War may not be Poetry but...
06/11/2004 12:15 p.m.
Salute the Soldier Poets*(title of draft poem)

some of those same hands
that held rifles,
dropped bombs
from plane’s gunner posts,
or manoeuvered in the confines
of submarines,
belonged to those
who would suffer lifetime afflictions
emotional or physical or both
or in many cases, death
by the hands of the other side
but during their time of duty
religiously took up their pens
not only for their journals
and letters home
many of which
are invaluable documents in war archives now
and featured in the media on the "anniversaries"
of turning points like D-Day
but also for their poems

England, for one, is a nation
that still salutes
her soldier poets
in the magazine, This England.

Some of those same feet which found refuge
in farmer’s fields, churchyards,
civilian homes
before and after battle
some of those eyes that refreshed themselves
in the sight of familiar flowers
and re-found their dreams for peace
' in the faces of the blooms
that echoed home
the scents of homeland and the sense of
near-touch
of their beloveds
back in their Elysium
keeping them moving, forward
during the exiled experience of horror
also forged
their paths to notebooks
they would fill with observations and
outpourings
that would serve as the art of
the soldier poet

some of those who left home
in their youth, interrupted from their
early paths of adulthood
and loves
to fight for those at home
and those not even born
are just arriving back
from the latest hell
and bleed their wounds and merit
their epiphanies
or their tracking of
the mundane and the brutal
the terrors and the isolation
as we who have not gone
cannot -
in their words

but do we really read
and listen
to the story
of those who were more
than witness?

Yes, I say, as England does
Salute the Soldier Poets
and not just on anniversaries
decades from now,
but in the present
while the pain is freshest
and the recovery is on

- Maureen Glaude

*also the title of a regular feature in This England Magazine, of Great Britain, in which a photo and biography and examples of work of a different soldier poet appear each issue.

Author Note: First I want to apologize to the female members of the services, past and present, and affirm that when I use "he" and the male references, I include them too, and just for brevity do not say he and she, or her, instead of his. Perhaps I'll write all this again better with that inclusion, later. I know that the role of women in the forces has had a tendency to be overlooked too much. So far, though, I haven't personally come across soldier poetry by women, but it must be out there.

I'm proud of the fine Soldier Poet we have on here, (maybe there's more than one, I don't know) from whom I learned via his vivid and frank writing, so much of the first-hand experience at war. And his feelings from when he waited to go over, through to his service time and return. Putting aside the controversy of personal convictions which conflicted with the war, and going past that, I had to know from such a writer-participant, the feelings from the actual battleground, from one who had to enact the reality and not the political deciders, or we civilians who debated the pros and cons and rights or wrongs, of the issues amongst themselves, but the story we must know and have recorded in fine writing from the "done deal." The very real process of the deal. And was very moved and glad that I could. Even though of course the journals and poems were heartwrenching, and probably just the beginning of the documentation and effects that may even not be ready to be told for years, they were so honest. And the author did act as commentator, mourner and witness of the horrors. And I felt did so with a certain objectivity, not subjectivity,which was so important to me. He demonstrated faith, revealed fears and loneliness for his new wife, (bride, really, as they were newlyweds, -she's on here, I just learned, too)and homeland and people, but continuous courage and compassion. Naturally I was soon absorbed and concerned for his safety, survival, and the changes he must be enduring in his rapid exposure to the darknesses of mankind. His immediate from the scenes entries when he could make them were my most sought-out on here at the time. This was not me romanticizing soldierhood. I know the complexities and we hear of scandals and disgraces that have occurred. But clearly we here can be very proud of our soldier-poet from here, as representative of many, I'm sure, who kept their honor. When I was first acquainting with the work and plight of Dana E. Brossard, and soon found his photo, in his library, I thought of my son, almost the same age, and how unbearable this would be for me and for our family, my son's fiance, etc. I was so happy when my new poet friend returned home, safe, to the States, wife (Leandra K Njaa on here) and family, and this on-line family here, but with health and emotional adjustments, I'm sure, to start to make. Naturally, from the unnatural experience. Now I could enjoy his latest "regular-themed" poetry too now. Of course I'd read some of his earlier pre-war entries too, on other themes.

