Tag: poetry

In honour of National Poetry Month 2: Within this box of glowing white…

Within this box of glowing white I type, in pixels black, These words. I try to get them right, Yet still I feel they lack A certain something. Yeats I’m not Nor am I Keats or Austen. My forte, I would say, is plot: This scansion is exhausten’. And so, although ’tis poetry This month …

Continue reading

Belated Saturday Special from the Vaults: Sonnet Sonnet

Delayed once more by festive cheer, I make my first post of the year! *** How serious are you, my poet friend, About the craft to which your heart aspires? Do your words borrow pain, and seek to lend Unto the world the vision it requires? Do you object to light verse as a waste …

Continue reading

Saturday Special From the Vaults: There’s A Puppy in My Pocket

A new regular feature: stuff from the vaults, presented each Saturday. At the Mackenzie Art Gallery, the “vaults” (that’s a picture of them at the left) are where they keep the permanent collection, most of which is not on display at any given time. Here at edwardwillett.com, the vaults are the file folders on my …

Continue reading

The Space-Time Continuum: Science fiction poetry

My latest column for Freelance, the newsletter of the Saskatchewan Writers Guild… *** In his novel Time Enough for Love, science fiction writer Robert A. Heinlein included a number of aphorisms supposedly taken from the notebooks of his centuries-old central character, Lazarus Long. One of these I have ever since taken a kind of mischievous …

Continue reading

Bless me, Father Rhysling, for I have sinned…

Inspired by the column about science fiction poetry I wrote today for the next issue of the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild‘s magazine Freelance, I have done something I rarely do, and committed the act of poetry; specifically, the act of science fiction limerick. An unpublished writer of rhyme Travelled three hundred years back in time. He …

Continue reading

On Shovelling (a winter sonnet)

With apologies to Milton. When I consider how my morns are spent, Or half my days, in this world, dark and wide, With that snow shovel, frozen to my hide, That seems so useless, though its blade is bent To scrape so well the sidewalk, and present The bare concrete (lest postman, coming, chide, “I …

Continue reading

If they’d asked me…

…to be one of the poets at the CBC Poetry Face-Off I attended last Friday, at which all the poems were based on the word “flight,” I’ve been wondering, what would I have written? Something like this, probably… FLIGHT They asked me to write about flight.I wonder, can this be quite right?I sit in my …

Continue reading

The shocking truth about the slush pile…

…is revealed by one buried beneath it: It was my first job out of university: I was bright-eyed and idealistic and imagined that I might become some kind of beneficent tweedy sprite, conveying the writing of unknown literary artistes to the masses. By the time I left my job in publishing a few weeks ago, …

Continue reading

"Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds…"

…is how this story about Madagascarian insect life is headlined, but never mind the science: doesn’t “Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds…” sound like the start to a wonderfully evocative poem by some terribly sensitive poet? Something like: Moths drink the tearsOf sleeping birds;I drink up beersAnd slur my words. *Sniff.* Brings a lump …

Continue reading

All the Nebula Award winners…in haiku!

What the title says. Find it here. (Via Science Fiction Book Club.) A taste: 1966 – Flowers for AlgernonThis book is good ifYou can avoid thinking ofPinky and the Brain. P.S. Not sure what the Nebula Awards are? They’re kind of like the Academy Awards of science fiction (by that analogy, the Hugos would be …

Continue reading

The instructive history of Clement Clarke Moore

History is full of artists in various disciplines who are most famous for things which they themselves considered of very little importance. Take Arthur Conan Doyle, for instance. He came to loathe his creation, Sherlock Holmes, going so far as to killing him…only to be forced by popular demand to bring him back again. Sir …

Continue reading

‘T’was the nocturnal time of the preceding day to the day we call Christmas

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore ‘Twas the nocturnal time of the preceding day To the day we call Christmas (which is, by the way, Just a modern twist on the eons-old fight To use feast and fire to end winter’s night). And all through our dwelling (a.k.a. the house), Not a creature was stirring, …

Continue reading

Easy AdSense Pro by Unreal