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A community of artists living and working on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada
Monday, April 25, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Genome, poetry by Rojan Zét
Tonight, sky glowing behind mountains showing, lift your
head while music plays and lost familiar spirits gaze
through gusting wind, walk the beach, reach for tingling
in your hand, and dance with leaves left standing
before tides facing flushed river deltas embracing
furry hills and sand flowing, fires growing,
alive to sense of life and all our sowing...
before what comes deprives us of our knowing.
Rojan Zét
head while music plays and lost familiar spirits gaze
through gusting wind, walk the beach, reach for tingling
in your hand, and dance with leaves left standing
before tides facing flushed river deltas embracing
furry hills and sand flowing, fires growing,
alive to sense of life and all our sowing...
before what comes deprives us of our knowing.
Rojan Zét
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Floating in Roe Lake
floating in Roe lake is restful
the calm of the mother's womb
restoring moisture to the chamber of the heart
dissolving the carapace of hurt in the wash of her mercy
sun crowned lily pads and velvet catkins
smudge the dappled canvas of water's edge
where the mottled bark of alder is reflected in a whorl of light
overhead, heat gathers a shimmer of gauze
draping modest folds
‘round the indiscretions of the dragonflies
who hover and dart through the air
slapping their emerald tails in a frenzy of mating
insatiable and oblivious of human eyes
a snake glides by
threading the needle of fascination
his sleek undulations
pricking the soft surface of awareness
I might be alarmed
but the spark of all things blazes within me
and fear yields her robe of restraint
dancing ‘round the flame with abandon
we're all a little silly out of our element
but nature teaches us to trust
an eagle trades his freewheeling grace
for a role in the circus
lurching like a clown on a deadwood log
while he peers at ripples in the shallows
fish leap from the waves
to ride the scented breeze
ducks submerge themselves in the cool depths
wicking their saucy tails
in a fan dance as brazen as Gypsy Rose
in this hallowed place
fingers loosen from the raft of supplication
as everything you see
becomes the love you are
the more beauty you witness
the more you know your self
peace no longer a transaction but a revelation
the deep content of coming home
~ Yvonne MacKenzie
the calm of the mother's womb
restoring moisture to the chamber of the heart
dissolving the carapace of hurt in the wash of her mercy
sun crowned lily pads and velvet catkins
smudge the dappled canvas of water's edge
where the mottled bark of alder is reflected in a whorl of light
overhead, heat gathers a shimmer of gauze
draping modest folds
‘round the indiscretions of the dragonflies
who hover and dart through the air
slapping their emerald tails in a frenzy of mating
insatiable and oblivious of human eyes
a snake glides by
threading the needle of fascination
his sleek undulations
pricking the soft surface of awareness
I might be alarmed
but the spark of all things blazes within me
and fear yields her robe of restraint
dancing ‘round the flame with abandon
we're all a little silly out of our element
but nature teaches us to trust
an eagle trades his freewheeling grace
for a role in the circus
lurching like a clown on a deadwood log
while he peers at ripples in the shallows
fish leap from the waves
to ride the scented breeze
ducks submerge themselves in the cool depths
wicking their saucy tails
in a fan dance as brazen as Gypsy Rose
in this hallowed place
fingers loosen from the raft of supplication
as everything you see
becomes the love you are
the more beauty you witness
the more you know your self
peace no longer a transaction but a revelation
the deep content of coming home
~ Yvonne MacKenzie
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Fly, poetry by Rojan Zét
At runway's end
wings swing round
then stop. Roaring
increases, ground rushes
past, then drops off.
Earth turns to air,
fence-post hawks shrink
to mice, fields become
blankets.
Jagged peaks ring
higher distances of
afternoon beyond a
sun-burnished shadow
racing a solitary boat,
out of reach.
The downhill roll into
Port Browning leads to the
flash of thousand-bellied
herring in deep darkness
at dock's end. Jellyfish
flex, silent. Crows bark.
The oily smoothness dissolves....
Whiskers dripping, a harbour
seal watches a gull poke its
beak into feathers under its
wing, scream over the water,
and lift into air.
Rojan Zét
wings swing round
then stop. Roaring
increases, ground rushes
past, then drops off.
Earth turns to air,
fence-post hawks shrink
to mice, fields become
blankets.
Jagged peaks ring
higher distances of
afternoon beyond a
sun-burnished shadow
racing a solitary boat,
out of reach.
The downhill roll into
Port Browning leads to the
flash of thousand-bellied
herring in deep darkness
at dock's end. Jellyfish
flex, silent. Crows bark.
The oily smoothness dissolves....
Whiskers dripping, a harbour
seal watches a gull poke its
beak into feathers under its
wing, scream over the water,
and lift into air.
