At Our Doorstep
Pastor asked from the pulpit:
“Has the Anti-Christ come?”
Is this the last hour?
Can one Deceiver rock the planet
Through fanatic nationalism,
Spreading Its sinister arms to all those elsewhere?
Seen before, so often, so often…
Back in the day ‒
Viewed now on black and white films,
The transmission of unscrupulous orders,
Marching through Europe.
And Europe saw it again.
In this time, in this hour.
Hordes streaming from far-off,
Meandering through distant lands.
Meeting closed borders.
Oh, but not here!
We want them to come.
Begin anew, like before.
A mosaic of humanity.
A memory of our very roots as pioneers.
What has changed?
From where has It crept in again?
And we didn’t believe
It could take hold.
We are a civilized western world.
Spoof, skepticism, rebuff against the audacity.
No, not possible.
Why were we so naïve?
Promises to the downtrodden…
Beliefs silently held
Now ‒ given permission to bellow
From a place of possibility.
Its supporters cannot be denied.
Remember the Jasmine Revolution of Tunisia?
And then again in Tahrir Square, Cairo?
The social media revolution
When the masses united, fused, conquered!
Watching from afar
Through the same cyber lens,
Words of sarcasms, anger, defiance ‒ dismay!
Marching in throngs, the women gather,
Joining and chanting.
Now too late, far too late ‒
The corrosion, implosion begins.
And as we observe in our own safe haven
Another massacre, this time in a sacred house!
At our very own doorstep ‒
Has the Anti-Christ come?
The creation of poetry
There is no way of knowing, when the art of poetry first began. It is assumed that the origins are steeped in an oral tradition, frequently employed as a means of recording history, storytelling to an audience, perhaps sung, often paying tribute to deities. To aid memorization, there was already a form to these, including rhythm and repetition.
When written composition began, it meant poets began to write for an absent audience, though likely scholars. The earliest written work may have been The Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor which is a story of an Ancient Egyptian’s voyage written at about 2500 BCE. The Epic of Gilgamesh from ancient Mesopotamia, was impressed in cuneiform around 2100 BCE. These are considered to be distinct stories. Later came The Vedas, which is a collection of hymns and other religious texts composed in India between 1500 and 1000 BCE. The oldest existing collection of Chinese poetry, dates from the 11th to 7th centuries BCE. It is one of the “Five Classics” traditionally said to have been compiled by Confucius. The Greek Odyssey dates from about 800 to 675 BCE.
Then, moving right along to a personal favourite – Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales was written in 1380 CE. And then further on, to my much loved Romantic verses: the poets who spring to mind include William Blake, William Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats. Modernist poetry in the English language started in the early years of the 20th Century among many, W.B. Yeats who used symbols from ordinary life. Canadian poet Dorothy Livesay’s work was first published when she was only 28. I happily sat at her feet, as she held her audience captive in salons.
The word ‘poetry’ comes from the ancient Greek word poieo (ποιεω ) meaning ‘I create’
Poetry is an art form, using language in a more concise, tight manner than prose, which is expansive and less condensed. Poetry conveys feelings, emotions or ideas applying such devices as alliteration, internal rhyme and also relying on imagery, word association, as well as musical language like dissonance. The interactive layering of all these generate meaning as to what marks poetry. It is to be noted that English and European poetry often use rhyme, generally at the end of lines in such formats as ballads, sonnets and rhyming couplets. Just as the Greek classic poetry, however, much modern poetry does not use rhyme. In more recent times, the rise of poetry reading have led to a resurgence of performance poetry, which dates back to the very origins of the art form.
Poetry is something I have always written, experimenting with various traditions, such as ballads and sonnets and even Haiku. For me, poetry is fundamentally about expressing a particular idea, about a particular matter, in a succinct manner, using techniques associated with writing in general. I’m a story teller, and thus my ‘style’ demonstrates that technique. I have compiled a selection of poems written over many years, in my latest book “Echoes of Footsteps”.
She was glad to see him. The morning tour guide had left the group at Grand Place. It was the intoxicating aroma which had drawn her to the Neuhaus chocolate shop. While heading back outside with the delectable package in hand, Sophie had bumped into him. He politely asked if she minded him tagging along.
“Not at all!” she had answered, much to her surprise. She generally liked being alone.