The Soldier Poet role is so important because it represents from a bird's eye-view the challenge and experience, and speaks for the "universal soldier", the universal plight of man against himself, in a way, and for himself as humanity. I don't know if this is clear, but it's a start. I use universal not in the sense of every country but for the general role. One of the most crucial roles of poetry/writing was served in this way I think.

I am currently Friendly
I am listening to trucks working down the street

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Summer endeavours
06/07/2004 12:57 a.m.
Today I went to my old computer and delved into some work on my novel, to which I'll be devoting many summer hours. I'll still be posting poetry, and commenting, but the characters and story are calling out to me and I'm inspired to continue with the novel before my trip out west next month, and before the surgery on my right hand in September. Fortunately, it will be a lyrical style of novel, with some poetry in it, as I'll never abandon poetry.

I can switch from one computer to the other as I require, (or take the new one in for an insertion of disc slot which it doesn't have, only CD ROM) but had to do some long-hand copying today for notes, and some letter-writing I wanted to catch up on. The hand problem is due to my Viking blood apparently, and not due to computer usage according to the doctor. It's layman name is trigger finger, ironically, since I've always been anti-gun. If any of you finds a hard node that feels and looks strange, forming in their palm and doesn't know what it is, check it out early as it's not minor to get this Dupuytren's Contraction problem solved if it's advanced, and can cripple up the hand and fingers if progressed. I had no idea it was degenerative and serious, and thought it was tendonitis from the computer but not major. But it's something that can recur on either hand in various places and too many surgeries aren't a good idea either, as they can hurt the vessels and nerves and cause worse problems. It's caused by a weakening of the fascia in the skin layer due to cells with this disease. At least, that's how it was explained to me. If anyone's had this and had it treated and have any tips, I'll gladly listen. I'll have a scar in the palm, to add to my other list of scars. Oh well, I guess we can't always have a smooth road.

br> I am enjoying the flowers from the market we got today, the garden my daughter is planning, and the upcoming trip and the novel, The Revenants, about Lake Mazinaw or based on it at least. I may choose another name for the lake and setting, or may keep to the actual one it's based on.

Maria, I'll be sending you my snail-mail letter soon. I wrote it today but will probably add more tomorrow.

I am currently Creative
I am listening to more birdsong

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The movie The Notebook
06/04/2004 07:52 p.m.
Last night my friend Tania and her family, and our friend Ann, took advantage of Tania’s free tickets to the premiere of the movie The Notebook, based on Nicholas Sparks’ novel by the same title. Ann was the one who told me about the book six years ago, and loaned me her copy, saying this is a book that men and women, both, receive with laughter, tears, and amazement. Certainly there were some people crying leaving the theatre, but during the film there was also much laughter and awe. In the lobby afterward there was high praise and discussion, and even the usher from the theatre offered input in the conversations about it.


I’m so glad I saw it, as I knew I would. I adore Sparks’s stories and even though the movie scripts are fairly loosely based on them in many places, they are always moving and tender but with humour, the reverent for life tone of the author, and beautiful scenic effects. I think what I am happiest about is that the stories bring us back to basic down-home, porch-front and waterfront treasures and cherishing of the simple but most beautiful and worthy qualities of life. And show us the wonder of poetry, love and landscape. Message in a Bottle, and A Walk to Remember, are some of the other stories that are movies now. A Bend in the Road is yet to be made into a film, but I enjoyed the novel.

The lead actor in the young role of Noah in the movie The Notebook, Ryan Gosling, does an amazing job with the role and hauntingly good-looking, reminded me so much (his eyes, it’s eyes) of my sister’s first husband and their son, my late nephew, Kirk, who passed away at l8 from a car accident. The character’s personality traits and behavior also reminded me a great deal of Kirk and Gary (his father). Even the story of Allie and Noah’s romance in their youth reminded me of my sister’s with Gary in many aspects.

The latter part of the story reached me even more than when I read the book, because since then I have been close to a similar situation with my late friend Tom, and his missing his wife who had to move into a nursing home four years before I met Tom, due to advanced Alzheimer’s. Tom could have been the model for Noah in various ways, and his relationship with his wife seemed very similar to Noah’s with Allie.

