Last December, Arc Poetry Magazine invited me to take part in a cool project: a game of telephone tag involving six poets and five artists. Each of us were to be inspired by the work immediately before us then hand ours over to the next in line.

David O’Meara led off with his excellent poem ‘The Throw’ from which Andrew Farrell created a powerful painting, Flight Club, and then it was my turn.

When we were all done, David wrote a closing poem to sum it all up. You can see the results in Arc’s Poetry Annual 2011 by visiting your local bookstore. It’s worth buying as there are other wonderful poetry/art collaborations in there too. Mind you, it’s always worth buying Arc. We learn by doing and reading.

This project was special for me. I grew up in a house furnished in early Kmart so when I discovered beauty at university, I was instantly addicted. A friend undertook my education, giving me Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and D. H. Lawrence to read, taking me to art galleries, and introducing me to fresh vegetables. Since then, beauty has been a necessary part of my life. I’ve belonged to art galleries wherever I lived.

So I was happy I was assigned to follow Andy. He paints beautiful pictures. And he was generous with his time and his self. He invited me over to see Flight Club (it’s big), served cookies and tea, then left me alone. I sat on the floor before it for a long time, capturing the thoughts and images that came flooding in. It wasn’t hard. Andy had painted onto a rough-hewn piece of wood that he’d further worked over. The piece had texture. Bite. I could see so much depth in it.

Later, we talked about what had been in his mind while he worked on it. Not about the poem that had inspired it—that wasn’t allowed. But life stuff. His and mine. I left his house that day with lots of photos and rich ideas and I spent the next two weeks going back and forth between them.

By the time my deadline was up, I had four poems written. None looked good in their original draft. But after polishing, I had to choose one to submit. Here it is in the rough along with Andy’s painting:

First Version
Looking For You

Flight Club, Andrew Farrell

It happens. You make it look so smooth
when it’s not. The gouging of skin into earth. Toss a ball
in the air and Pluto disappears, planets become moons
looking for classification. Ice doesn’t melt
gouges land in waves as it retreats
over your landscape, throwing rocks
onto hills. The land is as harsh
as we are. Pluto is a ball of ice. Don’t land there
without a mask. Insulation. A catcher’s mitt
will not sustain you this time. Reach further
into the space in between, learn to map
the blackness with words, inch
by square inch. It is our only tool
for computation.

Where did this come from? Well first, I’m an astronut. As a child, I longed to go into space. See planets float by. I read sci fi by the bushel. Was I thinking of this when I saw Andy’s poem? No. But that sense of longing, of displacement, came through. And there’s that beautiful unmapped black space I couldn’t resist. I kept the baseball imagery but I translated it as I worked through my thoughts about relationships.

You can see from the first draft that I was feeling my way into this poem. By the end, you can see why I decided to go with it. The last half of this poem came out fully formed. This is very rare for me.

So my work here was to tighten the first half, honing and honing until it matched the crispness of the end. I also had to make it factually correct. My personal geographer pointed out that if the ice isn’t melting, it’s advancing.

This isn’t an easy poem. Much work is left for the reader to do. But I’m fond of it.

Final Version:

Looking For You

It happens. Toss a ball in the air
and Pluto disappears, a planet
in need of classification. Ice doesn’t melt,
scrapes earth as it advances
over your landscape, throwing rocks
onto hills. Terrain as harsh
as we are. Pluto is a ball of ice. Don’t land there
without a mask. Insulation.
A catcher’s mitt will not sustain you
this time. Reach further
into the space in between, learn to map
the blackness with words, inch
by square inch. It is our only tool
for computation.

I also am very happy that Marisa Gallemit was the artist who came after me. She only had two weeks—with a deadline of Christmas Day—to create something out of my poem. She stinted on her presents that year, choosing to regard my poem as a gift instead of a nuisance, honouring it with her full attention. She created this beautiful three dimensional piece.

