WALLEE
VINTAGE 67
THE TWINS—A PORTRAIT AT FOURTEEN
TO THOSE NOW GONE:
BORN, BUT NOT TO BE.
SHE LIVES IN US
IN MEMORY OF PAWEL, CELLO TEACHER AND FRIEND.
HER TENTH LIFE SHE LIVES.
TO IDA
LES JOURS PASSENT
LE ‘NOUS’ VIT TOUJOURS
Introduction
Poetry is such gossamer material that, at best, can stimulate the imagination as it evokes the mystical and almost indefinable undercurrents of the conscious and sub-conscious and, at worst, can baffle and discourage. Any attempt to define it as a communications medium and art form is elusive at best and its analysis is fraught with challenges.
At the objective level there are, of course, the forms, or almost rituals surrounding meter, iambs and all the almost arcane protocols for setting the words in verses. These can range from the simple sobriety of the sonnet to the intricate and almost slavish adherence to patterns and rhyming found in the great epic poetry cycles. These reach their greatest complexity and formality, for example, in the sagas of Corneille and Racine, including the restrictions imposed by the Bienseances
—the rules about what can or cannot be presented or said overtly, especially on stage. Conversely, in more modern times, there can be an almost absence of conventions or traditions, such as displayed in blank verse and more contemporary forms.
The amateur of or newcomer to poetry can be dismayed, mystified and confounded by the medium and might be tempted to ask: "why all these bizarre rules and forms and what does it matter? What is poetry anyway? How, in fact, does poetry differ from other literary forms and when should one resort to it rather than just write prose? It is tempting to point to the answer, or consolation, offered by Moliere in
Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Mystified by his teacher’s convoluted introduction to the arts, and especially to poetic conventions, the Bourgeois is told that he should not despair that he is not able to pour forth poetic marvels because he is already a
master of prose" who, without realizing it, has been has been uttering prose all his life. Yes,
but I can hear you object, what distinguishes poetry from prose?
What, one might by extension ask, distinguishes good poetry from bad prose, or even bad poetry from good prose? I certainly would rather read good prose than bad poetry, as I would rather read good poetry than bad prose.
Though I dabble in both poetry and prose and have taught writing, I am no expert on the subject of poetry My gut feeling is that there is a time and a place for both forms and that one knows intuitively which is the appropriate one to use for a given situation. Now, in defense of good prose, I am convinced that if every writer were imbued with the ability to tell a spellbinding story with just the right words and imagery and to express that story in a way that instantly conveys an idea or situation to the reader, then we would have little or no need for poetry. If every writer of prose observed Flannery O’Connor’s prescription for adhering to the Mystery and Manners
formula, most novels would be captivating works that excite the imagination. But many don’t, often adhering instead to the action and excitement formula of the top-ten list. To make matters worse, not every writer actually loves the language and its intrinsically musical potential.
To my mind, all prose should be magical, mysterious and musical and one should be moved as much by the choice of words, metaphors and expressions of the message as by the topic, plot or story line. Just read James Joyce’s Ulysses,
if you are wondering what I mean or, for that matter, try one of my earliest inspirations, Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine.
But we can’t all write like that, so sometimes, especially in moments of personal indulgence, some of us write poetry instead. For, in poetry there are no holds barred. Mystery is the staple of the medium and music is the staff on which it is most often written. That, from my perspective, is what fundamentally distinguishes poetry from prose—mystery and music. I’d add a third component which, for lack of a better term, I’d call condensation.
There is hardly any point in resorting to the poetic form if the result just looks and sounds like a shipwrecked fragment from a novel. What the poem can—and too rarely does— is to convey a subject or experience more lyrically, perhaps less explicitly and ideally, in a nutshell. The poem should also have the potential to produce resonances or recognitions in the reader about similar ideas or experiences which that reader has also felt or was unable to express in words. Failing such recognition, the reader can at least enjoy the mystery and the music, because mystery there must be and musicality is what most often distinguishes poetry from prose. Further, I