It is inspiring that the book and movie deal with a prevalent theme and without any overt preachiness, by playing out the tale (based on true experience in the authors' family) cause us to focus on issues like the ordeals of ill seniors, in a strong, moving, very esthetically and charming way. If you're a fan of the quiet joys of life, canoeing, wildlife, old country houses, and first love romances with a passion that is never forgotten and in maturity is still golden, , you won't be disappointed.

In our town older people needing to be in nursing homes are usually sent to separate ones, and this issue has been fought and is starting to make progress toward change, since a couple who’d been married for over sixty years, were isolated from one another and heartbroken over it, last year and the lady and her family fought for the right to be placed at least on the same floor in the same home. And they won. The newspapers followed the story and stipulations have begun to be made that wherever possible, the strategy of separate homes for couples who want to be together in their closing years, have been initiated. I had no idea this was a frequent problem, and people watching the movie might assume it’s easy to share the same facility in that situation, but it hasn’t been in Ottawa, that’s for sure. There was public pressure to insist since the story in the paper last year, that it be considered their right and that it’s abusive to separate such a couple. The movie and book focus on the benefits for health and peace of mind, and spirit, when this can happen. But in some cases when there is Alzheimer’s, as in Martha’s (Tom’s wife) it can be very difficult once the patient considers the spouse a total stranger. It is the moments when that slips away and they do recognize and remember, that the other spouse hangs on to, and dreams of, and if they are not experiencing the heartbreaking violence or animosity caused by the disease in their spouse, it can work out to be lovely to be near each other still.

There was plenty of humour and positivity in the movie, and gorgeous scenery and respect to nature, poetry (Whitman) etc. and old porch-times with guitars, dancing, and dreaming of the future, and the movie was more positive than depressing. The acting was very fine, and though there were considerable alterations in the adaptation, the essence of message and story, and many of the lines and depictions, remained true to the story. I would have liked the two senior leads to have been a little closer to 80, or if they are, maybe seem more like in their 80's but perhaps they’re young-looking and acting octaganerians, so all the power to them in that case. But visually to me they were too young.

On the whole it’s brought me back to the novel again and heartened me that the crowd was so entertained with the kind of story I love, of passion, history, humanity and nature, and a slower, quieter style of living than technology and cell phones fill us with now, and wholesome values and appreciations at a time when I could really use it. I’d recommend both the movie and the book, but as usual,probably in that order. It’s so hard not to keep looking for the book in the movie, when you’ve read it first.

There are plenty of water fowl in the movie, many more than in the book, and the panoramic cinematography of the scenes with them (enhanced by computer effect I think) are award-winning, I would say. The music adapted to the story is a propos and emotionally perfect too. Overall it succeeds clearly in reaching out to the souls of all ages, and their senses of humour and nostalgia, and honours poetry and journal-keeping, faith and hope beyond scientific prediction, via fine storytelling.
I am currently Calm
I am listening to birds outside

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The Seeds of a Poem
05/29/2004 08:19 p.m.
A poet friend on here wanted a longer poem from my "Evening Haiku." I think she was wondering about the story behind it or saw more potential or need for expansion. Indeed, the experience was breathtaking
and unexpected enough to warrant a longer piece but the principal form it had called out for to me was haiku. There are jewels of moments all around us, everyday, to cherish. But I am interested in a longer poem too, and this first draft is a result of that friend's request, or winked suggestion - she knows who she is. It's exciting and encouraging when we help inspire one another to carry on developing our poems' potentials.

Before the Shadow on the Wall


it’s seven in the evening
here in the small café
in Ottawa's centretown
I sit alone amid the empty tables
and wait, as the first arrival
for the Chilean reading


Dean, host, owner
afficionado of the arts
and baking enthusiast
puts the finishing touches
to the cheesecake he’s creating
as he calls out his familiar hello to me
assuring he’s not ignoring
my presence
but is caught up in his masterpiece
Leanne, the server, will be along
in a few minutes

the stage with mic stand silent
around me the walls display
paintings by local artists


outside a hum of cars and buses
and the sidewalks moist
from an earlier rain
air tingling fresh

and as I stare at the stage area
I discover, on the wall ahead of me
a silhouette of roses and baby’s breath

the dark grey form
a scene of its own
sprigs and curls in design
lace pattern at a standstill
separate and alive
detached from its source

a visual echo of the
vase of pink roses
and white blooms
a spin-off cast
from a proud centering
on a table