Looking for You V2.0, Marisa Gallemit

Do buy Arc‘s Poetry Annual 2011 so you can read and see the rest of the chain. The following is the full list of poets and artists who took part, in the sequence of inspiration: David O’Meara, Andrew Farrell, Gillian Wallace, Marisa Gallemit, Barbara Myers, Maria Lezon, Max Middle, Andrea Stokes, Sandra Ridley, Abi Lyon Wicke, and Michelle Desbarats.

Well I did it.

Last Monday, I set myself a goal of getting my novel, Diary of an Angry Woman, out the door by Friday. I’d sat on the finished version for a couple of years, always convinced I could make it better, picking away at final edits that never stopped.

And then I read a stern posting by Robert Sawyer giving his comments on Heinlein’s Rules for writing success. I got there via the poet and novelist Jonathon Ball’s excellent website, which I highly recommend. Both gave me that kick I needed to push my baby out. And so, Friday night, just after midnight, I walked to the mailbox and sent it off to Anansi. I want to work with Melanie Little. She produces wonderful books.

Next up? Poems. It’s time they started leaving the house too. I have sent almost none out for months, concentrating instead on writing, editing, and getting this website going. Good excuses but not. Jonathon Ball says do it all, recommending that we work steadily at each project every day. I’ve decided to start taking his advice.

So I’ll be adding 500 words a day on the new novel to my daily routine and I’m committing to mailing poems out to journals once a week. Hopefully even while I’m at Banff for the Wired Writing Studio in October.

Will I fall down on this schedule, which also has to include my copyediting job? Yes. There will be days I won’t make it, especially given my blinking health. Fear will also get in my way. I know I will sit glaring at the blank page. Or worse, I’ll play Freecell. Check out Facebook. It can take me hours to find my way into working.

But I want to do this. I’ve learned the joy of discipline from writing a poem a day. I can’t tell you what a relief it is, even when I desperately don’t want to do it.

I couldn’t have done any of this a year ago. I was in a much blacker space then. Still dealing with issues from my childhood. But really good therapy (thanks Virginia) and bloody-minded determination has seen me through. I recommend both.

The new space I’m in is the subject of today’s poem. It may well end up as the last one in a book I’m slowly putting together.

First Draft:
On The Other Side Now, Looking Back

Perfect. That’s how the afternoon’s been.
Just the right combination of you,
drizzle from the grey smudged sky,
leaves scuffling underfoot as we walked
from house to house, each one
a painted cocoon, a nest
for the artist inside, most containing
a gem, a spark for the coals burning low
within me. I’m on the other side now,
no longer the one looking out
as others passed by, wondering how
they did it,
not in disasters but on the right side
of benediction living in
the land of no disaster, a hope,
a fairy tale I used
to sing myself to sleep but never
believed. I buy a painting and watch
her face light up and am content.

I stopped and wrote this poem when I was out walking with my husband, going from house to house for CATwalk, the Centretown Art Tour here in Ottawa. It was drizzling all right, so we found a tree and my husband held an umbrella over my head. The words wanted out.

I’d been trying to write this poem for a few weeks but couldn’t figure out how to capture the concept of being on the other side. In the past, I would have identified with the flood victims in Pakistan. I’m not exaggerating. Nor am I minimizing their suffering. My childhood was a train wreck of the sort you read about in newspapers.

But I’m no longer there. Unfortunately though, happiness rarely makes for good literature. It took me a long time to find the language to convey how strange it is to be on the bright side. So when the words came, I listened.

Unfortunately, the ending didn’t show up. Or at least, not one I was happy with. Yes, I’m no longer dirt poor. But that’s not what I wanted this poem to say. I’m not totally pleased with this alternative but after many attempts, it’s what I’ve got for now.

