Rubicon - My Own Personal One...

Hello S.E.Ingraham,

Thank you for your submission to Blah Blah mag. We know that you put a lot of time and effort into your submission, so we appreciate you thinking of us. Right or wrong, we have decided against using your work in our next issue.

You indicated you wanted to receive feedback on your submission. Since you put the effort into submitting to us, we feel you deserve an explanation for our decision. There's nothing worse than submitting to a publication and learning nothing from the process. Here is the raw feedback from our editors: 

This did not move us. The one about the High Level Bridge almost did for me because I live in Toledo.

Having said that, we're just one publication with one opinion. In the end we can't help but publish what we like. We could be wrong about your piece and it wouldn't be the first time. We thank you for giving us the opportunity to look at this piece - we appreciate it - and wish you best of luck in finding a suitable publisher for your work. (In fact, check out our Friends of Blah Blah mag page for a list of other publishers that may be interested in your work!). We hope you'll continue to consider Blah Blah mag in the future.

Artistically yours

The Blah Blah mag Editorial Team

MY REPLY TO THEIR REJECTION

Dear Blah Blah mag Editorial Team

Just a quick note to thank you for your thoughtful and lengthy rejection note. You are quite right. There is nothing worse than submitting to a publication and learning nothing from the process. (Well, I suppose there are some things that are worse; that vet who killed the giraffe and fed him to the lions in front of the kids at the zoo in Copenhagen last week, that seemed infinitely worse somehow...) That being said, I'm sorry my work didn't move you this time around. I am puzzling over the High Level Bridge almost making the cut because of the Toledo thing...I suppose there's a lesson in there somewhere, I just need to figure out what it is. .

All kidding aside, I do appreciate the suggestion to check out the "Friends of Blah Blah mag"...a quick peek revealed at least five places I wasn't aware of before, and will be investigating further.

I most certainly will consider Blah Blah mag sometime in the future. It might be a while...I'm having a bit of trouble figuring you out just now and, I'm not doing too badly with some other publications, so you're off the hook.

Thanks for considering my work and for putting out such a quality publication. It is a joy to read.

Yours

S.E.Ingraham

PAGES OF SORROW

I weep for too few days left, and too many,

and collect tears in leaves being swept

from trees burning on the coasts

of two continents, burying them in dunes.

My sadnesses grow from joy as well

as small unhappinesses, but all bring

a weighty importance in the moment

of their happenstance, and I have learned

to honour each one with the individual

ritualistic ceremony I deem proper

to the occasion;

This might involve an hour of silence,

or days on my knees.

I sob when I learn of children dying

anywhere - victims of genocide,

war, or infanticide...and depending

where I am in my own life,

the accumulation of pain,

is a strong indicator,

as to how much more I can bear

to amass --

If I am not cognizant of the sorrows

I am toting like carry-on baggage

at any one time -- it is easy

for me to slip into a state

where I cannot control

the amount of despair sloshing

within my being...

However, if dawn's curtains part

on skies gray as gloom,

I find counting

distressful situations irresistible

Before my feet even hit the floor

I number: the labs using animals

to test for mak-eup,

the Navy sending sonar through

the oceans, making whales bleed inside

My eyes are swimming as I remember

our Tar Sands are spilling daily

with no regard to those living

downstream

I cannot seem to turn off the reel

of Baby M; the tiny girl laying dead

 and cold in a local cemetery

Starved and beaten by her parents

who are now imprisoned,

awaiting a trial starting here in

several months...

It's usually the last one that either

forces me to pull the covers

back up and over reality...

Or me up and out into the dark world...

Again, it matters in what part of

the dismal world I find myself...

dVerse - Thursday July 25, 2013

IT'S THAT DREADED WEEKEND AGAIN

It is that weekend again when all of TV

is showing movies about war

and the fallout from war.

Documentaries about soldiers and armies

and what happens

to those who go to war

and those who survive,

and those who don't;

those who are left behind to wait,

and those who are just left behind.

It is not the weekend when

Canadians celebrate their war heroes,

nor is it close to the time when we

remember and honour our war dead.

But you cannot live this close

to the most powerful nation

on earth,

and not be affected by the goings-on

below our shared border,

especially as much of the time

we share the same conflicts.

So, here it is Memorial Day weekend

again and all about me

are stories of the body bags

arriving from Afghanistan—still—

even though the Americans are in the

midst of withdrawing their troops,

the same as we are.

And I can't help wondering if we

—and they—have not squandered

an awful lot of blood— ie.personnel—

not to mention, time and money,

on another losing cause.