But from the time she had boarded the tour coach in Calais, she had noticed something about this man that had intrigued her. Perhaps a long ago memory? Now in Brussels for an entire day, it might be nice to wander about with a companion.
“Will you join me for lunch at La Brouette?” he had invited.
Her feet already hurt. She hadn’t been prepared for the cobble stones. She agreed. The waiter led them to an outdoor table at the bistro’s terrace. John was a charming older man, likely pushing sixty, she considered. Safe – by her standards. He suggested the croque-monsieur and recommended she try the local beer. She thanked him for finding this eatery, from where they had a superb view of the entire square. Before he could comment, they were interrupted by another from the tour, whom Sophie unhappily recognized.
“Good to see familiar faces!” She greeted them almost brashly, plunking her exhausted body on the other free chair. “I was going to settle for a bench and a decadent waffle, but this place is far more interesting,”
Sophie was flabbergasted! Didn’t people on tours respect personal space and privacy? Hadn’t she worked diligently at avoiding this boisterous older woman, from as far back as London? No boundaries! A perfect day ruined.
Alyson was tired of tramping about alone. As soon as the city tour was finished, everyone around her headed off in different directions ‒ all to avoid her. She had no delusions. It was something she had gotten used to on these trips. Even the shared roommates, arranged through the company, were relieved to leave her on her own. It was a challenging way to travel; certainly a hell of a come down from the days of gallivanting about with Alfred, her fifth husband. He had left her nothing ‒ but the yearning for adventure. Her friends back home were far too few now: some still married, some widowed like her and others, with little income ‒ or so they said. Well too bad! An excursion a year was her annual resolution ‒ and just maybe, finding another mate. She had immediately liked the look of this man, John Knight, who had helped her with her luggage last evening. She made note of his name when the guide called out their room numbers at the hotel. What on earth was he doing with this young hussy half his age, she wanted to ask him. And such a miss snooty, snob at that! Yes, attractive by all counts, maybe even beautiful with that head of red cascading hair. She enviously remembered her own good looks, back in the day. Now it was more about being bold to attract attention, and counting on people’s good manners to include her.
He couldn’t very well tell her to leave, though it was his first instinct. His young guest was clearly uncomfortable having her there. As was he. John chided himself for having been helpful with her luggage. Dumb move. It was likely an innate habit, from days gone by. How many of these older women had he encountered over the years, feigning helplessness? Right on cue, he had performed the job – now the act of chivalry ‒ expected of him. Women seemed to recognize these types of females, for who they were. Hunters on the prowl? But men, were they destined to fall into their trap? The best he could do now was to engage them in polite conversation about the tour: the silly Manneken Pis, that had become the emblem of Brussels and about the surrounding buildings ‒ the Town Hall, Maison du Roi and the opulent guildhalls. He informed them about the magnificent Grand Place Flower Carpet that would be on display in August. All the while, what he really wanted was to spend some alone time with Sophie. He needed to find out if his hunch was correct. Had he in fact met her years before on another tour ‒ with her father? He had detected a familiarity in her lilting voice that led him to this reflection. Once free of the grappling female, he was determined to invite Sophie back in the evening, to again view Grand Place ‒ all gloriously illuminated in brushed gold.
It was a spontaneous decision. A surprise by all accounts. Wanda hadn’t the remotest notion to travel to China.
Previous trips had been painstakingly planned for months ahead. Not this time. This time she threw all caution to the wind and grasped the opportunity presented.
“Just go!” Her reckless Inner Child had commanded.
And here she was at the Great Wall. She took a deep breath, intentionally feeling the moment. Intentionally storing the feeling in her memory for future reference.
The trip was more difficult than she had anticipated. The stairs, the climbing, the smog! On the positive side, sites were grand and indescribably spectacular. The petite tour guide Gloria was informative, humble yet firm. Meeting times and locations were specific. After all, who would want to be lost in such a vast country?
As was her custom, Wanda traveled alone. For a while, she shuffled along with the crowd heading up the recommended block of the Great Wall. But what was the adventure in avoiding uneven stone slabs beneath her feet? Or avoiding the bumping and squeezing among bodies heading upwards on slippery slopes and steps? She looked at her watch. Two more hours until the meeting at the mammoth visitors’ centre. Too much allotted time! She took a quick look at what had been advised as a ‘must see’ including the flag. Gloria had given some instruction about that flag, her voice drifting far off into the wind. Wanda headed off.
