John Donlan at Tree
John Donlan was reading from his new poetry collection, Spirit Engine (Brick Books, March 2008) at Tree on May 27.
His poems in this book were split, like his time, half in Vancouver, and half on his 170 acres of what his dad would call “snake farm” of rock and swamp. He plans to get a conservation protection on it so any future owners can’t develop into their idea of something useful. Great idea. The pressure to develop the greenbelt and let people sprawl their lawns, rather than be contained in a more upright posture is a nagging sort of debate. Score one for the damselflies and frogs?
What struck me from what Donlan read from his 4th collection was the sense of settling into the landscape, opening up to it as the bridge the more hermetic life of city to enter one’s own breath. The book seemed to be a deep inhale and deep exhale. The contemplative poems, and the choice to gear down from the urban impress/depress/repress/suppress and just press into wind. It seems a sort of coming to terms with past when ignorant as a clod as a boy stoning frog, now giving the later generations a refuge, appreciating the equality of frog and man both living richly on the muddy margins. A touch of gentle humor there, camaraderie with animals like Basho and modesty for one’s place in the grand scheme.
He read Looning bringing a new word to me, crepitus, the sound of old joints grinding. In one poem, nature creeps into the urban landscape where we don’t even remember to look for it, or expect it. It takes other hand pointing and willingness to look and attend.
It’s a walkabout in the back forty, realizing a day can be as simple as this, looking at the white pine: everything the wind wanted to say confined to a few gestures of the branches. One can take a time out and traipse over the bared bedrock where wind has made rocks smooth as naked bodies. Moments of successive images and tactile was a trip outdoors, visible, tactile while pulling back from invoking God or profound or wedging in some edgy or clever word trick. There’s nothing to prove. No reason to rove an autobahn all the time.
There are lessons in the air, where dragonflies are stained glass, wrinkled windows. His poetry is in the pastoral, lyrical vein. Not so much sense of smell or touch, but also nothing he read was self-agitating drama-spun, more a mosey inviting a walk alongside.
After a time on the land without the milk skin of concrete, one begins to wonder about the futile strains and struggles and flinches we choose to put ourselves thru, and as he said, why complain about the weather; let is teach us to vary.
He had a pleasant chatter in there too, mentioning that bill bissett has said he’ll make a movie of nothing but poets shuffling around for the next poem to read.
The open mic: a mixed bag, as it always is anywhere. Bob, now out by Peterborough way, was present in absentia because Baird read 3 pieces from him. A new lady to Ottawa readings brought rob (who she’d never heard of before picking up his flyer tonight) in absentia thru reading Alexander Graham Bell at May Day poems. Another newer person, Rona read 3 poems. One used the idea of two people as being hour and minute hands to each other, was particularly well-put. I read a bastard ghazal and a double acrostic (described there as an 1850s fad. heh).
News from Tree: They plan to set up recording of the open mic and feature reader starting sometime in June and come July, the long talked about change of venue, is set to happen, a shift to the Arts court. Tree’s also looking for a community liaison volunteer to drum up publicity. The count down to Jaap Blonk, sound poet of of Holland is getting short. He’ll be here June 6th at Saint Brigid’s Center for the Arts/ Irish-Canadian Cultural Center.
Quote: “The pleasure of reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.” – Katherine Mansfield
