April is Poetry Month! by Nancy M Bell

To learn more about Nancy's work please click on the image above.

Spring is here. I think... It's April and April is poetry month, so it must be spring. My mare is shedding her winter coat, the gophers are out and stealing her grain while she's eating it. But there is still 5 feet of snow drift on my back garden....so Spring...what the heck!

But I digress. As I mentioned, April is poetry month. So my goal this year is to write a poem a day in April. I've done this before many years ago and then just sort of lost the time to do this when life kind of took over. When you read this, it will be April 18th, so hopefully I will have 18 poems under my belt by then. I'll let you know how I fare in next month's blog.  

For those of you who write poetry, come join me in my April quest. For those of you who dabble or don't write poetry at all...why don't you go for it. Not necessarily a poem a day, but maybe just one or two for the month. Poetry is amazing, so many forms, so many emotions and moods it can invoke. I find poetry cathartic myself, somehow giving the emotions or thoughts the freedom of lighting on the blank page gives me freedom to let them go. 

Poetry is joy, sorrow, grief, love and whatever name you wish to attach to it. So come on, let's go for it! April Poem a Day here we come.

Just to whet your whistle, here are a couple of my older poems.

From 2011

Spring Snow

Nancy M Bell

The storm demons are howling rabidly across the sky

Dragging their icy talons against the window glass

Screeching their defiance through the hydro wires

Buffeting the house with their fists of wind

Shrieking they the fall upon the exposed prairie

Vomiting great gouts of snow to cover the earth

They hurl handfuls of icy pellets in my face

As I struggle to let the stock into the barn

 

Mean spiritedly they snatch the door from my frozen fingers

Slamming it open and popping one of the hinges

I bare my teeth at them and wrestle the door from their grasp

Hold it steady as the horses troop in out of the angry storm

 

The bale of hay spills its summer scent in the frigid air

A sunlit meadow song to battle the storm raging outside

The storm demons grab me in their teeth and shake me

As I blindly make my way back to the house

 

Power and fury personified; they scream their defiance

Their voices howling through the wind in my ears

Reluctant to exchange the winds of winter

For the thunderheads of summer 

   

Bitter Ashes

The taste of bitter ashes on my tongue

All the more potent for their age

The things I should have said

Coiled about the things I did say

Time slides by in endless flood

Bearing my choices out of reach

Things I can’t change

Things I wouldn’t change

 

That line from an old Kristofferson song:

“I’d rather be sorry for something I’ve done,

Then for something that I didn’t do.”

Oh, the things I didn’t do!

 

Choices that affected other’s lives

More compassion here, more forgiveness there

The phone calls I didn’t make

The words I didn’t say

 

The taste of bitter ashes on my tongue

More potent for their age

All I Want

All I want is to walk in Grace

To live my life under the wide sky

With a good horse under me

And endless country in front of me

 

All I want is to make each day count

For something; no matter how small

I fed a stray dog the rest of my sandwich

I put seed out for the birds and food for the feral cats

 

All I want is to be happy in my skin

To know I’ve done the best I can

With what I had to work with today

And know that I will try to do the same tomorrow

 

All I want is the wide sky sweet with dawn

And the morning breeze on my face

Followed by the burning blue noon

With the sun at its zenith

 

All I want is the golden sky of sunset

And the dry prairie wind hot on my neck

The softness of evening gilding the range

As the gold melts into the royal blue of night

 

All I want is the silver of moonlight

To throw shadows across my bed

While the song of the coyote rides through the night

To know that all is right with my world

  

Till next month, be well, be happy.

 

Happy Dancing! by Nancy M Bell

 

To learn more about Nancy and her books click on the cover.

Soooooo, a little sneaky preview. I can share this as my post doesn't go live until March 18th and the big reveal is on March 17th.  His Brother's Bride, and indeed, all the Canadian Historical Brides books will soon be available as fully accessible audio books. There will be Daisy/NNELS files available for those who require them. This is a huge step forward for us at BWL Publishing Inc and I for one am very excited about it.