She located a clearing, away from the throng and took the road with a familiar name, which she thought she recognized from her ride in the coach. There was a sign with a picture of food near a low building. She decided to enter. It was dark, long and narrow with concession booths on either side, selling every Asian food concoction never seen on this trip. Each vendor tried to snatch her attention. She walked on and on, descending steep steps every few yards. At last relieved to see daylight, she found herself in a parking lot filled with coaches bearing Asian names. Was this where her driver parked the coach?
“Now, that was some adventure,” she mumbled to herself as she headed back on the road with the name she recognized from before.
It was quite the climb. Reaching the top of the road, she looked around and saw a sign with a picture of people. And off she went in that direction – only ‒ to find herself at an all too familiar entrance. How could this be? An utter, if not eerie surprise! She was once more in the same long food building ‒ and this time she noticed she was the sole Caucasian. Her steps down the stairs were quicker than previously. At the parking lot she knew she had taken a wrong turn. A man approached her and asked, “Taxi?”. Well that would have been nice. But how could she explain – to where?
Determined to trace her way back, she spotted a towering lumber entrance to her right, with animal carvings at the top. Had she seen that before, perhaps from the coach on the way to the visitors’ centre? She was delighted to find various different buildings as well as families walking about heading towards a place around which crowds had already gathered. People smiled. They let her to the front of the group, as she again realized these were all Asian tourists. For the time being, however, her attention was drawn to the small black bear cubs scampering about within the enclosed area; there were also several larger bears, looking quite harmless.
“Another adventure!” her Inner Child reassured. Then reality and a hint of fear hit hard. Where was she?
Out of the gate she went. And up the road with the familiar name. And back to the same people sign – and yes, back into the same food building. There is some quote about the insanity of doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result. Yet, that was precisely her hope. How could she be in this same place ‒ again? No surprise that this time the Asian vendors looked at her quizzically. All she wanted was to be out of there, in the sunlight, in the parking lot and finally finding the right road. Perhaps third time lucky? She was. Reaching the top of the road, an older couple from her group meandered into sight.
Wanda slowly approached. With as much nonchalance as she could muster through her quivering heart, she greeted them.
The woman was friendly. “Yes. We’ve been looking about, but keeping track of the flag. Time to head back to the visitors’ centre.”
Oh that frigging flag! There it was, now in full sight. She had taken the opposite turn from what had been instructed. She remembered, as she followed the couple.
Back on the couch, her seat partner remarked. “The Great Wall is as I recall twenty years ago. But this colossal tourist centre is new. Must have been designed to impress us Westerners. When I was here before, we were dropped off at a large wooden archway with carved animals on top. And there was a pit with black bears! Too bad all that’s gone.”
Wanda smiled. Hearing this story was the best surprise of the adventure, or was it synchronicity ‒ which she decided to share with no one.
BOOK LAUNCH ‒
“Echoes of Footsteps”
Thank you Lorna Foreman ‒ my editor, my publicist and my dear friend. And thank you all, for coming. I am amazed that you still attend my book launches.
And, I am amazed that I continue to be excited about seeing another one of my books published, thanks to Raymond Coderre, Founder and President of Baico Publishing,Ottawa.
I was in the first stages of researching what I had planned would be my next novel, when I couldn’t get a niggling feeling out of my thoughts. I decided to set aside my research and this time, instead pull together all my short compositions.
I came to this conclusion for a number of reasons. I became somewhat frustrated by people’s suggestion that I write my own story, which some consider to be interesting. I had already written a portion of that! But then I remembered that this year 2016 marks the 60th anniversary of the Hungarian uprising. The date also marks my family’s escape from Hungary. I felt, therefore, it was timely to bring to light my early experiences as a refugee arriving in a new country. Perhaps some of these sketches will resonate for readers, especially as they echo the circumstances of current refugees seeking asylum in this country.
The challenge to compile this book was to pull together relatively disjointed pieces, written over various periods of time, in a manner which would hopefully flow from one to the other. The bottom line is ‒ I’m a story teller! You know that if you’ve read my two previous books, “The Women Gather” and “Reconnecting”. Thus, even with short pieces, I still needed to tell a story, or various stories.
