WILMA SEVILLE - Radio interview

What an interesting experience that was.  I have interviewed people from professors to politicians but have never been on the radio myself.

There were some technical problems in the beginning of the show but Mehdi, the technicians managed to get things straightened out.  It is a co-op radio in Vancouver, B.C. which is 3,000 miles from here.  The equipment is old but still functions.

I find it amazing how technology allows people to communicate from all corners of the world.  Apparently this show is heard in 40 different countries and gets about 1500 hits a day.

All in all, a positive experience.  My slot is near the beginning of the hour which was very considerate of the hosts as it was late here (after midnight).  I used my limited skills in Spanish which I enjoyed very much as I haven't spoken Spanish for many years.

If you would care to hear the radio show, please go to:

http://worldpoetry.ca

Click on the radio show for Dec. 11th, enjoy the music and I hope you will enjoy hearing what I have to say.  If you can, try to listen to near the end of the show, there is a young man talking through his poetry about bi-polar disease.  I thought he was marvelous.

Thanks for dropping by. 

DAVID C. HASKINS

Why Teach Parsing to Grade Schoolers

 

　

If there were no more adverbs, no more places, times, circumstances,

If there were no more adjectives, qualifiers, modifiers,

If there were no nouns, names, lists, categories,

If there were no pronouns, replacements, persons,

If there were no syntax, arrangements, calculations, reasons,

　

There would be no board meetings, parliaments, arguments with lovers,

There would be no novels, histories, cook books, telephone directories,

There would be no schools, Dow-Jones average, film at eleven,

We would not know that 325 blackflies in the bush

Land on a square foot of cloth in a minute in June;

We would not know we are different from each other,

I am not you, you are not who;

We would thieve to get, kill to eat, spend the day

Finding a safe night’s rest;

　

We would not notice childhood slip away,

Nor count the mileposts toward our deaths;

We would not know we are dying, until

the sudden crunch of jaws through neck;

　

But, there are parts of speech....

ROBERT F. NIELSEN

BOOK REVIEW:      

ATHLETE'S FOOT;  oR HOW I FAILED AT SPORTS

Author:   Robert F. Nielsen.



Published by Potlatch Publications, the cover of this book has a picture of a young man in hockey gear sitting with his hand on his chin, looking somewhat discouraged. It is a very appropriate cover for this publication.

As I read on, I found myself in great sympathy with the author and emphasized with him as he stumbled his way through all the "manly" sports that so many of our Canadian lads and gals are expected to be good at.

I particularly enjoyed his sense of humour and at many points in this delightful book, he had me laughing as I read on.

A good read, especially for a young person who may not be particularly skillful on the sports field.  It will certain lift up the young person's feeling of self-esteem knowing that he/she is not alone.





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THE DAVID MACDONALD LOUNGE

The David Macdonald Lounge

 

Resting by the fire in a high back chair

     drinking in the peaceful atmosphere

          enjoying quiet time away from home

   

Queen Elizabeth, in regal robes

     gazes serenely over the lounge

          fire blazes cheerily in the hearth 

   

Leather sofas with matching chairs skirt the walls

     and a pair of striped high backs, like sentinels       

          guard the portrait of the Queen

 

Scenic paintings, tastefully displayed

     grace the golden walls on which they hang      

          lamps and hanging lanterns gently glow

 

 

Navy blue carpet, yellow flowers peeking through

     muted soft light streams through high windows

          add notes of sunny warmth to my lovely stay

 

      

 

CopyrightWilmaSeville2012

 

Originally published by the Hamilton Club magazine 2012

WILMA SEVILLE

 

Dear Mommy,
 

I answered the phone and it was you

it was so good to hear your voice

we chatted for a long time

at the end you thanked me for calling you.

 

I cried for hours, tears wetting my pillow

I knew my suspicions were well founded

that all was not right with you.

 

My happiness shattered into little slivers

as I realized the demon dementia had set in

to rob me of the only mother I ever knew.

 

Years passed, letters flew back and forth from Dad

your input only shown by a shaky signature at the bottom

my telephone calls never reached you personally.

 

On that fall day, forever stamped in my mind

I tore open a letter from ”home” and learned of your death and burial.

 

For twenty-five years you’ve been gone

it’s time I wrote this letter poem for you, dear Mommy

to show the world how much you meant to me.