Now, more good news! My book of poetry, Touchstone 2015 was reviewed by Miguel Angel Olive Iglesias in his latest book  A Shower of Warm Light. Miguel is editor in chief of the Canada Cuba Literary Alliance (CCLA) magazine The Ambassador and president of the CCLA. He is a member of the Mexican Association of Language and Literary Professors, VP of William Shakespeare Study Centre and member of of the Canadian Studies Department of the Holguin University in Cuba.

I am more than thrilled and certainly humbled to be included in this book, along with many highly successful Canadian poets. I must thank James Deahl, the editor of Tamaracks, Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century for including my poem Henge in his book and encouraging me to send my poetry to Miguel.

Miguel says of my work:

"Her book (Touchstone) is a reminder of how connected we are to the essences of life and points to our origins, our guiding principles, our salvation. It is a book about, with and for love. It exudes gratefulness and wholeheartedness from the very first proposal, "Touchstone," to its last poem, "Lost in Choices."

He goes on to say:

"Bell connects nature with the human condition in the last stanza (of "Tide") using a versatile expressive means, simile: The tide is coming in/sliding up the shore/Sure and steady as mothers love." She is able to link the sureness and steadiness of the ever-lapping sea with love, a leitmotif in her creation."

In conclusion he says of my poem "Still in Love" and my work in general :

"As I said at the beginning, this is a book of love. Bell has a gift: she is able to pour out words with an emphatic and empathic tone that catches the reader as she turns concrete occurrences and a great love into an ever-lasting experience: "The memory of  what we had/ And what we were to each other....// With the summer days we lived together/ And the love we shared."

I am totally humbled by his words. I write poetry because it comes to me, like breathing. Usually already whole and complete  just waiting for me to put the words on paper. It's something that I've done from a very early age and something that I enjoy. It also has a cathartic aspect, as putting emotion into words helps to exorcise pain and help me heal, and also to express the beauty that abounds around us. So much beauty that it would break my heart if I didn't set it free and share it.

Until next month, stay well, be happy.

  

Is it Spring yet? by Nancy M Bell

 

To see more of Nancy's books click on the cover above.

Spring

I chose the cover of The Selkie's Song because it's just so pretty and reminds me that Spring is coming. Really, it is.

With that in mind I thought I'd just share some of my poetry that celebrates Spring.

May Moonlight

How many times have you heard

You can’t go back again?

It’s true you know, you can’t

You can go back to the way things are now

Never to the way things were then.

Long summer nights spent under the stars

Riding in the moonlight up Spy Glass Hill

The May darkness rich with the perfume of apple blossoms

The orchard ghostly white in the gloaming

The world is dark around me where I stand alone

Once more at the apex of that steep hill

Silence gathers, deep and still

Muffling the subtle chatter of the river

I see them coming through the cedars

Rising through the pearly clouds of flowering trees

Young and confident riding sure footed horses

Too young to know how the sweetness of this moment

Will linger in memory long years after this enchanted night

Celebrate

The banners of Spring are flying on the blue of morning

Yellow catkins dance in the sunlit air over the ice-skim puddle

Purple crocus carpet the brown and grey prairie

Bright butter yellow jonquils nestle close to the house foundation

Sheltered from the ever present Alberta winds

Spring comes riding the coat tails of the mighty Chinook

The earth breathes in misty tendrils above the rough ploughed field

 

Winter’s back is broken, melt water runs like blood

Warm sun shyly promises the glory of June to come

Alberta blue sky and flowering prairie flowing forever

The long cold months are gone, come celebrate Spring  

But Spring doesn't always come gently, does it?