The book is divided into 3 sections: Days of Innocence, which comprises my Hungarian experiences; Days of Wanderings, which are poems from early years to today; and finally Days of Experience, mostly from the time I moved to Cornwall thirteen years ago. Many consist of articles I wrote over a decade for Cornwall’s Seaway News, in my column called “Kindness”, thanks to publisher Rick Shaver. Others are some of the stories I penned including as member of the Cornwall and Regional Writers’ Society.
While I generally do not give names of people about whom I write, nevertheless, there are many who are identified throughout the book: my family of course, including my late father András Gyula (for whom I dedicated this book). my mother Lidia András and my brother George András. In addition, you will note references to my young friend Emma, who has grown up through some of the pages. Bernadette Clement is also referred to a few times in the “Community” section of the book ‒ because of course, her presence as friend and Cornwall City Councilor is always so appreciated at events, including today. Thank you.
Brilliant Miss Emma recently asked me if I had hidden an ‘Easter Egg’ in my new book. I clearly didn’t know what she meant. Perhaps you do. According to Wikipedia:
An Easter Egg is an intentional inside joke, hidden message, or feature in an interactive work such as a computer program, video game or DVD menu screen.
Apparently, it can also be applied to writing. Unknowingly, I had in fact applied the concept in both my previous books, “The Women Gather” as well as in “Reconnecting” ‒ a sort of tease which referred back to the previous work. It is a nod to the reader, who recognizes the reference. And still unknowing the term, I have incorporated it again in my current book. Do note the sections called “Owen’s Poems” and “Marlie’s Stories”. Some of you will perhaps understand the subtle mention. So thank you Miss Emma, for legitimizing my technique to me, and almost bringing me into the hip age of technology.
Finally, I want to say something about the cover, which I must say I really like. On my computer, I found a scanned photo ‒ long ago lost ‒ taken in 1978 by Husband Duncan. It is of me walking down the street of my grandmother’s village in Sárbogard, Hungary, where I was born. The scan was faded and ghost like. I sent it off to creative photographer artist Jacqueline Milner, who did her magic to resize and add bits. Thank you Jacquie! Baico did the rest, and voila!
As I told you the last time, marketing one’s work is the most difficult challenge set before any author. It’s not why we write. I look around this community and there are so many writers in the same situation as I am. All I can hope is that you will read my book, and that there will be something in there which connects with your sensibility.
“Echoes of Footsteps” may be purchased from me the author, or ordered through Chapters, or Baico Publishing: http://www.baico.ca/
Presented at Cornwall Public Library
September 17, 2016
Friday at last! It had been a long, hectic week at work for Marlie. End of the fiscal year. All programs were directed to account for their past year’s activities and spendings. What a relief finally to be home, in solace with Owen.
On most Fridays he would meet her at the local hang out for wine and dinner, but she had begged off with a phone call that afternoon.
“I just want to put my feet up, order in and have a some wine, alone in peace with you.”
He had agreed of course, as she knew he would.
“I’ll be waiting on the balcony with the wine!” She pictured his smile and glistening sky blue eyes, as his mellow voice reassured her.
She called out “Hello!” as soon as she entered their apartment. There was no response! That was troubling. He always greeted her. Marlie dropped her hand bag, slipped off her heels and headed down the hall to his office which opened to the balcony. The early spring sun blazed through the overhanging branches, waiting for the buds to form. It was surprising to have such warmth this time of year and late afternoon at that. Owen’s shut eyes opened wide in surprise as she repeated “Hello” and bent to peck his forehead. He had been dozing, she concluded.
The bottle of Merlot they enjoyed, along with two wine glasses were waiting at the side board. The small table beside his deep wicker chair held her mother’s opened Bible, which they both shared. Also within reach was the large amber ashtray he had purchased for her, because she liked amber and also because of its size, as a tease that she smoked too much.
“I only smoke at work and only out here on the balcony. It’s large enough to share with your pipe.” She had reminded him.
Just then a loud shatter! The massive ashtray cracked before them in countless wedges from the centre, hurling his pipe to the floor.
