I present a passage from HarperCollins Canada‘s The Restoration Artist by Lewis DeSoto.

A realization hit me. Someone had made this. Someone took a brush and dipped it in paint and touched it to the canvas, making these marks and shapes and colours. And he made the world in the picture appear. It was a kind of magic A hand had made this. A hand like any other, even mine. I looked down at my own fingers, almost expecting to see a trace of paint on my knuckle. 

In honour of National Poetry Month, I present “Touch Me” from Collected Poems by Stanley Kunitz.

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

In honour of National Poetry Month, I present “Dreams” from The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

In honour of National Poetry Month and Earth Day, on Monday, April 22, I present “The Moment” from Morning in the Burned House by Margaret Atwood.

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

In honour of National Poetry Month, I present “The Story of Old Women” from Sobbing Superpower: Selected Poems of Tadeusz Różewicz, translated by Joanna Trzeciak.

I like old women
ugly women
mean women

they are the salt of the earth

they are not disgusted by
human waste

they know the flipside
of the coin
of love
of faith

dictators clown around
come and go
hands stained
with human blood

old women get up at dawn
buy meat fruit bread
clean cook
stand on the street
arms folded silent

old women
are immortal

Hamlet flails in a snare
Faust plays a base and comic role
Raskolnikov strikes with an axe

old women
are indestructible
they smile knowingly

god dies
old women get up as usual
at dawn they buy bread wine fish
civilization dies
old women get up at dawn
open the windows
cart away waste
man dies
old women
wash the corpse
bury the dead
plant flowers
on graves

I like old women
ugly women
mean women

they believe in eternal life
they are the salt of the earth
the bark of a tree
the timid eyes of animals

cowardice and bravery
greatness and smallness
they see in their proper proportions
commensurate with the demands
of everyday life
their sons discover America
perish at Thermopylae
die on the cross

conquer the cosmos

old women leave at dawn
for the city to buy milk bread meat
season the soup
open the windows

only fools laugh
at old women
ugly women
mean women

because these beautiful women
kind women
old women
are like an ovum
a mystery devoid of mystery
a sphere that rolls on

old women
are mummies
of sacred cats

they’re either small
withered
dry springs
dried fruit
or fat
round buddhas

and when they die
a tear rolls down
a cheek
and joins
a smile on the face
of a young woman

In honour of National Poetry Month, I present “Hope is the thing with feathers” by Emily Dickinson.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

That’s one of the amazing things great books like this do—they just don’t get you to see the world differently, they get you to look at people, the people around you, differently.

A new year, another chance to take the 50 Book Pledge. And why wouldn’t I? I had a blast last year. I read fifty-seven books. Fifty-seven! I still can’t believe it. There were so many fantastic books. Outliers. This Dark Endeavour. The Phantom Tollbooth. A Monster Calls. Beautiful Ruins. The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. Night. The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared. Oh, and I can’t forget The Shadow of the Wind and The Prisoner of Heaven. They took my breath away. They were entrancing. Hypnotic even. Carlos Ruiz Zafón made a fan out of me. I had to get my hands on The Angel’s Game. I couldn’t wait to be blown away again. The characters. The setting. The exquisite detail. It’s going to be fantastic! But wait, something’s missing. Oh no. This can’t be happening. Not at the beginning of my pledge. Maybe I just need to give it more time. Should I give it more time? Even if I’m not excited? But I’m not looking forward to reading it. Not even a little. I don’t care if I never know how it ends. Damn. That’s my answer, isn’t it? I’ve got to close the book on this one. Permanently. Carlos Ruiz Zafón. The Angel’s Game. My apologies.

I present a passage from House of Anansi‘s Winter: Five Windows on the Season by Adam Gopnik.

For the final truth about snowflakes is that they become more individual as they fall; that, buffeted by wind and time, they are translated, as if by magic, into ever stranger and more complex patterns, until at last they touch earth. Then, like us, they melt.

For your reading pleasure, I present Random House‘s The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce.

Charming. Compassionate. Precious. These are just a few of the words that describe The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. What you encounter when you read its pages is a tale of grief, regret and weakness. But it’s much more than that. In it you take a journey of human exploration that illuminates Harold, the man, and his relationship with his wife, Maureen.

I warn you that your heart is sure to break on more than one occasion but that’s merely a testament to Joyce’s brilliance as a storyteller.

I present a passage from Hyperion‘s The Time Keeper by Mitch Albom.

Man alone measures time. Man alone chimes the hour. And, because of this, man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures. A fear of time running out.

Well, believe it or not, it’s that time of year again. When charities and not-for-profits share their story in the hopes that you will add a chapter to their success. I, like many of you, will be doing just that. One of the organizations I’ll be supporting this year is the The Nature Conservancy of Canada.

The NCC’s story revolves around protecting “areas of natural diversity for their intrinsic value and for the benefit of our children and those after them.” But they can’t do it alone. Starting at just $40, a Gift of Canadian Nature gives not once, not twice, but thrice. “Once to the recipient with a personalized certificate and a beautiful calendar, once to the giver with a charitable tax receipt and once to Canadian wildlife.” The species being featured this year are the snowy owl, the grizzly bear, the caribou, the gray fox and the Canada lynx.

