Breeze Daze Books is proud to announce that the first official book signing event celebrating the release of Wind Rhymes;  Poetry from the Breeze is being held in Tavistock, Ontario on February 20th at the Knox Parlour of The Grace United Church, Woodstock St. in Tavistock, from 1pm to 3pm. Doors open at 12:30.

The poet, Tavistock, Ontario resident, Carolyn R. Parsons will do short reading at 1:30 followed by a book signing.  Drinks and refreshments will be served.

You can also view a one on one interview with the author on Stratford First Local on Friday, February 13 at 5pm and in rotation all of the following week.

This book is also available for sale at Amazon and the “look inside” feature has been enabled so  you can take a peek at what’s inside.

Books will be available to purchase at a cost of $12 cash only

This book is a collection of mostly traditional form poetry, sonnets, sestinas, free-verse and minutes.  It also contains the photo illustrations of the very talented photographer April Lindfors who works out of Largo, Florida.

The author, Carolyn Parsons is a resident of Stratford and has been writing all of her life.  This work is her first published collection of poetry.  Her first novel is due to be published August 1, 2010.

Copies of the book may be purchased at Amazon as well as by contacting the author.

A book launch reception will be held in Stratford in February

Local writer Carolyn R. Parsons is pleased to announce the release of her first book, a collection of poetry called Wind Rhymes;  Poetry from the Breeze.  The book will be available to the public on December 15, 2009 through the author and on Amazon shortly after.  The poetry is accompanied by photographs from Florida photographer April Lindfors.  The cover photo and interior black and white photos were commissioned exclusively for the book. 

To purchase copies of the book contact the author at breezedaze@gmail.com

Artwork by Iaian Greenson

Recently a poem I wrote was accepted to be published into a Michael Jackson Anthology.  I was inspired to write the short poem because my memories of my teen years include Michael Jackson’s music and the pool hall my friends and I hung out at in our little island community, Change Islands, Newfoundland.  The same week the world lost Michael Jackson, my little home town lost the owner of that pool hall and I wrote the little memory in rhyme. 

Today the anthology, Goodbye, Billie Jean, the meaning of Michael Jackson was released and I am thrilled.  When I received the list of contributors I was honoured and humbled at the same time.   It is a beautiful book with a striking cover,  shown above.  I am proud to be included in this work. 

This work is available for purchase here.  If you have a Michael Jackson fan on your Christmas gift list, this is a perfect gift!  This work will be available at Amazon.com in the next few weeks as well!  I will not make any money from the sale of this anthology, I would just like to support the work of the person who put this all together, Lorette C. Luzajic.  She deserves the accolades and the support!

I saw them. They came like ghosts out of ground-
mist, moving
over ruined earth in waves, running

no, walking, shoulder to shoulder
like a belt of bullets or like
men: tinned meat lined on a conveyor belt as the sun

exploded in thin shafts on metal
buckles, bayonets, the nodding
spires of helmets. I heard faint battle cries

and whistles, piercing through the shriek
of fire and iron falling, the slurred
cadence of big guns; as they funnelled

like a file of mourners into gaps
in the barbed wire I made quick
calculations and slipped the safety catch.

But held my fire. Alongside me
the boys in the trenches worried them with
rifles, pistols, hand grenades

but they came on, larger now, their faces
almost resolving out of hazed hot
distance, their ranks at close quarters amazing

with dumb courage, numb step, a sound of drugged
choking in gas and green mud, steaming —
Who were these men. I saw them penitent

sagging to knees. I saw their dishevelled
dying. And when finally they broke
into a run it came to me

what they had always been, how I’d always,
really, seen them: boys
rushing towards us with arms

outstreched, hands clenched as if in urgent prayer,
sudden welcome or a reunion
quite unexpected. Yes. And more than this

like children, chased by something behind the lines
and hurrying to us
for rescue —

I spat and swung the gun around. Fired,
felt the metal pulse
and laid them three deep in the wire.

Steven Heighton

Wow..now that’s a run on sentence!

That was my first purpose in starting this endeavor.  To find some people like me.  It’s lonely, particularly if you are starting or restarting your life as a writer.

But there is a second reason.