“Oh my goodness!” Marlie was startled. “It must have been caused by the heat of your pipe and the blazing sun hitting it simultaneously in the centre.” She was pragmatic.
Owen slowly stood up from his chair, reached for the wine bottle and poured the lush, maroon liquid into each glass. He handed her one, took the other, motioned for her to sit down as he did likewise.
“Marlena, I was asking for a sign…”
She remembered that day for years to come. She remembered her pseudo scientific explanation as to what she considered to be an ordinary experience. How different the experience had been for Owen, the seeker for answers to universal questions about the mystic. She remembered that day because that was the last day in which she smoked cigarettes. And she remembered that day also because she knew that was the night in which their precious daughter Amanda was conceived. But mostly she remembered that day, because it forever changed how she looked upon her own universe.
Life wasn’t only about waiting for the weekend. It was about holding onto every single day as important, with potential learnings and revelations. It was about accepting mysteries without attempting to explain them away by some latest scientific attempt at reasoning. It was about reconnecting to the universal consciousness that had guided mankind throughout the eons, yes with new insights, but anchored in fundamental truths since the dawn of creation. It was about recognizing, acknowledging and accepting signs that gave direction and encouragement.
From that time onward, Marlie became open to signs. There were signs that came to her in church, though not in any obvious way; it could be a hymn that held particular words she had thought of the day before, or a mention of an incident to which she had related. Other signs were often about friends who called or sent a note at precisely the moment she had thought of them. Sometimes, signs were simply memories that hung in the air like veils revealing themselves in moments when she needed comfort.
And thus it was ‒ when she waited for Owen to walk through the door of their home on that ninth day, of the ninth month, in the ninth year, as the rainbow arced for hours over their street, that Marlie knew her beloved had died. She knew that he had sent the rainbow as a sign of his covenant: he was and would continue to be with her throughout time and space and eternity.
My aunt in Hungary still goes to the market daily to buy bread. She feeds the remains from the day before, to the birds. Wasteful perhaps, or all in the way you look at it. When she was a little girl following the Depression, it took a cart full of paper bills to buy a single loaf of black bread.
My father, imprisoned in Hungary for nearly seven years, was content enough to eat the wedge of dry bread he was given; it was better than the blue mouldy crusts he was sometimes left. Even his dinner companion, the rat, had trouble consuming that.
My mother baked bread over thirty-five years for my father. Hers was the only kind he would eat: white with a thick golden crust, crumbly after the first day. No wonder my aunt replaces hers daily.
Arriving in Canada sixty years ago, I remember my delight when a classmate at lunch time offered me store-bought, uniformly sliced, white bread that tasted sweet and stuck to the roof of my mouth.
That is the same kind of bread with the crusts off and cut into tiny, even sized cubes with an electric knife, which is served at Presbyterian Communions. It also sticks to the roof of the mouth, needing to be swallowed with a drop of grape juice, pretending to be wine, offered in minuscule glasses. Husband, the Protestant Minister, would sometimes rebel against the minute bread cubes when serving Holy Communion. He would hold up a full loaf of his favourite Italian bread, tear it into two parts before the congregation, rip off a piece for himself and pass the rest to the Elders to do the same: the bread of life to commemorate the Last Supper of the man Jesus, before his death. In the Roman Catholic Church where I’m not permitted to take Mass, wafers are distributed that melt in your mouth, intended to represent the body of Christ. The wafer ‘bread’ is meant to mimic the unleavened bread likely provided at the Last Supper, marking the Passover when the Israelites had to flee Egypt from their captors; there hadn’t been sufficient time to allow the bread to rise.
Most restaurants place bread at the dinner table. Indian restaurants serve Nan bread, which too is flat and hardly risen, and which I rather like. This type of bread is close to the initial bread, discovered by mistake no doubt, by the female some 30,000 years ago, while accidentally splashing water on the cooking grain. Variations sprung from that kind of unintentional experiment ‒ passed on, refined, and redefined throughout history and cultures: cooking, grilling, frying, baking bread to share among the family, the tribe and even with strangers.
