Poem on a napkin, on the beach…

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Advice from Atlas, post-shrug

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, Malayan fixed verse, pantoum

~~a pantoum~~

I have flung off the weight of the wordless don’t
do that, they say, you’ll be unloved and sorry.
No one enjoys the ambitious, vainglorious—
and true self-esteem is a virtual meme.

Do that, they say, you’ll be unloved and sorry.
Failure’s the safer likelihood; it’s loyal
and true. Self-esteem is a virtual meme
people like, share and save, seldom mean.

Failure’s the safer likelihood; it’s loyal,
roomy with lots of dark places to hide
people like. Share and save! Seldom mean,
you could take the time to be kind or be quiet

and roomy with lots of dark places to hide.
No one enjoys the ambitious, vain. Glorious,
though, is the one who agrees to succeed!
I have flung off the weight of the wordless don’t.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Spring Equinox, 2016

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Canadian writer, Elaine Stirling, vernal equinox

Today, in my lifetime, an African-American president of the United States is visiting Cuba. This is the same lifetime that lived through the missile crisis and witnessed, via media mere decades old, the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.

Last week, the US president and his wife hosted our prime minister, who is the son of the prime minister who brought into being two official languages for Canada, English and French. That enactment opened us to an era of tolerance and diversity for which Canadians are known and admired around the planet. Reputation isn’t everything, but the first thought we think about any one thing is first for a reason.

World events do not define me. Happiness does. So does freedom, which includes the power to look beyond my first reaction if that reaction displeases me. The further this life unfolds, the more I choose to focus on changes for the good. The more I focus on changes for the good, the more goodness I see. We are surrounded by it.

Happy Spring, everyone!

I Turn My Other Cheeks

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Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, poetry

Oh, ye of so much faith, absent of doubt
expounding with your foxy hosts on how
this world is sure to end, your ilk as spout
of wisdom to inform us, holy cow!
I should have changed the channel, but your beard
like gorse and bramble made me feel a-feared,
while from your steely eyes I saw no love,
just hardness locked inside a studded glove.
To those who kill, you promise death. Shoot! So
much better things I could take notice of.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

We all have declarations we could shout
of independence, constitutions, vows
to break or to uphold. My native grout
holds just as firm as yours, and I allow
that you, within your borders, may feel seared,
remanifesting destiny dog-eared
and out of date. Your sovereignty of shove
when pushed, to hell with lamb and peaceful dove,
makes sense to intelligence wrought hollow
by rote and memorizing ghastly stuff.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

I listened for ten minutes to your bout:
Galatians and Ephesians with your brow
all furrowed, disapproving, God’s own scout,
avenging angel, ratings to endow
continued wealth. It’s fine that you appear
on what they call reality, my dear.
TV is marketing, a slimy grub
at times whose mainstream I can barely glug.
But with the cameras off, what is your show?
Does subtlety exist within your trove?
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

I wonder, can you speak or think without
expressing vile nationhood? Do you know
how much you sound like them, the mad devout?
Your tribal god’s the one and same, low brow
and gauche, he’s of the baddest, meanest tier.
You think there is a heaven where he’ll cheer
for all you didn’t love and feel? No, guv,
your faith I do not share. I cannot prove
my stance and nor can you, so let’s just go
our separate ways. Good luck with your next move.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

Yes, for this royal chant I made a lout
of you, as you do for the hooded brow-
beating fanatics who don’t care about
the peaceable and fair. Yet death will show
us all one day how thickly we were smeared
with rank stupidity, how we adhered
to flimsy self-defense, a shallow groove.
You can’t force me, I won’t fix you. The love
that brought us here will take us home. We’ll know
more than we ever did, nothing to prove.
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

Now, bearded one, go peaceful with that sub
machine gun attitude. I too shall rove
from day to day imagining a show
of might through words and rhyme I might improve…
I turn my other cheeks above, below.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The Economy of 100 Trillion Friendships

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#longreads, a crown of sonnets, brave new business leadership, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, heroic sonnet, sonnet redouble, The Corporate Storyteller

A Sonnet Redoublé

1

All friendship survives. All rivers divert.
Puddles dry up, and I did see the sky
in your eyes for a time, but those notions
of smallness, of rightness and wrongness, can’t
come any further. I’ve worn a hair shirt
and dammed the itch and the dwindling supply
of consent to great things. My emotions
have voted unanimously to grant
full access to prosperity, no dirt
from corruption, regrets, or treachery,
no dreary committees voting motions,
no states to declare, prevent, or pervert.
I am counting by tens the glory days
when the streams that uphold us find new ways.