Rojan Zét
Friday, March 25, 2011
Marilyn Peeters
Profile of an Artist
Marilyn is an expressionist painter working and residing on Vancouver Island. Art has been a strong passion for her from a very young age. In the 70’s, she majored in Fine Art in high school with the dream to further her art studies, but life chose a different path for her at the time.
Her and her husband moved to the Vancouver Island during the 80’s where she extended her knowledge in art working as a versatile artist throughout the Comox Valley. Marilyn volunteered with a theatre group where she gained extensive experience as a set designer and painter. With this experience, she was offered many mural jobs from the downtown Courtenay and Campbell River BC merchants. Soon after, she decided to complete her studies of Fine Art with North Island College and Emily Carr University and completed her BFA in 2009.
Today her art reflects on the environment with her passion of nature in her non-traditional landscapes with paint. She explores a sensorial perception of the BC forest through her painting process. The qualities of the landscape elevate her imagination and positive energy becomes the driving force in the creation of her work. Each painting refers to a particular place in nature, yet they are unidentifiable taken from its specific location. She paints with bold, vivid colour that allows a luminosity to vibrate and each piece has a strong sense of light. Working in a large-scale format allows her to work with a loose, gestural brushstroke.
Marilyn has exhibited her work in galleries and restaurants across Victoria, Courtenay, Campbell River, Nanaimo and other public places in Comox BC such as the Comox Airport, and St Joseph’s Hospital and her international exposure includes, Dubai, UAE.
For more information about Marilyn Peeters visit www.marilynpeeters.com
Marilyn is an expressionist painter working and residing on Vancouver Island. Art has been a strong passion for her from a very young age. In the 70’s, she majored in Fine Art in high school with the dream to further her art studies, but life chose a different path for her at the time.
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Her and her husband moved to the Vancouver Island during the 80’s where she extended her knowledge in art working as a versatile artist throughout the Comox Valley. Marilyn volunteered with a theatre group where she gained extensive experience as a set designer and painter. With this experience, she was offered many mural jobs from the downtown Courtenay and Campbell River BC merchants. Soon after, she decided to complete her studies of Fine Art with North Island College and Emily Carr University and completed her BFA in 2009.
Today her art reflects on the environment with her passion of nature in her non-traditional landscapes with paint. She explores a sensorial perception of the BC forest through her painting process. The qualities of the landscape elevate her imagination and positive energy becomes the driving force in the creation of her work. Each painting refers to a particular place in nature, yet they are unidentifiable taken from its specific location. She paints with bold, vivid colour that allows a luminosity to vibrate and each piece has a strong sense of light. Working in a large-scale format allows her to work with a loose, gestural brushstroke.
Marilyn has exhibited her work in galleries and restaurants across Victoria, Courtenay, Campbell River, Nanaimo and other public places in Comox BC such as the Comox Airport, and St Joseph’s Hospital and her international exposure includes, Dubai, UAE.
For more information about Marilyn Peeters visit www.marilynpeeters.com
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Deuce
© 2001, 2004 Manuel Erickson
Bernard Churchill loved being a locomotive engineer. He was fond of all the engines whose controls came under his fingers, but his favourite was a little coal-fired steam engine, Number 2, a Baldwin, that everyone called "Deuce." Eventually, Bernard spent less time with the other engines and more with Deuce.
She weighed just 50 tons, but Bernard felt that Deuce could more than pull her weight. He knew her history. Instinct told him that Deuce's success bore little relation to her size. Deuce was already thirty years old when she became Bernard’s regular responsibility. She had worked for fifteen years on Comox Logging and Railway Company’s level mainline—or what the local people called the CLR—hauling logs to the dump at Royston, near Courtenay. She had also been a “bullcook” engine, bringing supplies and crew cars to logging camps and equipment to fight forest fires. For fifteen more years Bernard and Deuce steamed up and down the Comox line.
Bernard delighted everyone with tall stories about running Deuce full tilt through the timber stands. In one of these, she encountered a cougar. "We—Deuce and me—was goin' full blast haulin' a load of logs to Royston, an' all of a sudden a real big black cat come outta the trees, makin' t'cross the tracks. It was real close to us an’ I had no chance t'blow the whistle. We hit the thing, of course. The cow-catcher caught it an' it went up an' over the cab. I looked out as we rounded a bend, an' that cat was runnin' like fury into the trees. Y'know how they always land on their feet? I dunno who was more surprised, the cat or me!"
By 1960 Deuce was fifty years old. Bernard had retired. Times were changing and so was the CLR's equipment. A new behemoth, a diesel, came onto the scene, and Number 2 was scheduled to become scrap metal.
Courtenay's city council heard of Deuce's impending demise. A councillor raised his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor," he said. "This city would not have become what it is today without the Comox Logging and Railway Company. The age of steam is now drawing to a close. I move that we commemorate both the CLR and the power of steam by acquiring old Number 2, the Deuce!"