Throughout my travels, my most delicious bread experiences have been the baguette devoured with a hunk of cheese while sitting on a bench along the Seine River, overlooking Notre Dame Cathedral; and while still in Paris ‒ the croissant ‒delicately consumed with café au lait, from a bowl. I’ve even attempted to make croissants years ago. Unsuccessfully! Do you know how many foldings and days are required to follow this process? Never mind. Some patisseries sell good ones. A woman I know bakes several loaves of whole wheat bread for a group’s fund raiser auction, every year. I give up bidding at the $20 point. They must taste like manna from heaven! I’ve tried to catch onto the gluten free fad, but the frozen loaf I purchased for far too much money at the grocery store was as dry and crumbly as my Mom’s bread on the second day ‒ though I need to digress ‒ when Mom’s bread came out of the oven, the air in the house floated in an aroma of utter ecstasy…
Sitting with friends at lunch recently, we gravitated for the warm rolls, permitting ourselves to enjoy their intoxicating fragrance and luscious flavour while poo-pooing this generation’s fervour that means to control carb consumption. Yet even Oprah, who is currently promoting Weight Watchers on television, confesses with what can only be defined as orgasmic passion: “I LOOOOVE Bread!”
Well there it is. Bread crosses all cultures and customs since its invention. Bread is a staple that has been part of my entire existence. Bread connects me to life long memories. The bottom line for me is that bread is about sharing and love. And no one has expressed it better than Omar Khayyám:
A book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread ‒ and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness ‒
O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Who do you think I am?
Eulogies given at funerals are often interesting and sometimes surprising.
“Why didn’t I know that about her?” One might ask.
The answer is fairly simple. A eulogy is often prepared by contributions from a number of people who knew about the departed. They may discuss some quaint personal stories, accomplishments and even bits of humour which give a seemingly rounded picture of her life. But make no mistake, even if the eulogy had been pre-prepared by the deceased herself, it will only provide a glimpse of who she really was, because she will only offer information that she wishes to disclose.
Two questions come to mind: Why do others want to know about us? And why do we seem to have a need for others to know who we are?
From a humanistic perspective, others may want to know us so that trusting relationships may be formed, or unhealthy ones avoided. Finding out information about another person boils down to a matter of judgement. In some cases we immediately ‘relate’ and therefore ‘like’ an individual upon first contact. At other times the opposite is true. How does that happen? We hardly have any input for making that instantaneous judgement and yet ‒ we do. But being human, for some reason, we have a need to continue probing. If we have decided that we like the individual, then we want to look for commonalities which will further connect the bond between us. This may turn out to be a long lasting, strong attachment. Or we may come upon points we consider disturbing, which may eventually sever the initial tie. In the case where there was a negative reaction to the individual, one may want to give reason a chance rather than leave it all to an emotional reaction. Perhaps by taking the time to get to know the person better, we may conclude that the first impression was not correct. Or we may validate that indeed it was accurate.
Yet all this analyses is bogus. We do not live on an island nor in a cave, high on a mountain top. Whatever community or group we belong to, there is an unwritten expectation that we accept other members, in some measure. The premise is that we understand human beings come with all kinds of positive as well as negative characteristics. As time progresses, we find out aspects of their life, as they choose to reveal it. We get to know about them by listening.
And now to the question why do we seem to have a need for others to know about us? Simply put, I expect it is because we want to be heard; and that we believe our existence matters. I think we constantly tell some story about ourselves. From an initial introduction when we give our name, we often offer some inkling. As time progresses, we tend to give away more data, depending on who the audience might be. We have various presentation tools. The professional ‘curriculum vitae’ is a well known written document; there are those who have a need to expound this format, even during informal exchanges, in an attempt to endorse forcefully who they are. Others will have different ways to summarize what they wish to convey.
Having worked in social service programs, specifically the prevention of violence against women, I have always been of two minds concerning the disclosure of a survivor’s abuse. On the one hand, the story needs to be told by the individual first for herself and second to authorities. in order to bring justice to the situation. But, how often is it necessary for the survivor to retell her story is something that I continue to question. The reality, however, is that like the survivor, we all do in fact retell our stories, over and over again.
As a writer, I often object to readers assuming my stories and my novels are about me. I object because that somehow dismisses my creativity when I tell my tales about the human condition. All the same, I am well aware that my stories address my insights and my interpretations that I have grasped through personal experiences, interactions with others, as well as observations and judgements I have made about individuals, perspectives, theories and issues.