 

Your kindness and sweetness were my shield

against the arrows shot by fate  

you taught me, by example, to keep on going.

 

You are still within my mind, guiding me

your womanly grace, all wrapped up in a small frame.

 

I thank you for your wisdom and your love

which has stood the test of time.

 

 

Copyright©Wilma Seville2012


Editor's note:  When I was in my early thirities, I sent a letter to my parents telling them how much I appreciated their good care and told them what a good job they had done.  I have always been so grateful that I did that as life can take some strange turns.  As one ages, ones reflects back on one's life and appreciates all the good people who have influenced one's life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WILMA SEVILLE

 

Speaking Out

 

 

Raising the voice to speak against injustice
puts the speaker on a path of collision
from those who vehemently oppose their ideas.

One young blogger, Malala, dared to do so
speaking out about life in the Swat Valley
the need for girls to be educated.

Pakistan and the world has taken note
of the attempted murder of this girl
yet where was the outcry when many Malalas
Ayeshas, Ahmads and Bilals were killed by drones?



Who spoke up for them on the world stage?

People like you and me, living out their lives
their existence snuffed out by unpiloted drones
hope of their families, cut down where they stood. 

Injustice is a blight upon humankind
those who perpetrate it will be judged harshly
in the history books of future generations.

People who want harmony and peace

mothers, father, sons and daughters

young and old, let us work together

to eradicate injustices.

 

 

©WilmaSeville2012

 

Originally published by Conrad Diodato and also by The Ambition Newspaper.

 

BIG SMOKE BLUES

 

Big Smoke Blues

 

new poems by Raymond Souster

 

 

 

An Introduction

 

 

         No one has written more lovingly, nor more honestly, about Toronto than Raymond Souster. Over the past 65 years in book after book, Toronto has been a major theme in Souster’s work. Now in his 90th year, this work continues with Big Smoke Blues.

 

         Souster is the last active member of Canada’s great Modernist poets, a group born between 1916 and 1926. As always, his life and work are sustained by three pillars: his love for his wife Rosalia, his Christian faith, and his confidence in the power of sharp and decisive poetry. In Big Smoke Blues, Souster explores the role of memory in deepening his understanding of the world and of his place within it. The collection closes with the lines:

 

                                     for the rest of my days

                                     past memories like this

                                     will continue

                                     to wash over

                                     the shores of memory.

 

And indeed, these poems reflect on the people, neighbourhoods, and places of old Toronto.

 

         Literary and historical figures abound — Milton Acorn, Margaret Avison, Gwendolyn MacEwen, and Robert Weaver mingle with figures like William J. Stewart, Archibald Lampman, John Graves Simcoe, and the United Empire Loyalists. All are treated with sympathy and honesty. Much has been made of Souster’s “ironic vision” by Robert Billings and others. I prefer to talk about humour and affirmation. There is little bitterness in Souster’s poetry — instead one finds compassion. This is especially true when the poet deals with troubled friends such as Acorn or MacEwen. He remembers Milton Acorn leaving his cheque on the floor of Grossman’s Tavern following the ceremony in which he received the title “The Peoples’ Poet” and he expresses a deep sense of loss at the untimely death of Gwen MacEwen.

 

         In general, the tone of these poems is one of quiet meditation. Food is remembered fondly, its sensuousness vividly portrayed in his mother’s baked apples with brown sugar, his mother-in-law’s polenta in chicken gravy, or his wife’s chili. Even bread pudding assumes a simple nobility.

 

 

         The Junction District, Kensington Market, Toronto Islands, and Gerrard Street East are brought into focus, and readers see that in these neighbourhoods the past still lives today. Certainly the ethnic composition of Kensington has greatly changed, but it remains a microcosm of Toronto, a city in which a hundred tongues speak out as one.

 

         Following William Carlos Williams, Souster realizes the power of a poetry rooted in place. Some of these places are gone: the Bohemian Embassy, the Village Bookstore, Pages Books, and Robert Simpson’s Department Store. But others are still vital parts of Toronto: Christie Pits, the C.N.E., Grenadier Pond, Wards Island, and Vesuvio’s Pizzeria & Spaghetti House.

