- The
PK Featured Poet - Barbara Phillips
-
- "Writing is like panning
for gold; a lot of material is required to yield modest
treasure." - Barbara Phillips
- The Featured Poet is a list
member who is selected because of the quality of their
work. In the Featured Poet mail there will be
a short biography and a look at the way in which the poet
works and what drives them. They will also select
some poems which they feel represents their work or how
they view it.
-
- Our second Featured Poet is
Barbara Phillips who well known to the members of the PK
List for her insightful and informed comments and her
fine poetry. As this months Featured Poet she
is asked to explore some of her own influences and share
her
- views on writing as well as
presenting a short selection of her work. The mail will be posted to the list and also
placed in an archive on the PK website.
- Barbara
Phillips
-
- I have lived in Toronto,
Canadas largest city, for most of my life. However
I did feel the need to participate in the 'Northern'
experience, and lived in Northern Ontario for about three
and a half years. There has been a lingering belief in
Canada that a writer cannot write until that writer has
been baptised by the frozen North. The experience was
enlightening in that I discovered the importance of
having a working furnace and a reliable block heater. I
also learned that a cookbook can be very entertaining; I
made almost every dish in my copy of Joy Of Cooking.
-
- When I returned to Toronto, I
could not sleep for a whole month; the noise of the city
was deafening. The discovery of this tumult in an urban
environment amazed me as I had lived in a heavily
populated area all my life, and believed myself to be an
urban creature. However it seemed at that point I had
undergone a change of some sort, a fact which both
disconcerted and fascinated me. Since then, I have
appreciated opportunities for retreat and silence, as
well as those for mingling and merriment. All this has
been most useful to me in my writing.
-
- I have been employed in
various ways in the past, from being a store cashier to
museum curator to librarian to statistician. I have also
enjoyed amateur activities such as photography, water
colour painting, and gourmet cooking. The latter has
devolved into what can only be described as creative pot
luck problem solving
-
- How/when did you
start writing? Was there anything that particularly
influenced you?
-
- In retrospect, I am convinced
that I began writing when I began learning to read.
- The world of words and
letters was a world of charms. Invariably, I would trail
off at the end of a story or a poem or whatever I was
reading, and would concoct in my mind possible scenarios
in which the story would live on. This approach was
especially useful when I had difficulty deciphering
words, and would gloss over them. In my daydreams, I
would fill in whatever blanks I imagined I had missed. I
was also influenced by all the books and magazines which
cluttered up our home. My father was always reading
something, so I suppose I wanted to find out why print
was more interesting than I was. Eventually, I discovered
all the great writers who have endured. I was very
intrigued by Shakespeare and poets such as Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and TS Eliot.
Eliot became a particular favourite of mine, and I found
myself having to distance myself from his work in order
to avoid living his vision. Inevitably, Canadian poets
became very interesting to me as I found myself watching
how they were interpreting the 'Canadian' experience;
this was during a period in which navel gazing was a
national obsession. Happily, this phase in Canadian
literature appears to have passed and been forgotten.
During my explorations of Canadian literature, I
read with relish poetry by Gwendolyn MacEwan, Miriam
Waddington, PK Paige Dorothy Livesay, Margaret Attwood,
Leonard Cohen, Irving Layton, Raymond Souster, Tim
Inkster, Joe Rosenblatt, and RG Everson. I cannot truly
say how I was influenced by the writers I have listed,
but I can say that I was mesmerised by their virtuosity,
and revelled in the imaginative landscapes they created.
-
- Do you have any
strong influences on your writing now?
-
- Generally, I would have to
say that I am likely a product of everything and everyone
I have read. Like a sort of Alice, I have fallen through
a looking glass held by writers who have shared their
vision, and have emerged into a landscape that I hope is
still my own. I used to be baffled by this fact as I had
presupposed when I was an adolescent that a total
immersion in literature would effect a transformation. I
was compelled to resign myself to being who I was and who
I had become. Later I found my lack of conversion to be
an immense relief since it occurred to me that it would
be most onerous to live up to codes and styles which were
not mine. Subsequently, I indulged in scribbled
explorations with abandon. The experience was very
liberating until I discovered that I had become my own
worst critic.
-
- When I took notice of how
writers were constrained by political agendas, I realised
that a writing career can be as hazardous as a military
career. As well, the responsibility attached to being a
writer, or a scribe appeared to be an overwhelming
burden. The political agenda or the lack of one can
expose a writer's true character. Inevitably this
apparent fact led me to believe that a writer really has
no where to hide. Consequently, the act of writing itself
is an act of courage in the sense that once the words are
inscribed on the page, they are practically written in
stone. Readers of the written word tend to attach a
writer to what that writer has written, making it very
difficult for the writer to retract what has been said,
or to disassociate herself/himself from the persona in
the works.
-
- In the audience's mind, you
are what you write. Of course this may not always be the
case but it may often be the case when one most wishes it
were not so.