As much as I know this is a weekend

to celebrate the brave men and women

who protect the rest of us, and our way of life

by going off to war, especially those,

that make that much talked about

but too often not thought about

"ultimate sacrifice", I still find myself enraged,

so much so, I can hardly stand to think about it

for one more minute.

And still, and still...

My fondness for all things Italian

wins out and I find myself ensconced before my television

and for the umpteenth time glued to "Tea with Mussolini".

After all, is there anything more soul-restoring than the scene

in that movie, near the end when the passel of old ladies

defy the Nazis by plastering themselves against the towers of San Gimignano

so the retreating soldiers can't make a last-ditch attempt to bomb them

to dust, as the allies are marching across Tuscany?

Sigh, no, I don't suppose there is...

Shopping for Care

Exhausting, that’s what it is
Going from place to place
Interviewing owners, and staff
And you know, no matter
How much research you do
Or how careful you are
It’s going to be a crapshoot
I mean, look at that poor Mom
In Stoney, she did everything
Right and still, her toddler?
Dead in emergency – the daycare?
Not at fault, the baby fell hard
It could happen to anyone

Two days later, another -
This time an infant in Leduc
Rushed to a medical centre
Unconscious, barely breathing
Shaken baby syndrome
The determination, but, why
The mother wails, I checked
Their references, I did

Shopping for a funeral home now
The parents have little energy
For this task – who would?
And yet still, they are getting
The feeling, even through their
Grief that there may be a way
To do this wrong as well


S.E.Ingraham©

This Just in From the Tar Sands

This Just In From the Tar Sands

They are saying smugly that we now have the clean oil

We, of the land that last year had to show the world

Our tailings ponds with hundred of water fowl so oil-coated

They looked nothing like the species of ducks or birds

They actually were and everything like the tragic loss of life

They were becoming; the world was critical as it wept with

Those of us who were heartsick at big oil companies who

Tried to make light of this – after all, it was an ‘accident’

And they had tried to plan the ponds to be where birds

Weren’t but had miss-planned – who knew the migratory

Patterns were changing? Indeed – who knows anything?

Who has any knowledge at all about all these things:

About the poisoned waters in our north and the decline

Of all the indigenous plants, animals and people – let’s not

Forget the people – even though every report done by oil

Companies and governments alike would like to do just that-

Forget the people that is – how about the doctor in Fort Chip

Who dared mention he noticed a higher than normal incidence

Of a rare cancer there? That’s all – he just mentioned that

And, suddenly he was an alarmist, he was threatened by the

Very board that licensed him, told he would be sanctioned by

Them, that he would no longer be able to practise medicine

If he didn’t hush – why didn’t they just duct-tape his mouth?

The harassment grew so intimidating that he and his wife

Finally fled the small native community and moved across

The country to the Maritimes but, he felt so bad about abandoning

The many sick he was serving in Fort Chip – he started seeing

Them via teleconferences and flying in on a regular basis to keep

Up their care – all the while fighting his ridiculous court-case

As the alarmist who the medical board was taking to task;

He was eventually cleared of all charges of course, but little

Noise was made of this – very little noise at all – no, it was more

Important to undermine him loudly, not to put things to rights.

And now, with that dreadful oil-spill off the coast of the USA

There are actually people in Texas North as many of us have

Come to think of Alberta, because of the way oil is worshipped

Here—there are people here who really are going about saying

With the self-righteous fervour of televangelists —

“Well, who has the dirty oil now, huh? Looks like getting the oil out

of the ground is the wiser choice after all …” — completely ignoring

The reports that confirm how much contamination has happened

To the groundwater, how extensive the downstream damage is,

How quickly this non-renewable resource will be gone in any case …

If everything was on the up and up and nothing had to be

Kept from the public, do you think the largest oil companies

In the world would keep some of the top scientists

On the planet, on retainer – to the tune of millions of dollars –

So that they cannot testify, or work for anyone else, including

Environmental groups and/or governments—kind of makes

One wonder doesn’t it? And not just about the oil companies …

This is nothing new really—these scientist are paid to be deniers

Much the same way scientists were paid to deny the harmful

Effects of tobacco, oddly enough, by the oil companies

When those were first discovered and being touted widely

By the medical community—what is that saying,

“The more things change, the more they stay the same …”

And all the while, the pictures from the gulf grow ever more

Troubling, although ‘troubling’ seems far too mild a term

When one watches the size of the oil spill spreading unchecked

No matter what those supposedly in the know do to try

And stop it—this crude is flowing relentlessly toward land

Almost as if drawn magnetically there, the black is seeping

Through the depths and even up to the surface – oil is coming

And there’s no joy to be had about this bounty, none at all.