I have the time
not another soul
arrived yet

I find my pen, then
search for the words
the arrangement of lines
for my own bouquet

as if both the silhouette and I
know that
I will need to try to make
a capture before the light will change

the effect become a memory

so I work toward my dream of a
masterpiece
as the cafe owner works on his

until the crowd begins
to arrive, small groups
or couples
greeting with hugs, holàs
and handshakes
and stepping in between
my subject and myself
as the moment ends













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Weekend Hodgepodge
05/29/2004 05:34 p.m.

Today is a pleasant day of hodgepodge activities. By that I mean, making rice krispies* squares for cravings and light snacks, securing planting stands into the ground and hanging the hummingbird feeder (hopefully not too late for the hummingbirds to grace it), enjoying my package from Haiku Canada of the holographic anthology.

Every member had the invitation to create and send a haiku on whatever souvenir paper they liked, (even menus or receipts, Xmas tags, etc) with art or not, but the requirement was to send 200 of these so each member would receive one of each, in the package. They are loose within a front cover and back cover,in a plastic-bound package, so one can pull each one out and enjoy individually. Amazing, and it’s a nice break from computer life to sit with them and have a cup of tea and just witness all the originality and creativity. My friend, one of our haiku leaders, Terry Ann Carter, made hers on an airline suitcase tag. That meant she had to procure 200 of those tags, and hand-print her haiku on each one. On the backs, sides, bottoms, anywhere they wanted, the artists included their names and hometowns.

Last Saturday we had a lovely experience, my relatives and Ernie and I, as my siblings and our spouses, and our mom, Margaret, all drove up to Perth, a small-town about an hour and a bit away from Ottawa, for my aunt and uncle’s 60th anniversary party at the Legion. Uncle Art and Aunt Fran, (she’s Mom’s sister) treated all of us, except Mom who stayed at their house, one of my female cousins, who chose to do that too, and all of their daughters and their one son, Jim, who couldn't stay overnight) to rooms in the motor inn. And there were cousins from Art's side included too. In effect almost the whole clan at our generation-level, (it would have been too many to include all of our children) took over the little inn on a highly busy weekend in Perth, due to three weddings, and a long weekend.

At the dance we all felt a bit famous when immediate original family members were called together several times to have photos taken altogether, (and of course lots of other photos of everyone were taken) and old photos of some of us and of Mom, Fran and Art in the form of posters from computer blow-ups were all around the hall. Mom as a matron of honour to Fran, and a lovely one of Art and Fran in front of a house in Ottawa in the Gebe, at the time, and that house is still in Art's family. We dined on delicious turkey with all the trimmings (everything paid for plus all the bar offerings throughout the night) by Fran and Art. The music was super, a singer, guitarist and DJ all-in-one, who could play all our requests but his own repertoire was fine without even any requests.

There was plenty of dancing, eating, courteous drinking, and nothing in the way of speeches or poems (though my cousin compiled a large book and I placed my poem in there as had others, and memorabilia and letters). It was a delightful reunion. Seeing my cousin Jim for the first time in thirty years (ridiculously too long and we promised each other not to let that happen again) and seeing the gals from out west, and London Ont, (my female cousins) and in the case of two of them their spouses, who are great guys, was a real treat. I see my aunt and uncle a few times a year, when they come to Ottawa, or we go there, and we have lunch with them and my mom, any of us who can make it.

Besides my leaving without my pair of white pants, (temporarily left in the inn-try explaining that) and
a slip falling off one of us in front of the family (I’m not saying which lady) and Mare, relaxed over the free red wine, (who can blame her as she and her hubby are going through his cancer fight again) and falling asleep with her nightie on backwards, and a few cameras left behind, and still being hunted down, it was a huge success! I really should have taken advantage more of the mud drinks (like a Bailey's) since I couldn't sleep after all the excitement). I had a few glasses of wine, too, though. There was a get-together in my cousin's room after the party for people like us who hadn't wound down yet. It was very happy occasion, though with a sense toward the end of the night that it is a shame it’s so rare to all get together and will be a long time (if ever) that we’ll all do this again, (even with a wedding coming up, it won’t be all of us together) it had a tinge of bittersweetness.