So when you open up your wallet this holiday season consider supporting NCC and ensure their story of conserving Canada’s natural wonder continues for years to come.

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.

if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.

if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.

if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.

if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.

if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.

if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.

the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.

unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.

unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.
and there never was.

~ Charles Bukowski

I present a passage from Hyperion‘s Sutton by J.R. Moehringer.

And he didn’t always care if his stories were true.

Is that bad?

Not necessarily. Truth has its place. In a courtroom, certainly. A boardroom. But in a story? I don’t know. I think truth is in the listener. Truth is something the listener bestows on a story—or not.

Some people get poetry and some never will. Those around me fall into the latter category. In fact, poetry goes right over their heads. Family and friends alike have asked me on more than one occasion why I love poetry. My answer always includes eight lines that were recited to me at a very young age.

Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
and the pleasant land.

Thus the little minutes,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.

I was floored by the depth with which these eight lines spoke of the world. They gave me new eyes and a new understanding. They showed me what a handful of words really can do. They, like all poetry, speak a truth.

We always strive to qualify and quantify our every experience. That’s why we write and read. But it’s poetry that strips away the excess to unveil the foundation of who we are and who we can be.

such was a poet and shall be and is

who’ll solve the depths of horror to defend
a sunbeam’s architecture with his life:
and carve immortal jungles of despair
to hold a mountain’s heartbeat in his hand

~ “no man,if men are gods;but if gods must” by e.e. cummings

Poetry’s lyrical precision can dissect any subject to its very core.

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

~ “Success is counted sweetest” by Emily Dickinson

My aim, as a poet, is to do the same. To move you, the reader, enough that you take pause.

and when they die
a tear rolls down
a cheek
and joins
a smile on the face
of a young woman

~ “The Story of Old Women” by Joanna Trzeciak

I love poetry because it hands me the truth and asks nothing more of me then to take from it what I will.

I’m ecstatic to report that as of Monday, October 8, 2012, I turned the final page on my 50 Book Pledge. For those doing the math, that’s nine months, seven days, eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes.

I still can’t believe I did it because when I first set out I wasn’t entirely convinced I could. I considered fifty books in fifty-two weeks a tall order, especially since I’ve never read that many books in a single year before. My greatest fear could be summed up in a single word: Time.

What a fool I was. Time wasn’t a factor at all. In fact, my biggest dilemma ended up being what to read next. But, obviously, that didn’t last very long.

4     # of classics I read

2     # of series I started

3     # of poetry books I read

1     # of books I stopped reading

15   # of books I read by HarperCollins Canada

43   # of authors I read for the first time

The amazing part about participating in the pledge was how it turned me into a literary monster. With every book I finished, I found that my hunger for reading grew exponentially. I couldn’t get enough! In the words of George R.R. Martin the reader in me wanted to live “a thousand lives.” (Now I’ve only got 950 to go.) And that’s precisely why I’m going to continue reading and why I’ll be taking the pledge again next year.

Looking back it’s hard to pick a favourite because I read some truly phenomenal books. Instead, here’s just a small sampling of books that knocked my socks off:

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Now that I had finished, the beauty of my dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart …

The Chimps of Fauna Sanctuary by Andrew Westoll

Dignity begins when an animal feels that she is the chief instrument of change in her life.

100 Selected Poems by e.e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your body.

It is so quite new a thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness

This monster is something different, though. Something ancient, something wild. And it wants the most dangerous thing of all from Conor.

It wants the truth.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Once, in my father’s bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.

A huge thank you to The Savvy Reader for making 2012 the best reading year of my life!

On Friday, September 7, 2012, Graeme Paton of The Telegraph published an article called “Children ‘too embarrassed’ to pick up books, study says.” Paton’s article is the latest in a long line of reports that brings to light a growing trend: Today’s children aren’t reading. Here’s just a sampling of what the National Literacy Trust found:

[T]hat 38.1 per cent of pupils read in their spare time when the study was first carried out in 2005. This dropped to 37.7 per cent in 2007, 32.2 per cent in 2009 and 30.8 per cent in the latest poll completed in 2011.

[T]hat 54 per cent of those questioned preferred watching TV to reading.

Of those who did read outside class, 47.8 per cent said they read fiction, down from 51.5 per cent in 2005.

As disheartening as the above statistics are, I don’t find them nearly as disturbing as the following:

[O]ne-in-six children admitted they were too embarrassed to read in front of their friends for fear of being labelled a geek.

Knowing this breaks my heart because I make the conscious decision each and every day to pick up a book and read. Why? Well, I’ve got the typical answers of enjoyment and escape. But there’s far more to it than that. The truth is, I read just as much to find myself as I do to lose myself.

Courtesy of How to Self-Publish (Blog)

The Chimps of Fauna Sanctuary by Andrew Westoll taught me that I’m an animal rights activist to the point where I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is. And herein lies the power of reading: It can help you see yourself and your place in the world more clearly, especially when it calls on you to make a choice.