 

         Souster is no Pollyanna. He sings no song of innocence in which his youth was only delightful days when Mr. Peanut would visit Runnymede Public School. He also remembers the Depression when Chinese restaurants would offer a full-course meal for a quarter. Like Carl Sandburg writing of his beloved Chicago, Souster tells the whole story, and with affection.

 

         Souster’s Toronto often starts in his backyard on Baby Point Road. Here his aged mulberry tree plays host to crows, juncos, starlings, and squirrels. Here also are his walks along the nearby Humber River, with its parks, opossums, and the occasional urbanized red fox. The Humber River valley is the setting for one of a handful of love poems to Rosalia, “Humber Afternoon”. Another poem that displays his unfading love is “For a 62nd Anniversary”.

 

         Social issues are in no way lacking. There are poems dealing with homelessness and the need for proper social housing, the trap of current welfare laws, and the ever-increasing level of crime, especially youth and street gang violence. So the poet writes:

 

                                     Shootings

                                     and shooting-ups

                                     feed the continuous

                                     nervous pulse

                                     of the city’s heartland.

 

 

There are many poems in Big Smoke Blues lamenting the prevalence of American-style street crime in what was once Toronto the Good, a problem neither the politicians nor the police seem competent to address.

 

         Despite the decay of civil society, something of value endures. While old Tory Ontario is lost in the past, neighbourhoods survive. Although The Boat Portuguese restaurant has closed, other restaurants (some Portuguese) have opened in Kensington Market. And Wards Island is still a charming village for poets just as it was at the time when Milton Acorn and Gwendolyn MacEwen lived there.

 

         Unlike his prior collections, Souster now offers five poems concerning his Christian faith. In “This Man of April” he affirms the presence of Jesus within our lives in this Easter meditation:

 

                                     This Man of April

                                     lives here

                                     with us still

 

The poet states in “At Peace” that he has found solace in the arms of Jesus:

 

                                     he’s found peace

                                     nestled in

                                     to his saviour’s

                                     all compassionate grace.

 

In this poem, and throughout the book as a whole, Souster habitually refers to himself in the third person.

 

         Souster is a member of Runnymede United Church. One of the few politicians he admires, William J. Stewart, was also in Runnymede’s congregation. In fact, Souster attended Sunday School with Stewart’s son. Stewart served as Toronto’s mayor during the Depression, and the poet praises his co-religionist for displaying “good common sense”.

 

            Readers will notice a distinct paucity of visual images. There is nothing like

 

                                     Rain-whipped leaf-ruin,

                                     dying green-yellows,

                                     already dead-crackling browns

 

in Big Smoke Blues. This is because Souster has gone blind and can no longer see the subjects of his poems. But his lack of vision is compensated for by the vitality and redemptive quality of his memory.

 

         While most of these poems are set in the Toronto Souster has personally known for nine decades, history does appear in the form of John Graves Simcoe and the United Empire Loyalists. The Loyalists were the English-speaking founders of what we know today as Ontario. Souster observes that while they were the “cursed traitors” of the United States, they were Canada’s “steadfast, unsung heroes.” Governor Simcoe (1752-1806) and his wife left behind

 

                                     such goodwill

                                     that a lake,

                                     a town, and a street

                                     still bear their name.

 

Simcoe’s vision of a common sense alternative to the United States has not worked out as planned. The present Americanization of our culture is, perhaps, an unintended consequence of the consumption of American culture, such as the poetry of Ezra Pound, William Carlos Williams, and Charles Olson. No one person is to blame, of course. Canada had the unfortunate fate to share a continent with a nation ten times as powerful and ten times as committed to the notion of progress. Progress was the flavour of the 20th century. But, as Souster suggests, Archibald Lampman would have grown to curse the 20th century

 

                                     with every fibre

                                     of his fragile body

                                     had our great poet

                                     been destined

                                     to survive.

 

 

         Big Smoke Blues closes with a section dealing with old age, illness, and mortality. Few poets take up these concerns, as common as they unfortunately are. Raymond Souster, however, is a brave poet who ducks no topic, not even pain and his own frail and failing body. While some people speak of “dying with dignity”, all too few speak of living with dignity. These final poems, humane and with a seriousness softened by humour, written while in hospital and rehab centre, are a most welcome addition to Canadian literature. Our culture and our lives are enriched by this book.

 

 

                                                                                                       James Deahl

                                                                                                       Hamilton

                                                                                                       September, 2010