The best part is we all get on so well, and even though I rarely see them, their family is much like ours in so many ways. My cousin Wendy and I even both brought boggle to play in the motel, coincidentally, for example. And they’re fun and natural and crazy wing-nuts, laughing etc, just like Marilyn and I with our brothers and everyone, when we get together and relax.

I think my mom really enjoyed it though it was taxing for her now in her somewhat more frail health, and I think she felt lonely for my dad, gone so many years, as he was close to Fran and Art too and when they were all dating the four of them had lots of fun. Dad and Art used to come to the house in the Glebe in Ottawa, near Ambassador Court, to take the gals out and became good friends and that lasted throughout the long marriages.

I wished he had been in some of the photos but didn’t seem to be. I had a long talk with him that night afterward. He was a good twelve years older than Art, and 9 older than Mom, so I guess that’s why he’s had to leave so much earlier. But it seemed incomplete.

Anyway, the lesson was not to let too many years pass to connect, and to not only get together for sad occasions. My family, fortunately, stresses that, getting together over fun times, and important celebrations, and also just trips in each other’s areas. My cousin Judy and her Phil are the greatest for making sure they travel a lot and make a point of seeing family wherever they can! It was Judy who got Jim on I e-mailing together which has been a pleasure. We exchanged a few photos of our kids and ourselves last year, to fill in the mystery of thirty years a bit (to think when we were little, and on through our childhoods, as kindred spirits the same age, and similar personalities, how close we were whenever we met, though infrequently even then). They keep us all on our toes and reacquainting whenever they can, and also love to receive visitors.

So this weekend it’s down to more quiet garden times etc. and resting up for a chapbook launch and reading I'm in on Tuesday night, though last night was difficult, as
my brother-in-law was ill with a high fever after radiation treatments that day, and we thought a trip to the emergency was going to be in order, and a stay-over here for my sister, but it didn’t come to that. The fever went down, and fortunately, because he did not want to budge. I was like that too, you get so tired and just want to sleep and it’s cold out right now, even at this time of year, here, and when you have a fever, you just want to be left alone in bed, but it has to watched and taken care of. So I’m sure Mare didn’t sleep a wink last night. But he’s ok (more or less) today. To think, last Sat.night how much better he felt, dancing up a storm and taking in everything, laughing...but then chemo and radiation came along again as we knew they must. Necessary evils I guess.

Now, come hummingbirds, I'm ready, do your hummzinging(a term from my friend Julie Szabo in her song).
I am currently Cool

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Word Games
04/07/2004 02:30 p.m.
When I was a youngster, one of my favorite games we played on rainy or boring days was to see who of my siblings and I could find the most words (they had to be over two letters) from an assigned main word. I was looking at altruism the other day, not trying to choose the most, but the ones that jumped out at me with meaning at the time, or interested me in relation to the whole from the main one.

Or the sounds, if not the actual spelling of the words was there, although we didn’t play it that way. Here are a few. This, and scramble in the newspaper, and Probe, a game with a tray in which you placed letter cards turned upside down and made words, were my favorites. I wasn’t too fond of Scrabble, or Crossword Puzzles, (sorry trademark companies) because I found them long and drawn out.

Altruism

tail
ail
truism
aim
rut
rat
stir
salt
last
mist
list
lit
liar
rust
trial
slam
lust
and the more cheating ones

tru

all true
altur
li
latur
and with a stretch and a few additions of consonants, we could have trust and mistrust

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A Night of Comedy and Franco-Ontarian Culture
04/04/2004 06:48 p.m.

Last evening was rich with adventure, entertainment, relaxation and growth. My brother did the rounds in Hull to collect his dear friend Karmen, then four more of her family including her mom, of 86 (a sweet and energetic woman) and the predominantly Francophone company except for Don and I, left Quebec and soon negotiated the misty river highway to Rockland, Ontario. We found our way to the École secondaire L’Escale de Rockland (High School) where Le Théâtre de la Vieille 17 was featuring,among its fine entourage, Karmen’s niece, Jacynthe Dupont and the latter’s boyfriend Dominique Pierre Dion, in the play, "les murs de nos villages".