During my lifetime, it is inevitable that I will continue to offer bits and pieces about who I am through my writing, as do other writers. At this juncture in my life I don’ t plan to write my memoirs. Nor do I plan to have a funeral, thus no eulogy. Nor will I summarize who I am in some neat little package. If you want to know me, then you need to listen when I tell my stories. Nevertheless, regardless what I tell you, it will always be you, the listener or the reader who will interpret who you think I am.
Marketing the second novel “Reconnecting”
Each time I think of the term ‘marketing’ I cringe. And each time the term comes up I recall the words of a Director I once had: “None of you know how to market yourselves!” Was that some sort of curse I continue to carry with me?
When my first novel “The Women Gather” was accepted by Baico Publishing in 2012, I was utterly grateful. What I hadn’t considered was the next step: marketing! What it really meant was self promotion:
“I have written this wonderful novel. Please buy it!”
Alright. I know that isn’t the approach one uses, but that is exactly what it feels like to the novice who is attempting to launch her work. Quite frankly, I was absolutely tongue tied during my initial venture into the sales world. Thankfully, my artist friend Emily MacLeod gave me some excellent tips, which encouraged me to engage with those who came by my display.
Nevertheless, I continued to hold onto my belief. What I do is write, because I need to write. It is in me to do that, just as it is in the artist to paint, the musician to play, the actor to perform.… It is not in me to sell, never mind to sell myself.
The reality, however, is that we live in a competitive world. Those of us who are writers know that there are thousands of us working at our next novel. Technology has given anyone and everyone the opportunity to create and word craft and get it out there into the blogging and eBook networks. Yet, I’m still the product of the old school: I need to see and feel my books in hard copy. There is a price to pay for that! Oh yes. It costs, regardless whether one has a publisher or not. The dastardly word ‘marketing’ is very much left in the hands of the author.
And thus, I am here again at this juncture! My second novel “Reconnecting” was again accepted by Baico Publishing and released in June 2015. Once more, I have to come to terms with the need to promote my work. It is no easier than the first time. Perhaps I am less awkward when potential customers ask me to tell them about the novel. Perhaps I am less disappointed when they walk away without having purchased it.
OWEN’S POEMS from “Reconnecting”
If you only knew
When we met by chance
In crowded rooms of people ‒
If you only knew.
When we met by chance
Alone in empty hallways ‒
If you only knew.
When we met by chance
With her, in that small café ‒
If you only knew.
When we met by chance
At the station heading home −
If you only knew.
When we met by chance
In the building where you live ‒
I will tell at last.
Often you have passed this way.
Did you know that I had
summoned your name?
And you have come ‒
not to stay,
only to remain for a heartbeat.
The battle with uncertainty ‒
The mystery of the eternal hidden from the ephemeral.
Dare I show you too much of me?
Someday! Not our time. Not yet.
I watched you in moon light
Caressing our child,
While you sung to her softly
As she nodded and smiled.
I capture these moments
Like a thief in the night
To glow in my memory ‒
You are my life, and my light.
Out there ‒ existence mingles with reality and truth.
Out there ‒ lies the depth and essence of life.
Out there ‒ the nucleus of good mocks the three-pronged deity.
From out there, the nucleus transcends supernatural symbolisms
and penetrates the soul of man
in the image of God.
There is peace in the world
when gentle flakes flutter from the heavens
like white blossoming flowers.
I arose early
to see the earth blanketed
in white crystalline velvet.
The sky loomed dark
but the shimmering snow
seemed to radiate the surroundings
in a light of its own.
Thickly piled flakes
smoothed the jagged ground
as though a sea of white petals
flowed ever so softly.
I longed to step bare-footed
onto the luscious covering.
My parched lips thirsted
to taste the cool wetness.
The meadow where we stroll and run
Is spread with blue straw flowers,
And butterfly wings reflect the sun,
While we dream away the hours.
Such golden times are in my heart,
For our days are surely numbered;
Though we cannot know unto what part
We journey when we’ve slumbered.
Yet in that field you will dance again ‒
Once my earthly life has left you ‒
With friends, holding hands after the rain,
Chanting songs for dreams anew.
There will I send a rainbow to let you know,
My soul rests within you, forever aglow.