Showing posts from January, 2015

Nick Thran: A Poem

Mirja Paljakka, courtesy Red Edge Images Nick Thran THREE TREES The aspen, maple and willow gathered one morning for coffee.  “I don’t know how to properly measure my limited hours against the excess of love that I feel for my fellow aspen,” lamented the aspen. “There’s just this constant sense of having let down my own kind.” “My husband is unreachable,” said the maple. “He is too many tiny, stacked logs. A part of him is always away in some fire or the other.” “The plight of the ant makes me weep,” said the willow. “And the plight of the grass. And the nasty things humans will sometimes call one another as they glide by in canoes.” Their conversation sounded like a day would sound in its entirety. They pressed their foreheads together at night and otherwise did not touch, though something was surely going on under the soil, among roots that only the agilest bugs could see. How many seasons passed like that before our family arrived? How many years? Morning. A pot of hot

In Conversation with Paul Vermeersch

Photo by Kristin Foster What's that bright streak in the sky? Isn't it that comet what's-it-called? Or -- Hey, it's Paul Vermeersch! Paul dropped in recently for a brief chat about poems and his new book. What he doesn't say is that he's recently taken up the colouring again. Check it out at . Thanks for stopping by, Paul! SUSAN GILLIS: What brought you to poetry? Or, if you prefer, what brought poetry to you? PAUL VERMEERSCH: I think it starts with colouring books. I always hated colouring books. Blank paper was always better. When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was draw, to create my own images. Colouring books demanded orthodoxy, an adherence to a prescribed pattern and colour palette. But I wanted to play, to explore! When I got older I discovered that you can make art using language instead of crayons or paint. I tried writing songs. I tried writing stories. They didn't seem to fit, but eventually you just grow into t