Facts of Blood

The fourth draft of Greater Matter is complete. I spent this morning contacting a number of people to help me with the way forward and am feeling frankly excited.

At the last minute I decided to change the title of the final (eighth) section from Blood in Ink to Facts of Blood - the former poem was published in the latest Ecca book, Throw in your Song; but the latter poem is more permanent in its meaning. Here is an extract from it:

"[...]

see the pink lamps

of flowering wild grasses bending

on long stalks in a kind of ecstatic submission to

the sun, as it turns

iron-red the luminous trunks of pines in

the plantation [...]"

- from Facts of Blood, title poem of section 8 to appear in Greater Matter later this year.

As it happens, I've simultaneously just switched off an overnight bisque-firing of a kiln-load of ceramic parrot-broaches, ordered by the Cape Parrot Project for taking along to Ohio next week, to a parrot-lovers' indaba. Why is there a feeling of such beautiful order in all of my creative chaos? 

Some of last year's batch of parrot  broaches, photo taken in October 2018.

Shaman (fourth draft) - extract

"[...]                    I am

learning to read

cowered over distances:

my ear close to sounds of antelope

a-galloping under the kitchen floor."

- Extract from Learning to read, in Shaman (Section 6 of Greater Matter)

... the fourth draft of Greater Matter is almost complete - just one more section to edit ...

Wine in the spirit (extract from Between the Realms)

So happy. Am over the halfway mark with the fourth draft of Greater Matter. Having to re-read and work with the poems, it's making me miss Norman more again and simultaneously feel him closer than ever. I actually feel guilty for the irreverence of Life: at how hard I have to slog to stay close to what matters. This is slog like I've never allowed myself: not the usual duty and drudgery that's helped build my life in the past, it's more vital, but harder than anything I've ever experienced before. Destiny-type stuff. Even a mouse has a destiny ... each day, my own weakness is a revelation. And yes: I'm happy.

Slowly galumphing ...

Greater Matter is slowly galumphing its way into the world. I'm onto the fourth draft of Sacred Space, which is the third section of the book. And I even managed to get the Contents Pages for Sections 1 and 2 done the other day! 54 pages, thus far ... though I spaced the poems more in Section 2 ... not sure it'll stay that way ...

Anyway, here's a poem from Sacred Space, a section which records the story of the singular adventure of Norman's wake -

Wrack of sobs

Forced back home the day after you die in my arms

because our house has been burgled –

en route must pull over, stop the car

for sobs so strong

they’d crack my skull on the steering wheel

were I not at the same time catching my head –

wracked this way I feel

the elemental Force of Love

thrusting me each time

helpfully forward.

- from Sacred Space, Section 3 of Greater Matter 

And here - I'm so proud - writing down the page numbers. What a slog.

   

Duty

The poem by Norman Morrissey below is in Strandloop, while the bit by me is an extract from the title poem of my upcoming book of love poems, Path of Beauty. It shows his wisdom in relation to the world is so much greater than mine, though he was more than twenty years younger than I am now when he wrote the poem. May I live up to him yet.

 

Give Your Writing The Edge Newsletter No.43, January 2019

Due entirely to an error on my part, the online version of this month's newsletter is only available from today, so, while I don't usually use the blog for the newsletter, I am using it now to re-post it across the social media channels. I apologise sincerely to all who may have been inconvenienced between Tuesday and now.

Below is my covering letter; if you wish to leap straight to the newsletter, it is here:
https://perspectivepublications.wordpress.com/give-your-writing-the-edge/  

Dear friends

Happy new year to you all with a whopper of a start for Give Your Writing The Edge.

The editorial, On Building a Theatre for Spirit, is to a large extent inspired by Pulitzer-prize winning poet, Mary Oliver, who died, at the age of 83, on 17th January, leaving behind an extraordinary trail of creative work. Do follow the link (in the second footnote) to the interview with Krista Tippett - it's a worthwhile set of conversations with the deeply experienced and humble writer Oliver was.

I hope you enjoy South African-born, Italy-based feature poet Tania Haberland's series of poems, written during a recent unexpected experience in hospital. The poems are accompanied by haunting images - photographs taken by Haberland herself, who often combines her poems creatively with visual and audio-visual material. An intimate, erotic poem of hers is slipped in, anticipating the month of love that's coming up. Tania's new book, Water Flame, is available ... I think at a special price at this stage still, so you may click on the link provided and seize the opportunity.

Rene Bohnen's excellent review of the Ecca Poets 2017 publication, This Moment's Marrow, is bound to fascinate with her thorough investigation of the concept of 'marrow' and her application of it in her reading of each poet's contributions. May you enjoy it, and please don't be shy to send responses!

I popped in a few links on the Notice Board Page to YouTube channel clips featuring work in process with filmmaker Riccardo Magnanini - those of you with an interest in the way in which moving images can be poetic, and can serve poetry, will hopefully be entertained and uplifted. Your feedback is SO welcome.