S.E.Ingraham

(This appeared on the site, Poets For Living Water, in the Open Mic section, summer 2010, in response to a call for work regarding the BP oilspill in the Gulf of Mexico that occurred earlier that year; the work did not necessarily have to address that particular tragedy. Unfortunately there are many from which to choose.)

The following bio accompanied the poem on Poets for Living Water - I am posting the poem here as well as leaving it up on the first site because, if I understand the situation correctly, when PfLW take down their poems, they don't archive them. I would like mine to stay up for awhile and then be archived and this way, on my personal blog, I have control of the situation.

S.E.Ingraham lives and writes in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She is currently the President of the Stroll of Poets, a group who meet weekly from September to March to read their work aloud, and last year, she edited their anthology. Recently her piece, “Welcome to the Jungle” placed in the competition, Expressions of Hunger, and will hang at Edmonton’s City Hall, as well as several art galleries. She has two poems archived on poetsagainstwar.ca, and is working on several chapbooks, one of which is based on her grandson’s first year of life entitled, You Don’t Know Jack. She believes poets have a responsibility to record events, world and local, as witnesses and hopes at least some of her work reflects that belief.

ON MY STOOL, IN MY DOME


She said, picture yourself in a safe place
And instantly I saw myself on a wooden stool
Painted forest green – a stool with rungs
I am hunched over with my head pulled
Down between my shoulders and look as if
I am afraid someone might hit me but when
She asks me if I feel safe and I say not quite


She asks me what I need to do to make
The space safe and I know right away and fashion
A strong, clear dome that fits right over the whole
Affair – me, the stool – leaving enough room
to breathe
But close enough to make me feel, well ... safe


She asks me to describe my safe place
And more particularly, me in it -
I, too sick to decline, even though
I feel embarrassed I think, begin to give
Her exacting details – especially as she leads me
When I falter with prompts, such as
What are you doing with your hands?
(Keeping them cupped up near my face
As if to hide it at a moment’s notice)


Why would you need to hide your face?
Describe it to me, she sounds so interested
Maybe she is – it’s always hard to tell with
Therapists – anyhow, as I say, I am pretty sick
So feel I have no choice and tell her how I look
(As if I have been crying for a week straight and my
Whole face is swollen and red, not just my eyes
Which are mere slits – I know how truly ugly
I am and I hate myself more than ever)

Is that why you need to be in the dome,
On your stool, she wants to know ...
I give her question careful consideration
I know that it’s part of it but not everything
There are so many things that make me feel unsafe
But most of them – I don’t even know how
To begin to articulate; she tells me


That I can stay on my stool under my dome
As long as I need to and return there anytime
I have her permission to give myself permission
To keep this safe place for myself and she wonders
If this has been helpful – I tell her I think so but
I’ll have to let her know ...

Last Night I Heard Africa Drumming

In an ordinary community hall
In the south-central section of the city
On one of the longest days of the year
They gathered.


Many of them from here:
Aboriginal, Métis, French and English Canadians,
And many of them from the Dark Continent:
Ghanaian, Angolan, Somali, Zimbabuen

We were raising money for a drought and poverty-stricken
Hospital in Western Ghana, and doing it in style


To say the hall was filled to overflowing
Would not be an exaggeration—but the real
Fulfillment came from the sound ...

As a little-travelled Canadian white woman
My understanding of African drumming
Was pretty much limited to what I saw on TV


And in movies from Hollywood; even specials
On National Geographic did not do justice
To the splendour of real drumming
The likes of which we heard last night


First, one drummer would start and he alone
Would be powerful and loud and rhythmic
In ways that are hard to define,


but


Then another would do a counter-beat
And another would join in and layer his
Distinctive drum either on top or in step


Until sometimes as many as ten drummers
Were making this remarkable sound
All of them different and all the same
Transporting many of us to Africa or to dance


Or both


It was not hard to imagine being in the jungle
In the dark around a fire, hearing the beat
Of these drums playing long into the night,
Or maybe for several days or nights


So mesmerizing is the intensity of music
That is just drumming—and I do not mean
To diminish it in the least by saying ‘just’


In fact, just the opposite –that drums alone
Make such compelling music enthrals me
Thrills me, makes me want to move
As I noticed it did almost everyone
In attendance at this function


Yes, last night I heard Africa drumming
And began to understand her mystery
Just a little bit better and why
We need to keep trying with her;


Mama Africa, we hear you, we do


I found myself promising to try
Harder to help her and I will.