10

When the streams that uphold us find new ways
to account for impulses beyond mere
addictions, reactions, ho-hum lazy
factions of issues that go round and round,
the dread that passes for cleverness plays
its last notes. I need no protection here
or anywhere. Your sane is my crazy,
vice versa, no fear. I’m standing my ground
when I say adios to a life of grays.
Opposites do not attract; they adhere
like gum to a shoe, dim love to hazy
retractable hues. Jealousies confound
but will never reach the convivial
to wash over beds of alluvial…

100

To wash over beds of alluvial
sex—do I have your attention yet?—means
the either/or gasms of yesteryear have to
go. I don’t care what you did, or how they
all squealed. Your past to me is trivial.
It’s how I feel with you now that demeans
or excites or relaxes. Overdue
IOUs spoil the view, though I must say,
your original testimonial
exceeds by hundreds the usual scenes
and confusions. I sometimes perceive you
without the old placards, free of cliché,
Olympian, indifferent to old
hurt, you and I came together, a gold.

1000

Hurt, you and I came together, a gold
standard for originality, if
not quite paragons of harmony. So
much we could have done, we did.
Biologies and shouting matches sold
a few tickets, but yuck! Too many are stiff
with boredom in search of a…NoGoPro,
some safe tech magic to strap on their head.
10 x 10 x 10 lovers with great bold
outlooks surround me. I’m playing the riff
I was born to hear above not below,
dancing me to new melodies amid
a transcendent running of bulls, a flirt,
rush of sorts, divine, eccentric, alert.

10,000

Rush of sorts, divine, eccentric, alert,
I’m learning a better kind of hurry,
dawn bursting through the starting gate each day
with gentle laughter and magnificence.
Centrifugal forces who are expert
at throwing off wriggly worms of worry
spy with 10,000 eyes the best array
of what I want with sublime common sense.
An Adriatic villa or a yurt
with you and a few dozen friends, merry
are the possibilities when I say
there’s no end to the good, ladies and gents.
For ecstasy’s sake, I’m launching a phase
to new veins untapped since long ago days.

100,000

To new veins untapped since long ago days,
let us raise our glasses and celebrate
who we are: land dwelling, sea diving, sky
flying, fire breathing, fun loving starfish
of the human variety. Unfazed
by grim statistics, let us underrate
death and those who lust for others to die.
Get used to it, friend, that every wish
finds her match, comes home to greet you. Amaze
yourself and me, for once. It’s not too late!
Grow bigger than your grievances. Let lie
the sleeping pups. Be unwilling to dish
anything. Teach love’s grand tutorial,
investing through time immemorial.

1.000,000

Investing through time immemorial,
I’m spending my first million, knowing more
is on its way. You literal thinkers
need to dream subatomic. That sliced pie
of lessening returns is serial
stupidity, so needless and abhorred
by the Mind who imagines you. Blinkers
are for horses and those who never try
to overthrow their own authorial
rebellions. There’s a superior floor
of thought that takes into account stinkers
and lousy worn-out excuses for why
you’re still not rolling in riches untold.
We’re growing sums others scarcely behold.

10,000,000

We’re growing sums others scarcely behold,
which includes greenbackian euro yens.
The buck grows here where wealthy feels at home.
Chuck the shame in all its spots; they’re cheap change.
What use is approval by a glum fold
of disexpectant sheep with their dark lens
and woolly hearts? The CNNs may roam,
but not from here to eternity. Range
expands the instant I choose to uphold
more of the universal market. Friends
who dream of me, we haven’t met…yet. Loam
in the fields of the Lord is rich! Deranged
has always been the mark of a true shirt.
The shell-shocked still wander, rhyming a spurt.