A discussion followed. "We have better things to do with these funds than put a beat-up old relic on display," said one councillor. "We need two secretaries," said another. "Such money could get us that help."
The Mayor finally called for a vote. "All those in favour, please raise your hands."
"Against?" He glanced along the line of councillors, none of whom had raised his hand. The Mayor smiled because he knew those who objected did not want to be in a minority. "Carried."
And so it was.
Deuce, her paint shining and whistle blowing, ran once more under her own power along the E & N Railway from Ladysmith to Courtenay. Those who loved steam, and there were quite a few, wore broad smiles, and some wore tears, too. As she pulled in to her new home they did not talk. They stood, listening to the escaping steam softly whispering hiss-s-s.
The engineer extinguished the fire in her boiler and the engine became quiet. He climbed down from the cab and stood there for a minute, looking at Deuce. He took off his cap and wiped his eyes with a shirt sleeve.
It was the end of an era for Deuce. She was displayed beside the highway where the townsfolk admired her, but she had become cold and lifeless.
By 1989 Deuce had stayed in one spot for twenty-nine years as a proud representative of a past era: admired, photographed-and vandalized. Her paint faded and peeled and rust showed among the bird droppings.
In the 1990s the City of Courtenay recognized that Deuce deserved better treatment. Council passed a motion to make funds available to repaint and build a shelter for her.
Today she rests comfortably inside the shelter, protected from vandals, birds and children's climbing feet by a locked chain-link fence and a permanent roof. She is still beside the highway, kept company by the tourist bureau and a colourful First Nations totem pole.
Deuce is now over ninety years old. She doesn't-she cannot-move. Her taps and levers are rusted in place as if encased in ice.
The age of steam is gone, but Deuce speaks to those who visit her. Despite the rust and her controls frozen in time, she is still a feisty lady.
Stand in her cab with your hand on a lever. Feel the driving wheels click-clacking along the rails. Hear her gleaming brass bell clanging and her shrill whistle cutting the air. Look behind: it is 1950 once again and her smoke trails back.
Deuce was a faithful engine. Rebuilding her would awaken the age of steam, if only a little. It has been done before.
She could run on a part of the Comox line. Her shiny brass bell, sharp whistle and chuffing smoke stack would thrill everyone who saw her or rode with her. She would put happy smiles on the faces of new generations and pull delighted tourists gawking from restored passenger car windows. Perhaps Deuce could even deliver occasional cargo such as surface mail.
Why, some say Bernard Churchill is with her still.
~ Manuel Erickson
Bernard Churchill loved being a locomotive engineer. He was fond of all the engines whose controls came under his fingers, but his favourite was a little coal-fired steam engine, Number 2, a Baldwin, that everyone called "Deuce." Eventually, Bernard spent less time with the other engines and more with Deuce.
She weighed just 50 tons, but Bernard felt that Deuce could more than pull her weight. He knew her history. Instinct told him that Deuce's success bore little relation to her size. Deuce was already thirty years old when she became Bernard’s regular responsibility. She had worked for fifteen years on Comox Logging and Railway Company’s level mainline—or what the local people called the CLR—hauling logs to the dump at Royston, near Courtenay. She had also been a “bullcook” engine, bringing supplies and crew cars to logging camps and equipment to fight forest fires. For fifteen more years Bernard and Deuce steamed up and down the Comox line.
 The Deuce in her shelter, Courtenay ~ Manuel Erickson photograph |
Bernard delighted everyone with tall stories about running Deuce full tilt through the timber stands. In one of these, she encountered a cougar. "We—Deuce and me—was goin' full blast haulin' a load of logs to Royston, an' all of a sudden a real big black cat come outta the trees, makin' t'cross the tracks. It was real close to us an’ I had no chance t'blow the whistle. We hit the thing, of course. The cow-catcher caught it an' it went up an' over the cab. I looked out as we rounded a bend, an' that cat was runnin' like fury into the trees. Y'know how they always land on their feet? I dunno who was more surprised, the cat or me!"
By 1960 Deuce was fifty years old. Bernard had retired. Times were changing and so was the CLR's equipment. A new behemoth, a diesel, came onto the scene, and Number 2 was scheduled to become scrap metal.
Courtenay's city council heard of Deuce's impending demise. A councillor raised his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor," he said. "This city would not have become what it is today without the Comox Logging and Railway Company. The age of steam is now drawing to a close. I move that we commemorate both the CLR and the power of steam by acquiring old Number 2, the Deuce!"
A discussion followed. "We have better things to do with these funds than put a beat-up old relic on display," said one councillor. "We need two secretaries," said another. "Such money could get us that help."
The Mayor finally called for a vote. "All those in favour, please raise your hands."
"Against?" He glanced along the line of councillors, none of whom had raised his hand. The Mayor smiled because he knew those who objected did not want to be in a minority. "Carried."
And so it was.