Gloria Grow doesn’t really think only 2 percent of us are truly conscious or caring. She understands how many things in the world need changing, and she doesn’t resent those who choose to champion another cause or fight another fight. All she really wants is for people to make a choice, to become a champion or learn how to fight—to use the gift they’ve been given.

“As long as you care about something,” she says. “Something beyond yourself.”

The Chimps of Fauna Sanctuary helped me find myself as a person and Phil Hall’s Killdeer helped me find myself as a poet.

It is by such encounters – brash – rude – naïve foolhardy or accidental – that we discover or select our lineages as writers

(I think – too – of Dorothy Livesay – late in life – stooping to touch my daughter’s hand – blessing her)

Margaret Laurence touched the hand I write with – otherwise my pen might belong nowhere – have no family – be part of no continuance

She touched many – deeply – & me merely in passing – but without her touch I might be as if one-armed

I would have to hit myself to clap

I might be silent

I read because the one thing I don’t ever want to be is silent.

I present a passage from Random House of Canada‘s Luka and the Fire of Life by Salman Rushdie.

We do not know the answers to the great questions of who we are and what we are capable of,” Rashid liked to say, “until the questions are asked. Then and only then do we know if we can answer them, or not.

I have always been a reader and I can tell you with complete certainty that I always will be. However, unlike many others, the reader that I am today wasn’t born out of reading a single book but out of a reading experience.

I’m talking about the Scholastic Book Order program. Because my parents trusted the program I was allowed to select any book I wanted. Being given control over my reading was life-changing because it became the one thing that was all mine from start to finish. No supervision required. To me, each book order held endless possibilities and so I would scour it for hours until I made the perfect pick.

As great as it was making my selections, nothing came close to the excitement of hearing my name called by the teacher and being handed my order. Weeks of anticipation were finally over. I would stare at my new books with their crisp, shiny covers and shift anxiously in my chair for the remainder of the day. Upon hearing the final bell I’d race home just so I could start reading. Not the books that my parents suggested. Not the books that my teacher required. But the books that I chose.

Though the days of the Scholastic Book Order ended quite some time ago for me, I still feel that same excitement every time I set foot in a bookstore. Scholastic did what no one else could: It made reading fun. So, Scholastic, it’s about time I thanked you for making me the reader that I am. Thank you!

What can I say about Obvious State aside from the fact that I absolutely adore it? Well, that you’ll adore it, too. Evan Robertson, the mastermind behind the literature-inspired fine art illustrations, describes Obvious State as follows:

The best thing about paperbacks (apart from the smell, of course) is that when a little jewel of a sentence grabs you, you can underline it. If you’ve only ever read a book on a screen (hey, it’s not far off), then let me explain: Underlining something in your book is the original “interactive” media. Think of it as a hyperlink that redirects to your own thoughts, and like a hyperlink, it can leave the rest of the story behind and open up a new window of ideas, insights, musings.

 

That’s the spirit of this series of illustrations. I took little snippets of text and ideas from some of my favorite authors (with some notable exceptions that I’m saving), and let the words be a springboard for an illustration. The illustrations incorporate and interact with the text and hopefully add up to something that engages the mind as much as the eye.

From Capote to Hemingway to Wilde you’re sure to find a quote that speaks to you. So head on over, browse the genius and make your pick. Trust me, your walls will thank you.

I present a passage from HarperCollins Canada‘s The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

To realize one’s destiny is a person’s only real obligation.

Question: How do you begin working on a new book?

Margaret Atwood: Okay, where does a book come from? People have been thinking about that for a long time. How do you begin? How do you get into it? I would say that if you’re not finding this happens somewhat spontaneously, you probably shouldn’t be doing this activity. I mean, a lot of people say, “I want to be a writer.” And you say, “Well, what do you want to write?” And they say, “I don’t know.”

So for me, I think it’s not a question of sitting around wondering what I’m going to write. It’s a question of sitting around wondering which of the far-fetched and absurd ideas I’m going to try to tackle. Sometimes, I think I should be a lot safer and less risk-taking and stick to somebody, or something, a little bit more manageable.

But those aren’t the things that appeal to me, unfortunately. I wish I had a formula, I wish I had a way of preceding that would be kind of, you know, this is what Chapter One is always like, and this is what Chapter Two is always like. But it isn’t. I just have to plunge into it. And it’s usually the one… that the voice of sanity and reason is telling me not to write. It’s usually that one that I end up writing.   

Every writer, without exception, is forced to confront their own insecurity. An internal fear that takes the form of a single debilitating statement: I’m not good enough. Like poison, these four words creep up every time you put pen to paper and make you question the merit of your words. If not dealt with, insecurity can not only sap your confidence but also kill your creativity. So, what do you do? You silence it.

Be warned that this does not happen overnight. Instead, you have to tackle it each and every day. The method you use is entirely up to you. Some writers like to read a quote, others write a phrase and, still others, like myself, recite a statement. The key here is repetition because the more you do this the stronger your belief will become. Slowly the fear will lose its strength leaving you with just your words. Yes, reaching this place of belief is difficult but once you do you’ll have conquered the greatest obstacle of all: Yourself.