Back when I was younger, there was no encouragement.  It had nothing to do with talent, people always admired my talent, my stuff was published, talked about however it was just a hobby.  There were no jobs for poets.  So when a real job came along, the poet was buried because life is busy and I had to live a difficult one, there was money to be made and children to be raised.

But you can only kill an artist with a spade. 

And then, still, their spirit creates their art. 

I avoided the spade, having only been in a box for a while.  I’ve broken free. So I start again.  Reading the old stuff, writing new crap, reading fiction again, starting a novel, stalling, starting a new one, it’s coming along and will be finished! 

And I must admit I that I wrote some shit back in the day!  But at least I was writing.  I was writing crap but I was writing! 

And every so often I find, in my old boxes, a line, a piece of prose, a thought or image, and it stops me, and amazes me…I wrote that!  I’m looking for those treasures from YOU!

Out there, in the community there are boxes, treasures, papers, writers, artist, people who have gems, people who are gems.  People who don’t shine because they were discouraged not to, didn’t think they were good enough or denied their own genius based solely on the fact that it is theirs.  People who didn’t say “When I grew up I want to be a poet” because such a declaration would be laughed at. 

Submit your work to the anthology.  Do it secretly if you’re shy.  But do it!  It doesn’t cost anything  and there is everything to be gained. 

And join.  The Poetry Society.  This is for you.  And for me because I want to know you.  But mostly this is for  you!

Thank you to those who have submitted already!  The guidelines are at the  left side under the Submission heading! 

Carolyn

I was assured however that poets live among us, disguised as mothers, teachers, accountants, athletes, high school students.  I was told that they often mix with the general population and look  just the same as regular humans but secretly they are, or have been, or want to be, poets.

So with great humility I introduce you to the Stratford Poetry Society!  The purpose of the society is provide a place for the poets that live in secret and those who have declared themselves poets as well,  have the opportunity to share their art with the world in a new forum.  We are looking for the poets of Stratford, Ontario and the surrounding area!

The best artists are often those who do not know they are creating art.  And poetry is art with words.  So if you are interested in being a part of this endeavor please feel free to leave a comment, anonymous is fine.  In the future we will be offering classes and possible informal poetry writing sessions and reading opportunities.  But for now, dig through those boxes of old poetry you wrote in high school, collect poetry from your students or simply pick up your pencil and start writing poetry.  We want the poets among us to stand tall and proud of their words and rhymes and art on paper! 

Carolyn

•  

  O that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught

  Of all the great things men have saved from Time,

  The withered body of a girl was brought

  Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its prime,

  And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid

  In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

   

  But when they had unloosed the linen band

  Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,–lo! was found

  Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand

  A little seed, which sown in English ground

  Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear

  And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

   

  With such strange arts this flower did allure

  That all forgotten was the asphodel,

  And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,

  Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,

  For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,

  But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.

   

  In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white

  At its own beauty, hung across the stream,

  The purple dragon-fly had no delight

  With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,

  Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,

  Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.

   

  For love of it the passionate nightingale

  Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,

  And the pale dove no longer cared to sail

  Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,

  But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,

  With silvered wing and amethystine throat.

   

  While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue

  A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,

  And the warm south with tender tears of dew

  Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose

  Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky

  On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.

   

  But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field

  The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,

  And broad and glittering like an argent shield

  High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,

  Did no strange dream or evil memory make

  Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?

   

  Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years

  Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,

  It never knew the tide of cankering fears

  Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey,

  The dread desire of death it never knew,

  Or how all folk that they were born must rue.

   

  For we to death with pipe and dancing go,

  Now would we pass the ivory gate again,

  As some sad river wearied of its flow

  Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,

  Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!

  And counts it gain to die so gloriously.

   

  We mar our lordly strength in barren strife

  With the world’s legions led by clamorous care,

  It never feels decay but gathers life

  From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,

  We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,

  It is the child of all eternity.

  ~Oscar Wilde

   

Torpidity, my lassitude’s mourner
despairs and stares in disbelief
retreats to a distant cerebral corner
overcome with cranial grief

Depressive incomprehensible anguish
ego-driven false despair
hesitant to ever relinquish
the right to melancholy care

lassitude returns the victor
in the battle quietly waged
lassitude, torpidity’s heckler
motivation the compass gauge

Lassitude empowered to nourish
propagates the quintessence flourish