En route Karmen had laughingly referred to Don as the tour guide, and after we endured a few lost roads, and confusion typical of these things, first time going somewhere and discrepancies in directions, dark roads and vague information and the poorly lit several entrances to the large high school, plus the ambiguity depending on which plays you were attending, a cross cleaning lady scolding us in French for coming in the wrong way and after re-parking and getting in and out a few times for false starts, we soon found the right section and settled ourselves in for an incredible performance.

The name of this theatre organization (Théâtre de la Vieille l7)is based on the old Highway l7,in this Ontario region where the group was created. Having reviewed the same theatre group's efforts, with different actors and director, years ago, (with their children’s production of Le Nez at the National Arts Centre) for an article in the X Press newspaper I wrote, I was delighted to attend this production when the opportunity came. It was even better that my brother’s close friend Karmen had relatives in the leads. Jacynthe lost her mom Jocelyne (Karmen's beloved sister only in her early 50's) to breast cancer in November and the last time I saw the family was at the wake, so it was special and important as well as entertaining, to be there last night.

Throughout the drive I was fascinated and stimulated by a new introduction between myself and Sylvie Hill, Karmen’s niece, sitting beside me in the van. The family was eager that we met, since we both love poetry and writing. Sylvie is a published book author, and well-renowed performance poet (Slam her speciality) in Ottawa, and familiar with Tree and Sasquatch, though they are not her usual types of venues. We had fabulous chats about the arts and poetry, technical writing, life in general, relationships, etc. She warned me her material is very explicit.Yet as we talked I learned she had a definite strong sense of morals and principles. Then we laughed as the others shook their heads teasingly as we compared our recently released poems about sex. This twenty-eight year-old woman has her head on perfectly, and has taught Business English at Algonquin College, has her English Literature Degree from Carleton, and is so cool and fun but also knowledgeable.

I hope to see her at Westfest in Westboro in June, when she’ll be performing there.

The play was a regional comedy, about Rockland and Clarence Creek youth, and through a multitude of ingenious scenes with some of the family names added (ie Karmen’s and Sylvie’s) into the dialogues, immediate and relatable. The French was highly conversational, not textbook, so for the Anglophones some expressions and colloquialisms were easy to miss, but the physical comedy, the energy, the colour and passion and intelligence, undeniable.

My favorite was the skit on bingo ladies, three of them, but also the budding romance scene between the young couple, Dominique and Jacynthe starring in this duet-like exchange, with the beautiful and skilled young actress in character, blowing bubble gum bursts, and inserting “cool” often in her brief lines, as she swung her legs and said not much of anything real but communicated typically as a self-conscious teen, with a certain shyness and sense of not making much of what was really much to her, the drawing-in moment of first kiss and date arrangement, while Dominique played the somewhat inarticulate also, yearning lad from the small town trying to impress and win the heart of the gal with talk of trips to Ottawa, Montreal, and the big-times!

All the actors moved the walls and the sets with ease and smooth speed between each skit, and the flow in the entire two-act play was impeccable.

Jacynthe’s late mom, Jocelyne, and I often talked about our shared love of poetry and the arts, and throughout the evening I imagined how immensely proud she’d have been of her daughter. Of course she knew how successful the drama endeavours were going for Jacynthe, for years, but it was a night when a mom should be there to see the press photos on the billboards beside the ticket table, and the ovations at the conclusion.

After the play, and dropping off most of the family including the grandmother, a dear woman I always enjoy, just the four of us, Sylvie, myself, Don and Karmen, stopped for coffee and a drink at the Mayflower before Sylvie was returned home. We continued our talks on everything from our modelling days (the women, leaving Don kind of out of it, but laughing at us all) and everything from literature and family to publishing etc. and the reading circuit in Ottawa.

It was a superb evening,and by twelve-thirty I was happily tired and yearning to reconnect more with my lifelong love of the theatre. Perhaps before long I will get involved, time and energy permitting, in some aspects of that again.

When I got home I looked Sylvie up on the web and found an X Press review of her work, and also the Westfest.ca information, and was impressed but not surprised, at her renown and will definitely be watching for her, as she said she will be for my work too. She may even take in a Sasquatch, she said. I think performance poetry livens up readings immensely and hope she will share some with us soon.
I am currently Cheerful
I am listening to aft. movie in background

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The Dead Sea Scrolls
04/02/2004 01:18 p.m.