- The poetry of Dorothy Livesay
also remains a subliminal model for me as I find the
lyrical quality of her work makes her unforgettable. The
poem Green Rain, which has been widely used in
anthologies, is truly wonderful in its vivid yet simple
imagery and quiet force. Green Rain is timeless because
of these qualities, and because it touches upon universal
experience. It is memorable in the same way that Thomas
Gray's Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard is: Full
many a flower is born to blush unseen/And waste its
sweetness on the desert air" are lines which engrave
themselves in the memory of readers because of the
terribly truthful sentiment they express.
- This is not to say that
poetry should not be forceful or rambunctious. The works
of Walt Whitman and Irving Layton stand as examples of a
shouting out of poetry which is wonderful in its own
lusty way. Such poetry has also taught me that the
subject of the poem most often demands the approach in
which the subject chooses to be heard. There is really no
right way or wrong way to write a poem; however, there is
an effective way and an inappropriate way. When the poem
does not speak to me after it is written, then I know
that it must go into my rewrites file.
- The influence which continues
to haunt me has been the influence of literary criticisms
which I have read relating to writers whose works were of
interest to me. When I was a teenager I took it upon
myself to read all the books of literary criticism
available at my local library. It was then I learned
about how writing was assessed, and was in fact appalled
to some extent that work which appeared flawless to me,
was deemed by others to be imperfect. The whole notion of
a need for a balance between inspiration and creation
began to suggest itself to me. The realisation that
scribbling required discipline took a lot of the fun out
of it. Since then, I have been trying to put some fun
into the discipline, which of course is too much of an
oxymoron to be realistic. Sometimes I remember the work
of Ovid which encourages me as I think I am very
fortunate not to have to write in Latin, a language which
is a rigorous task master.
-
- How do you write? Do
you have any particular method for writing - time of day?
-
- There are several preliminary
stages which I usually go through before I actually do
any writing. The best preparation for writing is scouting
for inspiration. This may be nearly impossible some days
or most days. On such days I put writing out of my mind,
and try to get on with whatever interests me or whatever
needs to get done. Inevitably, something grabs my
attention. When I begin to get nagging feelings about an
incident or a scene etc., I try to figure out what it is
exactly about the incident or scene which nags at me. It
may be days before I determine what lies at its heart. I
give myself as much time to think about it as necessary.
If I find that I can make something out of it I draft a
poem. Then I let it lie for a day or more and go back to
it to look at it again and to make revisions. I do this
as many times as I need to until the piece seems to
become authentic in the sense that it has credible
content, reads reasonably well, and has a conclusion. If
the poem sounds awkward or incomplete, I file it until I
feel I can deal with it.
- I prefer writing in the
mornings, but most often I write at night. I find it is
easier to work when most of the world around me is
asleep. There is nothing else that must claim my
attention, and there are no distractions of any kind,
other than the racoons knocking over garbage cans.
- I write drafts in ink on
paper. I find that this method makes the experience more
immediate and free of virtual moments. Also, it is
possible to scratch things out without losing them to a
cyber vacuum. If I change my mind, I can still see what I
want to go back to.
- Inevitably when I am working
on a poem, I ask myself if I am making it 'new,' it being
the experience which I am trying to present within the
poem. I also think about Ezra Pound and William Carlos
Williams, and wonder if the images I am using are nearly
as vivid and as dense as those used by Pound and
Williams. If what I have done in no way compares to such
images, I know that the piece in progress needs to be
reworked or abandoned. In no way am I presuming to
suggest that my work approaches the impact of the work of
the poets I am referring to. But I do use their work as a
basis for comparison in order to maintain some sort of
perspective.
-
- Why do you write
poetry?
-
- I write poetry because I have
always been drawn to it. The first poem I ever wrote was
inspired by one in a school reader. I was enchanted by
the rhythms and the images which immediately captivated
my imagination. I find in poetry a means of expression
which is not possible in prose in the sense that poetry
allows portraiture on a grand scale and with an
irresistible intensity. Poetry for me is like photography
to the extent that a poem captures a moment discovered by
the imagination. The poem becomes the photograph which
may be interpreted to the degree that one takes the
trouble to interpret it, but does not lose its integrity
or its true nature. The poem holds everything the poet
puts into it, but it is up to the reader to recognise the
value of what is there. Like a photograph, the poem
invites participation but does not necessarily impose it.
But as in a photograph, the composition of the poem lies
ready to lead the reader into an imaginative exploration,
in which nuances lie in the shadows and truths are
disguised in the light.
-
- Is there anything
else you would like to add?
-
- A writer must be true to
herself/himself by writing about what s/he believes s/he
sees which must be written about. The opinions of others
can be valuable, but sometimes it is necessary to stand
firm. The process of writing is a very personal one; it
cannot be mass produced or fit into a formula. There are
methods which may be followed but methods do not take
into account individual sensibilities. It may be
necessary to stumble through a lot of scribbling to
uncover something worthwhile, and perhaps even glorious.
Writing is like panning for gold; a lot of material is
required to yield a modest treasure.