Deuce, her paint shining and whistle blowing, ran once more under her own power along the E & N Railway from Ladysmith to Courtenay. Those who loved steam, and there were quite a few, wore broad smiles, and some wore tears, too. As she pulled in to her new home they did not talk. They stood, listening to the escaping steam softly whispering hiss-s-s.
The engineer extinguished the fire in her boiler and the engine became quiet. He climbed down from the cab and stood there for a minute, looking at Deuce. He took off his cap and wiped his eyes with a shirt sleeve.
It was the end of an era for Deuce. She was displayed beside the highway where the townsfolk admired her, but she had become cold and lifeless.
By 1989 Deuce had stayed in one spot for twenty-nine years as a proud representative of a past era: admired, photographed-and vandalized. Her paint faded and peeled and rust showed among the bird droppings.
In the 1990s the City of Courtenay recognized that Deuce deserved better treatment. Council passed a motion to make funds available to repaint and build a shelter for her.
Today she rests comfortably inside the shelter, protected from vandals, birds and children's climbing feet by a locked chain-link fence and a permanent roof. She is still beside the highway, kept company by the tourist bureau and a colourful First Nations totem pole.
Deuce is now over ninety years old. She doesn't-she cannot-move. Her taps and levers are rusted in place as if encased in ice.
The age of steam is gone, but Deuce speaks to those who visit her. Despite the rust and her controls frozen in time, she is still a feisty lady.
Stand in her cab with your hand on a lever. Feel the driving wheels click-clacking along the rails. Hear her gleaming brass bell clanging and her shrill whistle cutting the air. Look behind: it is 1950 once again and her smoke trails back.
Deuce was a faithful engine. Rebuilding her would awaken the age of steam, if only a little. It has been done before.
She could run on a part of the Comox line. Her shiny brass bell, sharp whistle and chuffing smoke stack would thrill everyone who saw her or rode with her. She would put happy smiles on the faces of new generations and pull delighted tourists gawking from restored passenger car windows. Perhaps Deuce could even deliver occasional cargo such as surface mail.
Why, some say Bernard Churchill is with her still.
~ Manuel Erickson
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Magic Lake Heron , poetry by Yvonne MacKenzie
kneeling at the end of the dock
weathered boards splinter the inward gaze
and the clamour of hungry ghosts begins to fade across the lake
darkling minnows swirl below the surface of the water
sieving the mind of errands and unrest
when all at once a great blue heron settles on the shore
he folds me in to the peace of his wings
and the old ache recedes
yet his spear-like beak belies the stillness of his pose
and warns against complacency
he is silent but his song resounds in my heart
attuned to the counsel of reeds and the soft breath of lilies
we float together in this living chalice
arrested in time
the confluence of our being a stillpoint of grace
there will come a time for the seedpod to burst
for the motion of discourse and service
but for now
I am willing to pause
while the scroll of pollen unwinds its fulgent message
of sweetness yet to come
while the birds teach me a new tongue to describe the mystery
Yvonne MacKenzie
weathered boards splinter the inward gaze
and the clamour of hungry ghosts begins to fade across the lake
darkling minnows swirl below the surface of the water
sieving the mind of errands and unrest
when all at once a great blue heron settles on the shore
he folds me in to the peace of his wings
and the old ache recedes
yet his spear-like beak belies the stillness of his pose
and warns against complacency
he is silent but his song resounds in my heart
attuned to the counsel of reeds and the soft breath of lilies
we float together in this living chalice
arrested in time
the confluence of our being a stillpoint of grace
there will come a time for the seedpod to burst
for the motion of discourse and service
but for now
I am willing to pause
while the scroll of pollen unwinds its fulgent message
of sweetness yet to come
while the birds teach me a new tongue to describe the mystery
Yvonne MacKenzie
Vancouver Island, springtime is coming
"Spring chicken", digital painting by Ron Greenaway. Inspired by the days getting longer.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Mirages
While a fisherman cast his nets, two jets
left Libya, flying low over the Med waving
sunshine below, and back on the street,
placards high in the square, two hundred
people fell strafed from the air.
Jets over Libya screamed down at the crowd and
snuffed out those voices getting louder than loud
like the roar of the engines over the wave
of the sunshine reflected by people who gave
up their lives while the life of the one who
oppressed them escapes to be sheltered by
others who stress them.
Two jets left Libya carrying souls for refueling,
while deep in the ocean our fish are re-schooling
and fishers are floating whether distant or near,
remaining alive to the screaming we hear.
Rojan Zét
left Libya, flying low over the Med waving
sunshine below, and back on the street,
placards high in the square, two hundred
people fell strafed from the air.
Jets over Libya screamed down at the crowd and
snuffed out those voices getting louder than loud
like the roar of the engines over the wave
of the sunshine reflected by people who gave
up their lives while the life of the one who
oppressed them escapes to be sheltered by
others who stress them.