The deadline for seeing the Dead Sea Scrolls at the Canadian Museum of Civilization is in another week or so and I've wanted to go since I heard of the exhibit coming, last year.

The museum under-predicted the demand to see this exhibit, and the people lining up hours ahead to buy tickets to attend lectures or see the displays. Some of my fellow church members may be making a group visit, but it'd be on Good Friday and that will be very packed, I think, if it's open then even, so I will try to go on my own, I guess, next week. I think my daughter (an Ancient Civilisation student) will be going with a friend. We tried to get to the Women and The Dead Sea Scrolls lecture together, which would've been lovely, but our timetables and the hours it was on, didn't work out. It's something I'll regret missing if I don't take it in. Their latest discoveries and evidence have been very exciting and confirming of the story of the Christian faith.

I found this entry in my diaries, from 1994, when I was first seriously embracing writing, as an adult, so excuse the roughness but it deals with the theme.


'Scroll'. Such glory in the form of rolled parchment. I remember, I think it was the start of my love affair with birch and its bark in my childhood. The white curly strips that were professed to be of utter reverent significance, I believe. I even thrilled at the archaeology and motion, like spurned thrusts from ocean floor on smooth-washed pebbles, in the word.

When I was about six, we had to make imitation Dead Sea Scrolls in Bible Class. We used simple, everyday paper, but the teacher used the 'scrolls' term and explained their value in history. On true original material much like this, she said, gospel messages for all time had been written.
Eons of lifetimes ago! And later discovered, in mysterious caves, oceans away from Canada, my homeland.

I later learned, fairly recently I hazard to admit, that the discovery might not have been nearly so long ago as I'd thought, but in the l940's. Yet in the early l960's, my sister and I spent our Mondays after school, in catechism study and scroll-making endeavours, in our school gym.

Now I believe the teacher brought in birch paper to offer the children a textile sensation of parchment. I recall her having us run our fingers over it, feeling the tendril of stiff paper.

Funny, I attribute another lifelong love affair to the experience. That inscribing of letters, phrases, stories, painstakingly onto such material, and the long endurance of meaning in those messages, crossing time barriers and speaking as witness to the birth of a religion, all this signified even to a child of six or so that word, form, letter, ink, parchment and the marriage of these tools, could serve the universe in the highest of manners. And overcome distance and years to spread message. (Forgive the long sentence, it's just a journal entry).

I dreamed my words and letters would remain and travel on through all ages, across seas and deserts, for other peoples to remark on them. What high company I placed myself in then!
And so immortal!

I even believed, I think, looking back, that we had the authentic scrolls in that bible teachers' hands, in that school gym. Such is the impressionism of child-teacher and the sensitivity of an artistic youth.

But I always kept 'scroll' and 'parchment' and birchbark as favorite words and elements in my life.

- Maureen Glaude

I am currently Calm
I am listening to Kiss FM

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First Sighting
03/29/2004 02:44 p.m.
...and today
the Canada Geese
across the blue

where last night
a helicopter
seemed as high as
the moon it passed
and the heavy mists I was grateful
for on my misty-eyed nights, before

surreal, the skies
that illustrate
what could never be

and what always
seems to return
even though never
meaning the same again...
(c)Maureen Glaude March 29 04
~~~

And now to work. The afternoon shift's should be great and the weather though breezy and coolish is sunny and dry. A treat for us. Soles on firm pavement, an office full of young people who are always entertaining, steady pay, but time for writing and all the wrappings it involves...

and plans for Manitoba in the summer, Italy and Greece after the wedding next year....

I wear my dry eyes today
... and remember to look at skies again
birthday wishes for Bonnie Adams...as

I go on. I go on. Into spring.

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Happy St. Pat's
03/17/2004 06:22 p.m.
Top o' the day to all my fellow poets and have a good'un as we say in the Ottawa Valley. I'm stepping out to hear the music that inspired me into poetry-writing (though I always loved it in my youth and was already a writer when I first heard them).

Keep young and in love with life, all of you friends o'mine. And in love with the arts, of course.
I am currently Excited

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