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.

Amolite, Amolite

 

It is the official provincial gemstone

And also only one of only three stones

In the last fifty years to have been

Declared a new “gem” in the entire world.

It was formed over seventy million years ago

And is only found here, in the southern part

Of the province and there is a limited supplied

Or so the story goes – there is some dispute

About the veracity of both the exclusivity

And the location of the stone

However, owning some of this iridescent magic is addictive;

One piece is never enough—at least that has been my experience

And I am not big on jewellery; but this, this is something different

It comes in hundreds of shades and permutations, and they all

Mean different things according to the tribes that live in the area

Surrounding the small region where they are found

Perhaps that is part of the attraction, at least for me—

The legends that accompany this incredibly interesting

And beautiful stone;

I find myself wearing my greener

Necklace on days I need healing

The purple striated earrings when

I think a bit of energy is called for

And the fiery orange-red pendant

Makes me feel oh-so-sexy when I put it on

Yes amolite, the jewel made from ammonite

The rough stone mined from shale —a treasure

And Alberta’s provincial stone

My favourite jewellery by far

Doily Brains have Clouded Memories


She joked often about the holes in her head
Saying treatments to keep her sane kept
Her from remembering much about her past
As well – she said she didn’t mind not being
Able to recall her kids’ childhoods, their birthdays,
The way they looked on the first day of school
Or as they crossed the stage to get their grad
Diplomas – but sometimes she’d get a flash
And a memory would float to the surface;
She would grab at it trying to clutch it but
Memories are ephemeral, slippery as
Tears shed, and sheer as clouds – and holding
Onto them is no easy thing as well she’s learned
And learned again, and again – for who remembers?

To Tell the Truth
If truth be told, I must say
There have been times
I’ve let things slide and yes
Let you think that all be well


If truth be told, there are days
I wish you would just
Zip your lip and keep silent
Or at least keep your opinions

To yourself and let me pretend
That you agree with most
Everything that I expound
And don’t feel the need

To play devil’s advocate
During every discussion we
Ever have—because you do
You know—and when I say why

You always say you don’t at all
Or that, if you do, it’s for the fun
To keep things lively for us
Both—but I say—no, don’t


If truth be told, it wearies me
More often than enlivens so
Be a dear, quiet now, listen, hear
Let’s not fight, and just say we did

Remembering a life lived for the arts

Visit this link to find out about For Gilbert, a tribute display on at The Works right now! A poem I wrote,
"Where Are You Now?" was selected to be part of the display - I am, needless to say, thrilled.

no more the bird with the piercing voice

The Meaning of a Sappho Fragment

“no more than the bird with the piercing voice”

 

night is rendered mute

blanketed in storms

of soot, smoke, blood stains

the youngest are always

led away first in no

particular order, maybe

by height; eyes eloquent

shrieks strafe the air

in the beginning but

shortly it is silence

that makes the eardrums

throb and bleed

LOSER

And as easy as saying,

“Pass the salt,”

She says to my son-in-law

About my brother, long

Estranged, “I guess you

Could say he’s a real loser.”

Years fall away

And I picture that little boy

He is curled up on the steps

Head on knees, sobbing

Somebody else beat him up

At recess, called him stupid

Stole his good shoes—again

He is not yet ten years old

But he wants to die, he says

Nobody loves him, he sobs

I do, I tell him, I do

When did I stop telling him,

I wonder—

When did he decide for good

And all, he was a loser

When did I let him go ...

I shudder as I speculate

About how likely it is

those events

are all connected ...

Trapped Between Eras

In the hanging garden of wronged

Angels and children not yet conceived

You find one trapped in amber not yet

Hardened and determine to set it free

Knowing there is savage trickery needed

If success is to be had, you disguise

Your intent, become stealthy as

A sly sleek snake slithering around

The edges of Eden looking for his woman;

You shed your scales and stand just

Before you reach the drop caging it

Then, hold it high against the dying light

Alarmed to note it no longer stirs,

Fearing it has succumbed to its future

In the present tense, you cannot resist

Shaking the bead like a baby’s rattle

It is no use, time has won out

This one is frozen in place forever

S.E.Ingraham©

A Silver Teardrop

Dangling off the edge as if weeping,

Lonely for its mate, rests one silver

Teardrop earring – the edge being

A bone-china saucer minus its cup

Another solitary that should be part

Of a couple; as if to complete the

Collection of lost singles, a pair of

Sunglasses minus a lens, stares at

Nothing.

Mile High Reflections

Expecting snow, and ski-crazed folks

And finding sophistication and politeness

That made us feel more Canadian than

We were used to; Saks Fifth Avenue

Solar panel crops, Hermes, sky scraping

Buildings that seemed sculpted to suit

The landscape and everywhere flowers

 

A city as lush as Victoria, on Vancouver

Island, with out-sized blossoms all over

Even though it was a dry spring and the

Creek was low, the cottonwoods just now

Beginning to blow fuzz; Pike’s Peak still

Heavy with its bounty of run-off not yet

Forth-coming; hard to imagine it would

Get greener still, this Eden-like Denver

On Wings of Silver

It is dawn, or very nearly so

And from outside my tiny window

I can see the far horizon’s rosy glow

A coral shade that’s only barely there

Beneath the faded blue of everywhere

And still old Luna, she’s stays up, and fair

At forty thousand feet, we’re flying up above

A planet far below, the third rock that I love

And as always, I am travelling with a peace dove

Nestled deep, well-hidden within my heart

A symbolic bird of hope, as real to me as any part

Helps me to stay a course I’ll try never to depart

Hours later, sleep-fed, and many miles gone too

I know that soon I’ll land and then I’ll be with you

Luna is pale but winks at me, even she bids me, adieu

Z is for Zee, or Zed, or Zenith

Just when you suspect you might be getting

A little bit past your prime, not old exactly

But no longer a youngster either – the coolest

Thing can occur; if you happen to be one

Of the lucky ones, you’ll get a grandchild to love

And this gift will slough years off you as if

You’ve had surgery, remarkable, magical surgery

Where once you might have been winding down

You will begin again winding back up

Re-energized, filled with a joie de vive

That you vaguely remember from when your

Own kids were young and everything seemed

Possible, do-able, and potential was unlimited

It won’t be the end or the middle even but the

Best of all possible times, the zenith you’ll

Think, has finally arrived, and you are ready

White Shirt by Laurie MacFayden: a review by S.E.Ingraham

White Shirt, Laurie MacFayden’s debut collection of poems, is filled with contradictions and affirmations, all of which contribute to leading the reader down paths that echo with the voice of this enigmatic, seemingly straight-forward, and anything but, word-weaver. A one-time sports-writer, MacFayden’s predilection for hockey and all things boyish is reflected in poems such as “five hole” but, just as you’re sure you’ve got her number, figured her out, she flays you raw with something as lovely and somewhat feminine feeling as “song for bedtime”. MacFayden’s voice is as gravelly on the page as it is on the microphone, as much a pleasure to read as it is to hear. With seemingly boundless courage, she takes a hard look at life and reports back her thoughts in words unique to her experience. Let’s hope she’s just getting started.

Yes

It all comes down to this she said

Writing, getting along, life, winning—

Losing even— when you think about

The big picture or the smallest

Things—the really important word

Or maybe it’s not the word so

Much as an attitude—the really

Essential ingredient you need

Is an open-ness to everything and

A willingness that allows you

To experience anything and every-

thing that comes your way, even

If just for a moment, or a little bit

Of time – just drink it in, say yes

To it all, and you will be the richer

For it, she said, say yes.