Two jets left Libya carrying souls for refueling,
while deep in the ocean our fish are re-schooling
and fishers are floating whether distant or near,
remaining alive to the screaming we hear.
Rojan Zét
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Moon Dog
I do not fear this peace I'm
free to call my own nor flee the
space I have to roam alone... this
blue, blue night - Moon's brightest
bright - marks shadows left by some
pure light as though in day between
dark trees. With quiet ease I find my way.
Each step my shadow lengthens slight
as moon dog walks me home tonight.
Rojan Zét
free to call my own nor flee the
space I have to roam alone... this
blue, blue night - Moon's brightest
bright - marks shadows left by some
pure light as though in day between
dark trees. With quiet ease I find my way.
Each step my shadow lengthens slight
as moon dog walks me home tonight.
Rojan Zét
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
New Beginnings
touch builds momentum in the bloodstream
accumulates
like silt in the delta
layers of history
greening the edge of our knowing
we reassemble the edifice of the past
as if there will be a chance of salvage
there will not, we sense the tragedy
yet some new beauty grows
rooting us in this time, this place
completing the circuit of earth and stars
our lives no longer defined by birth or intention
but by willingness to inhabit this moment
we will grind the old stones into pigment
and paint our skins with glyphs of pleasure
we will dance around our fire
and invite the hungry ghosts
to sup at our feast
for there is room now in this new place
and bounty
this is what I want:
to lie in the sun
to feel heat in my bones
to be gathered like brush
and rekindled
for you to trace your story with tongues of flame
to find my story in the calligraphy of curves and hollows
paper held over fire
a hidden language emerging
from the alchemy of trust
~ Yvonne MacKenzie
accumulates
like silt in the delta
layers of history
greening the edge of our knowing
we reassemble the edifice of the past
as if there will be a chance of salvage
there will not, we sense the tragedy
yet some new beauty grows
rooting us in this time, this place
completing the circuit of earth and stars
our lives no longer defined by birth or intention
but by willingness to inhabit this moment
we will grind the old stones into pigment
and paint our skins with glyphs of pleasure
we will dance around our fire
and invite the hungry ghosts
to sup at our feast
for there is room now in this new place
and bounty
this is what I want:
to lie in the sun
to feel heat in my bones
to be gathered like brush
and rekindled
for you to trace your story with tongues of flame
to find my story in the calligraphy of curves and hollows
paper held over fire
a hidden language emerging
from the alchemy of trust
~ Yvonne MacKenzie
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Tyeshia Jones 1992 - 2011
We returned Tyeshia today - back to the womb,
said goodbye, wept light-drops falling from
our eyes, lowered her to the tomb under
fading skies no more the same.
Glistening nature - alive to every step, each note
kept time. Buds on trees, ravens calling and
tears still falling, hundreds followed down the
road, a ringing bell with souls still singing.
We opened up the earth - Mother took her back again
her voice now snuffed, a candle cold not even smoking,
without light and no more joking, just the sound of
thought-provoking silence and some choking.
Asking why - what joy, to take from such short life and
life so taken, this girl daughter, sister, cousin, niece,
or neighbour, maybe someone's girlfriend, angel, baby, a
brief history at its end, now memory, our minds shaken.
We returned Tyeshia today - back to the womb, bid
farewell and wept, swept the pain of light-drops falling
from our eyes again, lowered beneath dark skies still calling.
Rojan Zét
said goodbye, wept light-drops falling from
our eyes, lowered her to the tomb under
fading skies no more the same.
Glistening nature - alive to every step, each note
kept time. Buds on trees, ravens calling and
tears still falling, hundreds followed down the
road, a ringing bell with souls still singing.
We opened up the earth - Mother took her back again
her voice now snuffed, a candle cold not even smoking,
without light and no more joking, just the sound of
thought-provoking silence and some choking.
Asking why - what joy, to take from such short life and
life so taken, this girl daughter, sister, cousin, niece,
or neighbour, maybe someone's girlfriend, angel, baby, a
brief history at its end, now memory, our minds shaken.
We returned Tyeshia today - back to the womb, bid
farewell and wept, swept the pain of light-drops falling
from our eyes again, lowered beneath dark skies still calling.
Rojan Zét
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Vancouver Island Leprechauns
That little beach artist leprechaun has been at it again! I'll catch them one of these days!
Photo by Susan Miller
Photo by Susan Miller
Friday, February 4, 2011
Last Words
He was in a Bed
Outside
With the light on his Face
getting ready to cross
that River
I'll be a different Man
he had once said
and I remember smiling
while he shrugged
The light was warm
and he looked away
He looked back at me
My Light
He said
to Me
and smiled.
~Suzan Kostiuck (Steeves)
Outside
With the light on his Face
getting ready to cross
that River
I'll be a different Man
he had once said
and I remember smiling
while he shrugged
The light was warm
and he looked away
He looked back at me
My Light
He said
to Me
and smiled.