100,000,000

The shell-shocked still wander, rhyming a spurt
when they feel some intestinal upset,
but never ask them to explain—oh, no,
holy writs must not be tampered with! Cheese
and purple prose know their place. Good yogurt
has a culture of its own. I can let
it abso-posi-lutely be, and go
where my gut sings. How lovely not to please
what displeases. It’s easy to subvert
when requirements are nil. A touch of fret,
I know at once that what I used to know
I have outgrown. Sleeker is my new ease
toward life, sweet poetry of these long days,
now and then hints of the epic always.

1,000,000,000

Now and then, hints of the epic always
startle me in the wee hours, choruses
of dead physicists more frisky than ten
herds of Pan’s demonia. Atheists
arm in arm with Dutch reformers, the blaze
of them is something to behold. Isis,
all the pieces of her son whole again
and eager to re-dismember. New trysts
hatching, old wars stirred to sonnetry. Days
of grief embrace relief. Now, realists,
you’ll find me catching, so beware, and when
we get to who sleeps where, bring lotuses.
I do know your shy smile and its special
unfolding, saturnine droughts, jovial.

10,000,000,000

Unfolding saturnine droughts, jovial
excesses, conversations that roll us
across the floor, clutching our bellies. More
of this, please, more! Gladly, says Universe,
who delivers in heaps, a merry ole
supersoul is He/She, an omnibus
who’ll drive us anywhere and not keep score.
I’m in the billions now, here to converse
with peers of agreeability. You’ll
know us by our success, so obvious
with markets in our hands while we explore
what lives under the limitless obverse.
Holy moly, sister, we’ve found pure gold
floods of the heart, penny stocks bought and sold.

100,000,000,000

Floods of the heart, penny stocks bought and sold
like the former wolf of Wall Street knows, brings
the kind of loose and breezy life we came
to live. We came to live, brother! Give up
with the odes to bloody sorrow. They’re old
unwearable hats for shrunken heads. Things
matter as we think, not say them. The fame
you dreaded is a feather bed, so sup
with me tonight. Let’s talk it over. Fold
that army cot; give it some good will. Rings
off the hook clamouring for your name
to spell it right on the victory cup,
enhanced with unforgettable itunes
in the Poets’ Exchange, add to fortunes.

1,000,000,000,000

In the Poets’ Exchange, add to fortunes—
go ahead, no one’s counting. (Yes, we are!)
You’ve reached your first trillion of debt-free joy,
and you’re still just beginning. Genesis
is forever. I’m germinating boons,
and so are you. Step up, please, to the bar
of eternal revelation. Enjoy
the view and the grand reviews. Exstasis
runs the show. There are hot sweet air balloons
with gondolas for two, and lots of bare
back riding, if you know what I mean. Oy
vei, that’s Moses over there! His thesis
on Exodus is done. His arc of runes
we’re holding in trust like pirates’ doubloons.

10,000,000,000,000

We’re holding in trust like pirates’ doubloons
infinite multiples of circular
stances—that’s circumstance to you and me.
Squared off no more, scared off by even less,
I slip into Creator garb. The loons
outside my bedroom cry in jocular
profusion, while fabulously wealthy
settles on my shoulders in soft caress.
I’m off to tango now, the sultry tunes
that I adore play a particular
rhythm just for me—and that gorgeous he.
We’ve all the time we want for happiness.
Outside our door, I post a true advert:
All friendship survives. All rivers divert.