Since I was sadly forced to withdraw from the Summer Songs and Poems event on 6th January this year, I have published all six poems, which I had planned to read on that day. I invite you to read them aloud to yourselves or your fellows, in trust that they will move you as I had intended my audience to be moved.

Coming up on February 15th is the launch of an unexpected (yes, completely so) book of love poems I've put together for Valentine's Day which I've entitled Path of Beauty. They're being printed next week - please do let me have your orders. The launch will be complemented by songs and stories of love, in an event held at the Rose Theatre in Hogsback, with Gwyneth Lloyd and Trevor Webster. If you are in or near Hogsback, we would be delighted to have your company. I'll be publishing extracts from Path of Beauty on my blog in the next two weeks. (Most of the poems in there are pulled out of Section 7 of  my upcoming book, Greater Matter, so I guess it amounts to a kind of preview.) 

You'll see a new page in this newsletter, announcing that I shall be doing this newsletter as a charitable venture for another five months. Thereafter, I would like Give Your Writing The Edge to be carried by donations - that is my plan, at any rate. Unfortunately, I am far from being a wealthy widow. Please see p.26 for details.

I'm keeping VERY busy with the fourth draft of Greater Matter and am likely to announce a launch date in next month's newsletter, so if you've been following my Facebook and blog posts, you can start looking forward to that collection (my 'heffalump') FINALLY seeing the light of day :-)

I wish you a beautiful month of reading and writing. 

Yours in fellowship

Silke

The devil in words

Building up to the launch of Path of Beauty, I'm practising piano/ keyboard to accompany soprano Gwyneth Lloyd for a couple of songs we intend to include in the programme. Along with a love story or two, told by Trevor Webster.

Path of Beauty includes 8 old love poems (9 if you count the one on the back cover) and 12 new ones. Of the 8 (9) old poems, 3 are erotic in tone.

I'm thinking about my audience ... are they going to enjoy that? Should I pull those poems out and replace them with others?

The devil in words

If the frogs court with bleeps,
and the birds neck
one another,
opening wide
their feathered arms -

if they're free
to compose
their rapture,

and mating beetles fly
through the air
close by our heads,

and the butterflies
dot paths and grass,
wings shivering in ecstasy -

why, if all this is SO normal, why
should WE not speak
the language
of love?

Why are words taken as obscene, intrusive,
when love
is common -

pure music, movement
and creative
energy?

What is it that puts the devil
into
words?

- Silke Heiss, 29th January 2019

Front cover

Back cover. Portrait of Norman by Michael Chomse

'What is marrow?' A glowing review of the 2017 Ecca Poets publication

Ecca Poets 2017 

I am delighted to offer you extracts from a new, beautifully engaged and engaging, review of the 2017 Ecca publication, This Moment's Marrow, by Rene Bohnen. Below I have cut and pasted her words on Norman Morrissey's and my own contributions. For the review in its entirety, please click http://eccapoets.blogspot.com/p/reviews-and-commentary.html

Ecca Poets: This Moment’s Marrow

A reader’s impression by René Bohnen

What is marrow? This question spontaneously pops up as I hold the 2017 publication of the Ecca Poets – their 20^th book in 25 years. This edition, This Moment’s Marrow, offers the reader  an eclectic group of poets in an anthology which makes for an enriching read.

So what is marrow? Dictionaries present definitions we know so well that we probably seldom pause to think about the profound meaning of the word.

Marrow is “a soft fatty substance in the cavities of bones” the internet offers, and also “ the essential part of something”.  Synonyms given are: “essence, core, pith” and “heart”.

In the reading of This Moment’s Marrow,  I discover and experience the whole spectrum of these dictionary entries.

The anthology title is taken from a Norman Morrissey poem on page 26.

Grasp

A dove called,

and I’d a vision

of our lithe boomslang

up in the cherry tree:

the Holy Ghost

and the hero

winding Hippocrates’ staff of healing

in one grasp

of thought:

old myths, symbols

lurking

in this moment’s marrow.

All of the Morrissey poems in this anthology show an accomplished poet at his task. Strong pastoral imagery, bursting with life, alternates with delicate vignettes of tenderness and tranquil silence.

Norman Morrissey passed away in July 2017 and has left a rich literary legacy. Like the butterfly shows us the breeze, this poet shows us wisdom. (Page 24)

            Breeze

You knew there was a breeze

only

because the butterflies

danced

in

it! 

According to the Preface, the poets have had “no real aspirations or manifestos” and their books will hopefully always have “a workshop feel” (Brian Walter on page 1)

If the function of marrow is to generate blood cells, the vital role of Ecca get-togethers is evident. Nurturing and giving oxygen, the group promotes growth in individual poets. All have successfully made their own paths as well – since paths are made by walking, as the Spanish poet Antonio Machado so succinctly put it.

[...]

Children and babies feed the marrow of a mother’s soul, as they do that of the poet. 