Spring Snow

The storm demons are howling rabidly across the sky

Dragging their icy talons against the window glass

Screeching their defiance through the hydro wires

Buffeting the house with their fists of wind

Shrieking they the fall upon the exposed prairie

Vomiting great gouts of snow to cover the earth

They hurl handfuls of icy pellets in my face

As I struggle to let the stock into the barn

Mean spiritedly they snatch the door from my frozen fingers

Slamming it open and popping one of the hinges

I bare my teeth at them and wrestle the door from their grasp

Hold it steady as the horses troop in out of the angry storm

The bale of hay spills its summer scent in the frigid air

A sunlit meadow song to battle the storm raging outside

The storm demons grab me in their teeth and shake me

As I blindly make my way back to the house

Power and fury personified; they scream their defiance

Their voices howling through the wind in my ears

Reluctant to exchange the winds of winter

For the thunderheads of summer 

Seasonal Sestina

Why is it that the first flowers of Spring

Are so special and the green of new leaves

Wakes a wild joy in my heart

Is it because they signal the end of Winter

Filled with the promise of long summer days

And the lazy hum of honey bees among the flowers

The tiny white snowdrops are among the first flowers

Along with the purple crocus of Spring

Courageously piercing the snow with their leaves

Small purple clusters to gladden my heart

Throwing a gauntlet in the face of Winter

Shining brightly through the short Spring days

The snow retreats with the lengthening of days

The garden paths are strewn with clots of flowers

The sweet bouquet of flower scented Spring

Bright daffodils dance above their pointed leaves

The tulips glowing red as the sun’s heart

They chase from the path the last of snowy Winter

Now only under the brambles lies the evidence of Winter

Soon that too will retreat from the sunny days

The lilacs burst into a froth of fragrant purple flowers

The scent mingling with the sun warmed air of Spring

Slow awakening summer flowers break the soil with their leaves

Heralding the coming of Summer’s heart

Spring passes softly into summer; the pulsing green heart

That rules the year opposite the white of Winter

The long halcyon green and gold days

Forged by the fire of the sun and the glory of flowers

There is just the faintest memory now of Spring

The full heady bounty of Summer canopied by trees of leaves

In due course fiery autumn will colour the leaves

And the flames of October will quicken the heart

The winds of snow will welcome the Winter

The frosty silver and blue of early winter days

Will make us forget the summer of flowers

Too new and beautiful yet to make us wish for Spring

By January we will be wishing for green leaves and Spring

Our heart will have hardened against the silver beauty of Winter

And we will hunger after the days of Summer and flowers 

Thanks for sticking with me this far, and here's hoping Spring is right around the corner.

Until next month, stay well, stay safe

Tombstones Tell A Story by Eileen O'Finlan

Click here for purchase information

Click here to visit Eileen O'Finlan's website

My mom will be 93 in October. Feeling her abilities diminishing, she decided she wanted one last trip to her hometown of Bennington, Vermont. So in August we made the three hour drive north for a long weekend. There were several places Mom especially wanted to visit – places that had meaning to her from her youth – the town library, her old high school, the clock in the town center, the former Hotel Putnam that, among other things, once housed her uncle’s pharmacy, and the Old First Church. She also wanted to visit the graves of her parents, brothers, and other relatives.

I’ve always had a fascination for cemeteries so the burying grounds are of particular interest to me. Depending on their age and condition, they may be creepy, haunting, peaceful, or beautiful. In any case, they draw me in. The tombstones themselves are a special source of beguilement. I love studying about the correlation between the change in tombstone engravings and the layout of cemeteries and the changes in societal views of death and the afterlife between the 17^th and 19^th centuries. These are most fully on display when a cemetery spans centuries as does the one at the Old First Church.

There is much more to read in a tombstone than just the inscription. The shape, size, and substance of the stone and the images engraved on them give powerful hints as to their age and the outlook of those buried beneath them.

In our Bennington travels we visited two final resting places. One was the burying ground owned by and adjacent to the Old First Church. The Church’s congregation was first organized in 1762 and the current church was built in 1805. Its extensive burial grounds are the interment site of soldiers from the American Revolutionary War, both American and British, as well as Bennington’s earliest mayors, Vermont’s early governors, and other prominent citizens.