~Suzan Kostiuck (Steeves)
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Passing
Gazing outward, unaccompanied I
pace this earth-station's platform,
each slow step sinking my heart
deeper into release of that
which is free in me, toward
my next stop, a lighter
freedom-finding being.
Swiftly falling away in total
silence, the earth-horizon's
curve bends to an arc becoming
a shrinking turquoise sphere that
disappears to nothing and I am
centered in a hollow black orb
dotted with pin-prick lights.
Immobilized, I cannot say
I am stopped. Enclosed,
I do not feel contained.
Without reference, I am
newly stationed alone in
my transient presence.
Who approaches?
Rojan Zét
pace this earth-station's platform,
each slow step sinking my heart
deeper into release of that
which is free in me, toward
my next stop, a lighter
freedom-finding being.
Swiftly falling away in total
silence, the earth-horizon's
curve bends to an arc becoming
a shrinking turquoise sphere that
disappears to nothing and I am
centered in a hollow black orb
dotted with pin-prick lights.
Immobilized, I cannot say
I am stopped. Enclosed,
I do not feel contained.
Without reference, I am
newly stationed alone in
my transient presence.
Who approaches?
Rojan Zét
Friday, January 21, 2011
Raven's Covenant
When we know what raven knows
we will sing the secret name
of mist and cave
Raven sees her self
in every blade of grass
she enters the heart of stone
and shines with the brilliance of diamonds
The saraband of light on waves
the sacristy of worms
infuse her like the fragrance of lilies
Raven is the throat of the forest
the jubilation of cedar to ocean
her flight a plume of smoke from the molten
core
When we know what raven knows
we will honour the bright centre
and our bones will be wings of prayer
Yvonne Mackenzie
we will sing the secret name
of mist and cave
Raven sees her self
in every blade of grass
she enters the heart of stone
and shines with the brilliance of diamonds
The saraband of light on waves
the sacristy of worms
infuse her like the fragrance of lilies
Raven is the throat of the forest
the jubilation of cedar to ocean
her flight a plume of smoke from the molten
core
When we know what raven knows
we will honour the bright centre
and our bones will be wings of prayer
Yvonne Mackenzie
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
preserving sanity in a broken world
"preserving sanity in a broken world", digital collage by Ron Greenaway. Inspiration from Rojan Zét.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Metal in Motion by Brad Allen
A Youtube video about Brad Allen, Cowichan Valley metal artist.
Turn up your speakers and click "Play".
Visit Brad Allen's website at members.shaw.ca/meddleart
Turn up your speakers and click "Play".
Visit Brad Allen's website at members.shaw.ca/meddleart
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Yvonne MacKenzie
The Cowichan Valley Arts Cafe welcomes Yvonne MacKenzie who wrote:
"... I like to think my poetry reminds people that as well as service on the front lines of change, the land needs activism of the soul in order to create a sustainable existence. For me, that's rooted in gratitude for the beauty of nature...."
Below are links to her inspired poetry posted in the Cowichan Valley Arts Cafe:
Thank you Yvonne!
"... I like to think my poetry reminds people that as well as service on the front lines of change, the land needs activism of the soul in order to create a sustainable existence. For me, that's rooted in gratitude for the beauty of nature...."
Below are links to her inspired poetry posted in the Cowichan Valley Arts Cafe:
- Floating in Roe Lake
- Fools Rush In
- Jupiter Islet
- Magic Lake Heron
- New Beginnings
- Raven's Covenant
- SEO AN T’AITE MU DHEIREADH The ultimate place (Gaelic)
- The Karma of Stones
Thank you Yvonne!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
MoonDance Dynamic Arts School
Profile of an Arts Group
At any given day at MoonDance Dynamic Arts School, you may find yourself moving to the live upbeat percussion rhythms of West Africa or joyfully learning the art and technique of the West African Djembe. You might be inspired to join lively Bhangra dancing or embrace the spirit of Modern dance. A world of creative passion is yours to engage at MoonDance.
MoonDance Dynamic Arts School is a vibrant cultural and creative hub located based on Vancouver Island for over 11 years. Known for celebrating diversity and cultural understanding through the dance, music and the arts, MoonDance offers a wide range of classes and workshops for all to enjoy.
Artistic Director Lynn Weaver has been dancing all of her life and loves sharing her passion for dance with the community. She has studied extensively across a range of disciplines and believes that each person who participates in learning dance from another culture contributes to the preservation of multiculturalism on this planet. To this end MoonDance employs a varied range of instructors from the local community as well as Africa and around the world who embrace dance, movement and music as a celebration of life.
Classes and workshops are varied and include West African Dance (classes for all ages), West African Drumming (Djembe), Baby and Me West African, Kids Creative Dance, Yoga, Adult Ballet, Asana Dance, Modern, Contact Improvisation, Hip Hop, Pilates, Composition and Performance Art for Kids and fitness classes, among others.