            When I fell

            pregnant

            with you I fell

            into new makings,

            poems would wake me”

writes Silke Heiss in “Kept up” on page 27. She is a poet who understands the exquisite tension that is created by holding two polarities at once. I give you the example on page 29, where a surprising contradiction alerts the reader to a vast truth held within a small poem:

            Mist    

Mist is

a revelation,

a happy Gossip –

tells all

where air has been –

is going to.

Almost haiku-like, the short poems sigh with insight and meaning; they show Heiss to be a master of cutting right to the essence of her observation. In her longer poems, she displays an instinctive grasp of the objective correlative, by evoking strong emotion in the reader without annoying prescription. On page 29 we find the

            Wood Owl

            I go outside to fetch some kindling,

            my blankets snag on branches dry –

            unwitting I catch them with the twigs I’m breaking:

            they whirr and cough and patter and sigh.

            Panic I subdue with patience,

            pull away gently, sensing why.

            Free at last I fill the box,

            but am lost in the dark by the Wood owl’s cry.

For the full review please click http://eccapoets.blogspot.com/p/reviews-and-commentary.html

  

Path of Beauty

In preparation for a Soiree of love songs, poems and stories - to be performed at The Rose Theatre on 15th February by Gwyneth Lloyd, Trevor Webster and myself - I've assembled twenty love poems of mine, ranging from the early 1980s to the present, in a collection I've entitled Path of Beauty. (Twenty-one, actually, if you count the poem on the back cover.)

Artist Michael Chomse has kindly given permission for me to use his portrait, Norman leaving, on the back cover.

My printer's colour cartridge is just about empty, so these prints are pretty wasted-looking - but they give you an impression anyway, and hopefully whet your appetites for what is to come.

If you want a copy of the book, you are welcome to pre-order it. (R50 per copy, add R20 postage inland, R40 overseas.)

I'll post some extracts or poems from the collection as things start warming closer to Valentine's Day.

Many of the recent love poems in the book are extracted from Section 7 of Greater Matter - a section which I've re-titled Path of Beauty - so if you want to hold a sneak preview in your hands, this little book would be it.

Path of Beauty front cover

Path of Beauty back cover

Blunder, a lovely paradox, and 'A Wife's Entreaty'

My apologies to all who may have been inconvenienced by last night's post - 'Caution: Poet at Play' - which I had to delete after discovering that I had no authority to use the accompanying picture.

The picture is the front cover of a book created privately 33-odd years back, and the reason I wished to share it was really to show how longstanding my writerly 'career' has been going on, on the quiet, really ... I would not know how to write if it weren't happening on the quiet.

For me, poetry and love have always gone together - both by definition occupy a quiet, private, special space.

The love books, which Norman and I produced, questioned that definition, you could say, in that the private poems shared in public began to function as reminders to others of their own quiet, loving spaces, as well as the fierce relationship-work, that is necessary, to achieve harmony. You could say that our sharing of our private, intimate experiences worked to spread the possibility of private, intimate experiences between others. A lovely paradox if ever there was.

So today I'll share an old love poem, written to my ex-husband, when I was still trying to salvage our marriage. I addressed him as the poet I/ we believed he was, asking, as so many women do, for open communication. It was not to be. Today I can say I am glad that I/we tried and also glad that I/ we failed. He is far happier not to be a poet.

The poem was published in Love Gyres, my first love poem reading with Norman, in February 2011, in Noordhoek, Cape Town.  

A Wife's Entreaty

I have to find you                                                         

again.                                                                          

Where we are together

is such a quiet place.                                                    

                                                                                   

I mistrust you                                                               

in the world,                                                                

which I mistrust.                                                           

I fear your defeat,

and my loneliness.                                                        

                                                                                   

Good cheer is a chore.                                                 

I miss my joy                                                               

in hiding, a quiet place.                                     

Secluded with you,                                                      

undiscovered,                                                              

both of us.                                                                   

                                                                                   

I am not sure

that facing life                                                               

means being visible.                                                     

If so, I need you

to lift my face for me,                                                   

to put the garlands

in my hair,

so that people can say,

‘She’s there.’

We do nothing

for ourselves.

We scoop the water of our knowledge

from our hearts

and baptise thus

each day.

Let us not be silent

with one another.

Let us protest, entwine,

and say:

‘The quiet place

is full of murmuring. Let us echo

its delicate decrees.’

Look: my lip, my ear.

Clay worked to completion.

Please seek to place

your lip against my ear,

to speak. Your ear

against my mouth,

to hear.

In the din

of this frightening world

it is those intimacies I desire.

You may still steel me

with a verbal smithy’s fire.

You know I have words, signs,

writing in my blood:

captains of so many

red and white boats.

Therefore I do require constant flood

of murmured love.

- From Love Gyres, Simonstown, 2011 

Guinevere's gift

Looking for suitable cloth upon which to stitch this morning's poem, Norman's and my Covenant Tree - the splendid copper beech, whom he called Guinevere - gave me this moment of heaven.