In one section, the four sides of a stone pillar tell the stories of the burying ground’s Revolutionary era inhabitants.

One side of pillar honoring Revolutionary soldiers buried here

American Soldiers believed buried in Old First Church burying grounds

Hessian (Brunswick) Soldiers believed buried in Old First Church Burying Ground

David Redding - Executed Loyalist

Details regarding Redding's Execution

It is also the final resting place of the great poet, Robert Frost and many of his family members. Fittingly, an elegant birch tree stands watch by his grave. Visitors are invited to reflect on our attitudes about death through the medium his poem, “In A Disused Graveyard”.

Grave site of Robert Frost and Family Members

Mom and my cousin, Patty, reflect near the birch tree at Robert Frost's Grave

Frost's Poem "In A Disused Graveyard"

Closer to our own time period, was our stop at Park Lawn Cemetery where my grandparents, uncles, and other relatives are buried. Compared with older tombstones, I find the more modern ones a bit boring – no disrespect to the dead intended. It’s just that most contain a name, dates of birth and death, and not much else. Unless one expends an enormous amount of money, it’s likely the only viable option, so I quite understand. It’s just that it feels cold and uninteresting to me. However, I did see one grave marker in this cemetery that told a compelling story. It is pictured below.

Grave Marker of William Halford Maguire

The inscription reads:

William Halford Maguire

1911 – 1945

Lt. Col. U.S. Army

West Point ‘32

Chief of Staff, Davao, Mindanao, P.I. when Japan attacked, 1941

Japanese prisoner of War 2 ½ years.

Survivor of three shipwrecks

Subjected to extreme brutality of Japanese captors.

Died Feb. 9, 1945 in Tokyo, Japan, weighing less than 59 pounds

Among awards: Silver Star and Legion of Merit

1933 – Married Ruth Felder, San Antonio, TX.

Children: Mollie Maguire Qvale

William Halford Maguire, Jr.

Imagine all the inspiration for a story to be gleaned from this one grave marker!

As it happens, I am able to add a bit to this story as the above marks the grave of my mother’s cousin. Hal, as she knew him, was captured and forced to walk the torturous Bataan Death March. The fact that he had dwindled to 59 pounds is astonishing in any case, but even more so when one learns that he was well over six feet tall.

Mom remembers Hal as a good-natured fellow whose company she enjoyed. Beyond the grave marker and the little my mom has been able to add, I know nothing about Hal or his life and death. Though it would have to be highly fictionalized, his story is certainly one worth telling.

As writers, we never know when inspiration will strike. Often it comes from the most unexpected places. But if you let the tombstones talk to you, you may come away with the bones of great story. All the better, perhaps, if the story is that of a person who resides in your heart and memory or that of a loved one.

Looking at Critique Groups - Janet Lane Walters

In many ways, writing is a lonely game. The people you meet are often those you've created on paper. Telling stories that are produced on paper or electronically takes time and being alone. Trying to write when surrounded by people carrying on conversations can be difficult if not impossible but writing in a vacuum is also difficult. One needs feedback from others. Just sending off a story and waiting for an editor to comment can be hard. So what can you do?

Writers often band together with other writers to share their works and receive comments from their fellow writers to help. But critique groups may not always work for one author or another. I've belonged to three in my long career as a writer. The first one was centered only in poetry and while I learned there things like rhythm and word choice there was no appreciation of my prose. Since it was the only group in town, I remained and my fellow writers at least were supportive of what I was doing but they didn't help me hone my craft. Then we moved.

I joined a second critique group who said they were interested in both poetry and prose. Problem was they were interested in intellectual prose. I wrote genre fiction, stories with happy endings. My characters had goals and motives and coflicts that could happen to writers in every day life. Did I learn here. Yes and no. I learned I was never going to write "literary" fiction, but some of the authors the quoted as being wonderful didn't write "literary" fiction in the days when they were producing. I also had fun. Doing poetry readings in NYC and meeting people whose poetry was recognized was a great experience. I also had some poems published. My fiction suffered in some ways and grew stronger in others.