Current Version:

On The Other Side Now, Looking Back

Gillian reading at Barely Their Launch, Blink Gallery, Ottawa

Perfect. That’s how the afternoon’s been.
Just the right combination of you,
leaves scuffling underfoot, and drizzle drifting
from a grey smudged sky as we went
from house to house, each one
a painted cocoon, a nest
for the artist inside, containing
a spark for the coals
in me. I’m on the other side now,
no longer the one looking out, the one living
with ripped nightgown syndrome. I’m on
the right side of benediction living in
the land of no disaster, a hope,
a fairy tale I used
to sing myself to sleep but never
believed. I’m on
the happy side of life wearing
a pretty coat, the girl with the good guy
by her side walking down the paved roads.

This poem was read at the launch of the Barely Their Poetry Obelisk, outside Blink Gallery, Ottawa on Sept 18, 2010. Poet Pearl Pirie and artists Lynda Cronin, Jean Jewer, and Maureen Sandrock created the beautiful pillar.

Friends often ask me if I’m going to write a poem about their birthday or an outing we’ve had. While I don’t make any guarantees, sometimes the muse does kick an appropriate poem my way. It isn’t always a good idea (sorry Robin). My poems often tend to the dark side even if what I’m looking at is wonderful.

I’ll explain the reason for that in future postings. Today I want to concentrate on what happens during the editing process, the transition from truth to fiction.

This poem was written after a lovely day at our friends’ country place. The, um, house is 9’ by 12’ (with a loft!) so needless to say, it has a separate outhouse which the guys built first. I love the whole property but I have to tell you, the view from that outhouse is sublime. So when they asked if I was going to write a poem to it, I sure as hell hoped I would. And that it would turn out positively (sorry Robin!). I got lucky:

First Draft:
View

It’s not the most kingly of thrones, not
draped in silks or velvets or even
dry-panelled. Birds had nested
on a ledge near where heads go, mice
had left offerings underfoot,
while a silver-crusted lizard watches
eyelessly from above. You’ve scythed
the path clear to the door, checked
for skunks, foxes, the land’s
owners before you. And now I sit
gazing on summer’s late greens, the trees
heavy, downcast with rain’s fall, the sky
soft watercolour greys mixed
with the bruises of plums. No door
was part of your building plans, just this
chance to see bears approach, black
through bracken turning autumn’s early
gold. Berries hang dripping as wind slips
through. I linger, feasting on your view.

Now, I made a few of my usual mistakes when getting this down. I set my standard riddle for the reader, the guessing game of what the poem is about. I don’t even want to think at what line they might have figured it out. I just want to fix the problem. How to do it this time? I rejected the first title that sprang to mind: ‘The View While Peeing’. Perhaps something a little more subtle. For now, I’ve settled on ‘Outhouse Sitting’. Because I find titles such a struggle, I’m going to take Ronnie Brown’s workshop, Writing a Winning Title at Tree Reading Series on November 9th.

My next problem was bigger. True details don’t always make for good poetry. Yes, Albert had removed the bird’s nest and mouse droppings before we came. Much appreciated. But the past tense doesn’t work without a lot of explanation I have no intention of going into. So, sorry to undo your hard work, Albert, but that nest is back up on its ledge and those mice are hard at work again.

Then I heightened the bear threat because I want that sense of menace in this poem, the transition from velvets to implied teeth. It wasn’t there — we didn’t even wear orange vests to avoid hunters. It was a safe trip. But safety doesn’t make for great poetry so I emphasize the bear hunting on the property. And the risk.

Finally, I didn’t walk back whistling. I love silence. I stood listening on the path. Walked slowly as laughter rose from the house. But what’s below is the ending the poem needed. And the poem’s truth, its integrity, is the most important thing here. After all, this isn’t titled True Story.

Current Version:

Outhouse Sitting

It’s not the most kingly of thrones, not
draped in silks or velvets or even
dry-panelled. Sparrows stack
twigs at head level, mice leave
their little crunches underfoot, while a silver
flecked lizard guards eyelessly from above.
You’ve scythed the path clear to the door, checked
for skunks, foxes, the land’s owners
before you. And now I sit
surveying trees the colour of evergreens
in winter, downcast with rain’s fall, the sky
soft greys mixed with the bruises of plums,
smoke rising on the horizon. No door
was part of your plans, just this:
the convenience of watching through bracken
turning autumn’s early gold for black bear
approaching, for black bear hunting
for berries hanging dripping as wind slips through.
I’m lucky today. Walk back whistling.

p.s. This is my second poem on this website written to views from the loo (See Watch Me Edit for the first). All I can say is that it’s really important to pay attention to inspiration wherever it happens.