-
- It is however very beneficial
to be able to gather reactions from others about works in
progress. An objective view is most useful when one
becomes entangled in the writing of a poem; sometimes the
poem becomes a fish net in which the writer becomes
hopelessly trapped; I am leaning towards seeing the story
of Jonah and the whale as a metaphor for the creative
process, or the process of self-discovery. Either way, a
piece of writing cannot be completed until the writer
gains a clear view of what is happening in her/his head
in relation to the subject of the work in question. There
is nothing like an unbiased view to clear the tangles.
-
- Reading the work of others is
also essential in order to stay attuned to what is
happening in the world. It is a wonderful privilege to
witness the creativity others are willing to share. The
exchange of writing among writers and readers creates a
sea of harmonious endeavours which wash up on the beaches
of our minds to murmur melodies, like conch shells
hugging echoes of voyages through wondrous depths.
- The Poems
-
- The face of the child in the
news photo begged for a poem to be written. When I think
of war, I think of how horrible it is to kill innocence.
-
- Child of Kosovo
- --a news wire photo------
-
- Child of Kosovo stares out
the window.
- He wipes away steam on the
glass,
- vapour of agony that
collapses
- inward into breathless pall.
-
- Fair curls frame his face,
- draw attention to his large
dark eyes.
- He surveys the landscape
lurching
- like a lunatic to the swaying
- of decrepit wheels beneath
the bus.
-
- Child of Kosovo stares out
the window,
- cherub on glass between mute
heavens and thundering earth,
- waiting for a guardian angel,
- lost in a maze of maps,
- with boundaries bleeding into
lives not lived
- long enough, or lived too
long, for scanning
- fields wrung inside out,
- gleaming alien underbelly
writhing
- to death's taunting tunes,
- a punch and judy show
macabre,
- played for the child of
Kosovo
- who waits for intercession of
new dawns
- spreading angels breathing
- life into death,
- death into life.
-
- *****************************************
-
- Relationships develop when
someone can penetrate an individuals disguise, a
disguise which has existed for so long that the
individual has forgotten s/he is wearing one.
-
- Nerve Sensitive
-
- you go where no one can
- you enter the gray
- matter of my being
- you render me
- nerve sensitive
-
- you banish the mystery
- decipher the code
- confound the invasion
- trespass into the very
- nucleus of me
-
- with your words
- you expose someone
- even I did not know
- living within that now
- nerve sensitive me
-
- **************************************
-
- What happens in the skies
always fascinates me. The night sky is a recurring
reminder of the origins
- of mythology.
-
-
- Falling Stars
-
- the stars are falling through
the night
- in soaring sweeps they ignite
- silent light shows safe from
scalpers
-
- messengers from ancient eras
- sent by ancestors to faceless
earthlings
- they rip through sedate
constellations
- reject maps fond to
astronomers
- hugging telescopes with
hearts anonymous
- broken arrows stitching skies
to wombs
- in rhythms smoothing away
loss
- they smash through a universe
by envy tossed
-
- *******************************************
-
- A few years ago, a large area
just north of Marten River in Ontario was the centre of
much conlict. I found it inconceivable that the
provincial government had given permission for the
magnificent trees in this very old growth area to be
clear cut for logging. Protesters were jailed for lying
in the path of machinery and trucks in an effort to block
access. All I could think of was how those trees had cast
a spell on me the first time I saw them.
-
-
- Marten River
-
- off Highway 11 North Marten
River
- slides around boulders
- grey-dark mounds that anchor
pines
- bungee stretching into skies
as
- their green-black gargantuan
arms
- brush blue space murals
-
- the trees ever green
steadfastly
- vigilant sentinels watch
- traffic track fumes over
- oil-slicked asphalt that
suffocates waters
- sprung from prehistoric
glaciers
- poured into granite basins
- when the land was startled by
newness
- trembled to its own breathing
- barely able to believe it was
alive
- keepers of memories the
massive pines
- guard the river and the land
as they wait
- to be set free into universal
harmony
-
- *******************************************
-
- It often occurs to me that
people would be better off if they paid more attention to
- personal relationships. Or as
Voltaire said, 'One must cultivate one's own garden.'
-
- Trojan Musings
-
- We pause to kiss as the
umbrella slips.
- My arms rest on your
shoulders while I reach
- to bring you into me.
- your lips meet mine, flesh so
yielding
- yet compelling.
-
- And I understand why the
Trojan wars were fought
- over that mysterious Helen
whose heart
- must have wept to be so
mortally loved from afar
- when flight would have
sufficed
- under the cover of rain bent
skies
- on a night as moonless as
this
- beneath which Helen and her
lover could escape
- to kiss a kiss in bliss.
-
-
- **************************************************
-
- An absolutely perfect summer
day presented itself as a metaphor for the creative
process and for the writing of poetry.
-
-
- Photographer
-
- I am the photographer
- blinded by the bee
- bumbling through dizzying
dithyrambs
- as I strain to project
- a vague celestial object
- into orbit astral
- in the shadow of a kestrel
- whose shrieks pierce the sky
at noon
- longing for the brilliance of
a moon
- warmed by sun virile
- banishing everything sterile
-
- I strain to catch
- images to match
- harmony cacophonous
- of the bee with wings
diaphanous
- buzzing in symphonic gladness
- numbing me into stinging
madness
-
-
- Back