Then I found a third critique group. While the writers were mainly focused on romance they could give pointers on some of the other areas I was exploring. The group formed in 1990 has continued and is still active today. Actually we meet at my house and read from five to ten pages and do a round robin critique. Not all the original members still belong. Some of them have gone on to become best-selling authors. Some have moved and some have dropped out of the writing game. I always wonder about the strong writers who simply gave up. Was it something the group was not giving them or was it a fear of faila fear of success. Through this group I discovered electronic publishing years before it became the boom it is now. And I think a lot about those people who left the writing game. But each time one of the members or former member's career takes off I feel inspired and wonder if somehow I have helped them move forward in their careers the way they have helped me.



Seducing the doctor is a new release. Pursuing Dr. West, Gemstones and Healwoman are on sale for another few days. Escape is also on sale.

April is Poetry Month! by Nancy M Bell

Hi Everyone,

This is Guapo. He's pretty amazing and poetry in motion so I thought I'd start with him.

Glad to see you back. April is Poetry Month, so I thought I'd share some of my poetry with you.

This one is about my very first horse, Brandy.

Touchstone

We are linked by love
You and I
You have been my steadfast friend
My anchor in the stormy seas
My safe rock on which to stand
And survey my uncertainties

The sharer of my secrets
The keeper of the wings of my spirit
You have given so much
And asked so little
Touchstone of my soul
Transcending even the distance of death.


This one is about summer when I was seventeen. Old friends I've lost touch with, horses that are no longer here, and my own lost innocence.

Nostalgia

Bittersweet; nibbling at the toes of my subconscious
Memories of long past summer days
Evoked by the essence of green cut hay
A myriad of days
Wrapped up in the rustle of ripening wheat

Shimmering moonlight
Freeing the ghosts locked away in memory
Sending them shouting and galloping once again
Through the now silent dark
Plunging me back into half-forgotten dreams
And half-remembered loves

Sweet moon shadowed innocence of youth.


This one was written when I was fifteen. I liked really a boy who I didn't think I was good enough for. Luckily, I've out grown those insecurities.

Charms

I ain’t got no pretty face
And all my charms are in the bracelet on my wrist
I can’t even offer you money or power
And important friends

All I can give you is all that I am
A shoulder to lean on
And peace without lies

Even though you’re hear today
And tomorrow gone

All I have worth giving is me.


This is about that person you meet and suddenly feel like you've known them forever, but you don't even know their name. Connections from earlier lives.

Who Are You?

Who are you that you can touch me so?
Touch my heart with your eyes?
Hold me with your smile

Who are you that you draw me into your soul?
Making me oblivious to everything
Except that we are together in the same universe
We are the universe

Who are you?
But I know
Somehow from the first I’ve known
Somewhere, in sometime
We have known one another
We have been one

Even now, separated by other lives
I can’t deny the voice in my heart
Or the light through your eyes


Okay, enough poetry. LOL On another note, I've recently teamed up with the late Pat Dale's literary executor and Books We Love to keep his work fresh and in circulation. To that end, I've revamped some of his previously published work with new covers and new material. I'm currently working on expanding his brilliant short story "Must Love Large Dogs". It will be released in Summer 2016 under the title "The Teddy Dialogues." Told from the large dog's point of view, it's hilarious. Originally a short story, I am expanding some of the incidents so that it will be at least 60,000 words or more. Watch for it coming this summer. If you love dogs or just great humour, you'll love "The Teddy Dialogues."

Titles currently available include:

The Last Cowboy, She's Driving Me Crazy, and Henrietta's Heart.

Available on Amazon and wherever good books are sold. Till next month, be happy, be healthy.