MoonDance believes in the power of community and participates in a number of community building initiatives including a partnership with the nonprofit society Matoto. Matoto is a grassroots organization that uses the arts to channel the natural desire to connect in meaningful ways. They are currently building a much needed school in Guinea Africa. www.matoto.org
Starting in January 2011, MoonDance has a new home at the beautiful Art House in Shawnigan Lake Village, 1756 Wilmot Avenue. MoonDance welcomes the public to enjoy the Art House with an open house on Sunday January 9th from 2:00 - 5:00pm. The day features free workshops, demonstrations and performances for all ages. We look forward to seeing you there!
For more information please visit our web site: www.moondancearts.ca or you can call 250.743.5846 or email moondancearts@yahoo.ca
At any given day at MoonDance Dynamic Arts School, you may find yourself moving to the live upbeat percussion rhythms of West Africa or joyfully learning the art and technique of the West African Djembe. You might be inspired to join lively Bhangra dancing or embrace the spirit of Modern dance. A world of creative passion is yours to engage at MoonDance.
MoonDance Dynamic Arts School is a vibrant cultural and creative hub located based on Vancouver Island for over 11 years. Known for celebrating diversity and cultural understanding through the dance, music and the arts, MoonDance offers a wide range of classes and workshops for all to enjoy.
Artistic Director Lynn Weaver has been dancing all of her life and loves sharing her passion for dance with the community. She has studied extensively across a range of disciplines and believes that each person who participates in learning dance from another culture contributes to the preservation of multiculturalism on this planet. To this end MoonDance employs a varied range of instructors from the local community as well as Africa and around the world who embrace dance, movement and music as a celebration of life.
Classes and workshops are varied and include West African Dance (classes for all ages), West African Drumming (Djembe), Baby and Me West African, Kids Creative Dance, Yoga, Adult Ballet, Asana Dance, Modern, Contact Improvisation, Hip Hop, Pilates, Composition and Performance Art for Kids and fitness classes, among others.
MoonDance believes in the power of community and participates in a number of community building initiatives including a partnership with the nonprofit society Matoto. Matoto is a grassroots organization that uses the arts to channel the natural desire to connect in meaningful ways. They are currently building a much needed school in Guinea Africa. www.matoto.org
Starting in January 2011, MoonDance has a new home at the beautiful Art House in Shawnigan Lake Village, 1756 Wilmot Avenue. MoonDance welcomes the public to enjoy the Art House with an open house on Sunday January 9th from 2:00 - 5:00pm. The day features free workshops, demonstrations and performances for all ages. We look forward to seeing you there!
For more information please visit our web site: www.moondancearts.ca or you can call 250.743.5846 or email moondancearts@yahoo.ca
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Midnight Year End
you have no idea what this mojo can do and neither do i
are these words too snappy for you too fast
i can slow things down if you like and bring it to you stop frame
until i'm getting it right on the pulse our whole
bodies patterning together in convulsions one piercing
the other pierced and all words carefully parsed
parse this mojo marketer mark it if you have to
that that is is that that is not is not that that is
Rojan Zét
are these words too snappy for you too fast
i can slow things down if you like and bring it to you stop frame
until i'm getting it right on the pulse our whole
bodies patterning together in convulsions one piercing
the other pierced and all words carefully parsed
parse this mojo marketer mark it if you have to
that that is is that that is not is not that that is
Rojan Zét
Susan Miller
photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville
"Common" island birds?
N-E-V-E-R!!
I can never get enough stills of these perfect posing cuties.
Susan Miller Parksville
My name is Susan Miller and I love to take seagull photos and beach art photos.
Beach art photos are when the stars and planets are aligned I very often come across shell sculptures,inukshuks etc left by little leperachauns who ask for nothing but to be admired by visitors like myself.
Calling on all bunnies and leprechauns to show thyselves...
Walking the beach the other morning I noticed the handiwork of a tricky leprechaun and sidekick.
Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Peace, a poem by Rojan Zét
A fabric holding all threads together.
Try to hang on, or just let go, allowing
it to hold you.
Where does it catch you up, snag you, and
how do the pendulous swings carry you?
What rocks do you crash against, and where
does your plummeting smash you to a putty
of flesh and bone?
The spirit slithers away becoming dilute
gossamer, not seen again, leaving just
the faint taste of unrecognized memory.
The time spent hurtling between letting go
and being permanently attached.
May Peace be yours, the evolution of spirit.
Rojan Zét
Try to hang on, or just let go, allowing
it to hold you.
Where does it catch you up, snag you, and
how do the pendulous swings carry you?
What rocks do you crash against, and where
does your plummeting smash you to a putty
of flesh and bone?
The spirit slithers away becoming dilute
gossamer, not seen again, leaving just
the faint taste of unrecognized memory.