Sometimes I think I know where a poem is going from the start and sometimes it goes its own direction. The latter type is usually the easiest to write: when the muse speaks, I transcribe. Then edit the mess later. The former take more work. I can often have a thought in my head and struggle with how to capture it for weeks.

Today’s poem is a combination.

It was written late at night on our recent visit to family in England. I was tired. My husband was already asleep. It had been a long day of driving and playing piggy-in-the-middle with four small nephews. But I still had to write my poem for the day.

At first my mind was blank. No ideas came. But I have a rule for these situations: I make myself write down the first words that come into my head.

That wasn’t hard. We were in a cold drafty room in Clevedon overlooking the River Severn Estuary. The wind was moaning as I sat, thumbs poised over my phone.

The poem began writing itself. But then stopped. The ending just wouldn’t come.

At first, I didn’t mind staying up struggling with word after word. For one thing, the first part of the poem got better; for another, the night view across the estuary (which I could see through a slant in the curtains) was as beautiful as the wind’s rattle at the glass.

But I could only enjoy the cold because I knew warmth was waiting. I wondered what it would be like to sleep in such a room in winter without the rads under the window. After all, this was August and already the damp chill Brits are famous for was seeping in. How had people coped in winter, I wondered, especially the poor ones?

That thought became what I wanted for the ending of this poem. I didn’t want it to be just another pretty one, filled with nice images. I wanted it to say something of substance. But I couldn’t figure out how to do it. Finally, I threw a few (bad) words on the end and crawled under the covers.

Phone Draft:
Wind Moans
We’ve pulled the curtains, can’t see
the estuary’s mouth black rippled
under the barest glint of cloud
torn stars. Can’t see Wales sparkling
gold and silver on the far shore,
can’t hear its cars whizzing
down ribbon strips of highway.
But the glass is old, sits unsteady,
wind-rocked in high panes allowing
the tossing of frenzied leaves, the rush
of tide on beached rock to enter
our room with a long, undulating
moan under all. You sleep
already, tucked under the warmth
of deep duvet my body wants
to join after day’s long road. Another
bed, another night, but this one with
storm’s safe sleeping.

Two weeks and much reflection later, I’ve got an ending I’m happier with. But it took me 24 tries to reach, some longer, none shorter. Here are a couple of my attempts:

I think
of days before rads, when wool’s
ragged twine, the family share
held all as sleet spat, found gaps.

I think of days before metal clanked
heat out, to when sleet spat, found gaps.
Coal dust’s black-sooting
of fingers, lungs is all white-washed
now. Doors raised, the dates
on grey stones lengthened
in short grass at the church
down the road.

You can see that I knew where I wanted to go and was beginning to find the images I would use. The problem was keeping it comprehensible without being moralizing. Here’s what I ended up with. Note it’s called ‘Current Version.’ While I plan to send this one out to a journal soon, I suspect I’ll keep tinkering with it anyway.

Current Version:

Wind Moans

We’ve pulled the curtains, can’t see
the estuary’s mouth black rippled
under barest glint of cloud
torn stars. Can’t see Wales
gold and silver on far shore,
can’t hear cars whizzing down
its ribbon strips of highway.
Glass is old, sits wind-rocked, allowing
the tossing of frenzied leaves, rush
of tide on beached rock to enter,
a long, undulating moan.
You lie in deep duvet my body needs
as cold finds bone, thinks of days before
metal clanked heat out, to when sleet spat,
found gaps, when coal dust’s black-sooting
of fingers, lungs couldn’t reach
room’s corners. We are temporary, one night
on a long road, our journey the safe kind.
Those who came before knew only
river and winter’s bite.