I'll Never Leave Your Pizza Burning: An examination of misheard words, phrases and lyrics, by Kathy Fischer-Brown

The English language is rich with idioms, odd turns of phrase, and regional colloquialisms. For a foreigner trying to learn English (whether it be of the American, British, or other variety), it can be a daunting task...even tricky…to say the least. Same with children just starting to talk. How we hear and interpret these words and phrases can often have a lasting effect on how we speak them.

Which brings me to one of most entertaining…and even amusing... of these curiosities of warped perception, the “mondegreen."

Coined in “The Death of Lady Mondegreen,” a November 1954 essay published in Harper’s Magazine, the mondegreen was writer Sylvia Wright’s explanation for misheard words in a favorite poem of her childhood. The Bonnie Earl o'Moray from Thomas Percy’s “Relics of Ancient English Poetry” contains the following:

Ye Hielands and ye Lowlands,
O, whaur hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl o' Moray,
And laid him on the green.

To Ms. Wright’s young ears, the words sounded like this:

Ye Hielands and ye Lowlands,
O, whaur hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl Amurray,
And Lady Mondegreen.

To quote the author, "The point about what I shall hereafter call mondegreens, since no one else has thought up a word for them, is that they are better than the original."

Better? Judge for yourself.  How many of you, having listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon,” misheard a certain lyric as I did? (“There’s a bathroom on the right”—surely useful information.) The Beatles were masters of creating mondegreens. For example: “The girl with colitis goes by,” "She's got a chicken to ride," and “All my luggage...” The Rolling Stones in "Beast of Burden" promise, “I’ll never leave your pizza burning” (I'd have no other guy). Annie Lennox had it right when she  promised, "Sweet dreams are made of cheese." And what about that cute, cuddly critter, “Gladly, the Cross-eyed Bear"? National anthems are not immune, and in this instance, more than true: “O, Canada, I stand on cars and freeze.” For all you Boomers, did you know that Davey Crockett was “killed in a bar when he was only three”? Let’s not forget The Young Rascals and their loving threesome, “You and me and Leslie.” But the most famous of all has to be Jimi Hendrix with his “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.” I could go on.... But I'm sure we all have our own personal mondegreens.

I first became acquainted with mondegreens in a hilarious 1978 article in The New York Times Sunday Magazine, titled “I Led the Pigeons to the Flag,” in which William Safire, tongue in cheek, stated that some guy named Richard Stans was the most saluted man in America. Despite his politics, I was a big fan of  Safire's "On Language" column, reading it religiously every week. This one, in which he tackles the "misheard," was arguably one of his best. He called the misinterpretation of words and phrases “false homonyms,” or “The Guylum Bardo Syndrome.” He presented a lovely thesis on how some misheard words and phrases have actually found permanence in our lexicon. He cited a few etymologies, such as the evolution of “spit 'n’ image”—often spelled now as “spitting image”—and how “kit and caboodle” is sometimes written “kitten caboodle,” which he described as “a good name for a satchel in which to carry a cat.”

"Mondegreen" turned out to be Safire’s preferred label for this phenomenon of substituting perfectly reasonable words where the actual ones are ripe for misinterpretation. It also lends support to Wright's assertion that modegreens are, in many cases, better than the actual rendition. This is especially apparent as it applies to the poor Earl o’Moray.

Safire closed his brilliant piece by expressing how much more romantic and appropriate it is that, instead of simply being “laid on the green” to die a cold and lonely death, the earl had company. Perhaps he even held the hand of the beautiful Lady Mondegreen, “both bleeding profusely, but faithful unto death.”

Yes, I will agree with Sylvia Wright. Some mondegreens are infinitely better than the original.

 

Links to Sites Featuring Mondegreens

(Not by any means comprehensive)

The Phrase Finder

Senior Times

Kiss This Guy

Kathy Fischer-Brown is an author of historical fiction, whose novels are published by BWL Publishing, Inc. Find her at: http://bwlpublishing.ca/authors/fischer-brown-kathy/
or
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004BMAG7U