100,000,000,000,000

All friendship survives. All rivers divert
when the streams that uphold us find new ways
to wash over beds of alluvial
hurt. You and I came together, a gold
rush of sorts, divine, eccentric, alert
to new veins untapped since long ago days.
Investing through time immemorial,
we’re growing sums others scarcely behold.
The shell-shocked still wander, rhyming a spurt
now and then, hints of the epic always
unfolding. Saturnine droughts, jovial
floods of the heart, penny stocks bought and sold
in the Poets’ Exchange add to fortunes
we’re holding in trust like pirates’ doubloons.

~~~

Once in a while, the urge hits me to write a sonnet redoublé, also known as a crown of sonnets, or the heroic sonnet. It consists of fifteen stanzas of fourteen lines each, “crowned” by the final stanza. Each line of the final stanza opens and ends the previous fourteen, so you have a sort of step-by-step expansion of the heroic theme.

While my style is conversational, I do pay attention to meter. I’m choosing to call this iambish pentameter. The rhyme scheme is a manageable abcdabcdabcdee.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image of sunflowers comes from http://www.outdoorphotogear.com.

Daughters of Babylon… cover reveal

Greyhart Press

Artist Karri Klawiter has delivered a perfect cover for our forthcoming mystery/ historical/ magical realism novel Daughters of Babylon. If you think of Kate Mosse’s bestseller, Labyrinth, add in Eleanor of Aquitaine and spice it up with Mexican mysticism, then… well, you’re starting to get mentally prepared for this treat by Elaine Stirling.

That symbol on the shield is one you will see in the book, linking the present to the distant past through a mystical place cradled by the Pyrenees called Reine du Ciel  (The Queen of Hearts). The squashed diamonds, by the way, are properly called ‘lozenges’, and were a common crusader symbol.

Expect to hear plenty more about Daughters of Babylon in the near future.

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Oculus

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Elaine Stirling, poetry

I am the eye the center calm that draws
to me in perfect objectivity
the curving stem and cherry scents of you.

I am the eye the aperture that paints
in reverent perpetuity the finch
that lights serene blue-gold upon your palm.

I am the eye the outer storm that tears
with searing perspicacity the leaves
of you I pressed now crumbling in my heart.

I am the eye the inner form that clears
unerring with bold certainty new space
for sketching in fresh silhouettes of you.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Life Support

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abundance, brave new business leadership, Elaine Stirling, Law of Attraction, poetry, reasons to feel good, seasonal, The Corporate Storyteller, vibrational reality, we experience what we believe

Untapped genius of the world
is breathing through my open
window stanzas of mock orange
and paragraphs of grass freshly
mown; a novelistic memory strains
through spaces in the screen
to land reconstituted, granular
like salt across the floor that’s
clean but not too much, and
there is more—the belly laughs
of children freed from school,
gotta call my Dad, I’ll race ya!
spokes of bike wheels whiffling
up a breeze, these lungs of life
are clear and all that might
appear to contradict, to turn
the world against itself
is mockery.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

What connects Edgar Allan Poe, John Milton, Herman Melville, and Gavriel Navarro?

I have always loved riddles–and even more, I love dot to dots, as in this dot-to-dotty question posed by Tim C. Taylor of Greyhart Press. To find the answer, simply click on the link below…but first I owe an apology to my elusive collaborating madman, Alain C. Dexter, who wrote his own back cover blurb for Dead to Rights, as if he had the…well, you know, right!

He wrote it, as he does most things, in a blinding whirl, and though I’d had more than my free say in the bare-all novella that features Alain, Dead Edit Redo, I wanted to rein him in. Slow the spin down. Now that I see the artwork and deep care given by the Greyhart team, with whom he clicked from the get-go, I can only say, tighten those goggles, ACD!

What connects Edgar Allan Poe, John Milton, Herman Melville, and Gavriel Navarro?.

Teasers… Dead Edit Redo/ Dead to Rights

Here is a sneak peek at my upcoming novella Dead Edit Redo and the accompanying book of glosas by my elusive collaborator Alain C. Dexter. I’m grateful to Tim C. Taylor for his unflinching enthusiasm in publishing our work, and I just love how he words things! When your publisher is also a fantasy sci/fi writer, you know your books are in especially good hands.

Teasers… Dead Edit Redo/ Dead to Rights.

My thanks go out also to Gavriel Navarro for his gorgeous cover art for Dead Edit Redo. I remember distinctly my down-to-the-marrow shock at how brilliantly he had rendered the mood and theme of the story.