The time spent hurtling between letting go
and being permanently attached.
May Peace be yours, the evolution of spirit.
Rojan Zét
Friday, December 10, 2010
Brad Allen
Profile of an Artist
Sculptor Brad Allen has been creating metal art for the past fifteen years. Using a torch as a paintbrush he renders his artistic force on a canvas of discarded steel.
Influenced by his travels to Italy, Sedona, Maui, and his beloved Hornby Island, Allen creates a fusion of the bold and whimsical—the representative and abstract. His works explore global connections as seen in his interpretation of Aztec art and Japanese kanji symbols. His metal art creates a diversity of first impressions and has a unique capacity to convey insights intuitively and emotionally about family, love, and the dance of life. Allen’s deep connection with nature and his commitment to environmental sustainability combine to produce exquisite, carefully crafted sculptures. Allen values the surface appearance of his stock and using his torch and an array of finishing tools he manipulates his medium to create the perfect aesthetic. With the use of heating and cooling techniques he is able to create colours ranging from earth tones to deep penetrating blues.
His fluid and dynamic sculptures reveal the art of metal in motion. Allen’s innovative creations can be viewed in natural outdoor and indoor galleries on Vancouver Island and in private collections around the world.
Visit Brad Allen's website at members.shaw.ca/meddleart
Sculptor Brad Allen has been creating metal art for the past fifteen years. Using a torch as a paintbrush he renders his artistic force on a canvas of discarded steel.
 “I find the pleasures of expression with the breath of my torch…” - Brad Allen |
Influenced by his travels to Italy, Sedona, Maui, and his beloved Hornby Island, Allen creates a fusion of the bold and whimsical—the representative and abstract. His works explore global connections as seen in his interpretation of Aztec art and Japanese kanji symbols. His metal art creates a diversity of first impressions and has a unique capacity to convey insights intuitively and emotionally about family, love, and the dance of life. Allen’s deep connection with nature and his commitment to environmental sustainability combine to produce exquisite, carefully crafted sculptures. Allen values the surface appearance of his stock and using his torch and an array of finishing tools he manipulates his medium to create the perfect aesthetic. With the use of heating and cooling techniques he is able to create colours ranging from earth tones to deep penetrating blues.
His fluid and dynamic sculptures reveal the art of metal in motion. Allen’s innovative creations can be viewed in natural outdoor and indoor galleries on Vancouver Island and in private collections around the world.
Visit Brad Allen's website at members.shaw.ca/meddleart
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Postcard to Jupiter
Postcard to Jupiter OR How we got multi-media
(found in a drawer) Earthdate 2010 July 10
My dear Majin,
I'm dining at the Y. What a place for laughs! I met this guy Tom with black hair, his jaw came loose, and his T-shirt which started out being on inside out on this one particular evening when we had our discussion, turned out to have EMBLAZONED on it, "Dier Kennrek I", that is to say, "I recognize my kin..." and I saw it right away - as soon as he turned it around. I said so, and I went with it, I meant it, I looked him straight in the eye, even said it again, and he just kept on staring back at me, his smile growing broader and spreading to his eyes until there were wrinkles everywhere.
What could I do?
I mean, it's not that he had me or anything like that, it's just that it seemed so right, so unbelievable, almost like what I always thought about Truth. Nowadays when I try to visualize Truth I think of an old Ariel Square Four, out of the fifties... a black one... timeless... it would fit in today, yesterday, or tomorrow... like Truth... and truth to me is knowing something, like the feeling of being at home, when those around you are like birds with the same feathers as yours. That's where that saying came from, "Birds of a feather, flock together." It's so simple yet so elegant, and true. I'm part of a flock now, well I guess I always was, really, but now I FEEL part of it, due to awareness of those in my proximity. I recognize them around me, and see myself in those I meet. And wonder of wonders, they seem to like me. My brothers, my sisters, love to all of you.
This guy was my brother, and how did THAT thought make my world change? Well it seems at least I had some time to figure it out. Our paths had gone separate ways since that day long ago when the door closed behind him and I had left Aldabra. How long had it been now...? Let's see... it was the summer before I moved under this overpass where the trains always went through and Lilo and I met there too. Well we meant to meet there but the way it all ended was with me meeting myself where the meat gores through. But that's a whole other story.
You remember I said Tom'd had his T-shirt on inside out? He did. And he is SO compliant, I mean all you gotta do is say something and he'll do it, like, "Move this pile of logs before I get back willya, or HEY, your T-shirt's on in side out," and he jumps up and starts throwing logs around or whips off his shirt... flips it around and throws it back on, then looks up at you with those puppy dog eyes - "Did I do good? Huh? Did I? Did I?" and you just have to offer some encouragement. So there he was, halfway between having the T inside in and out side out and inside out and outside in. Sort of reminds you of something doesn't it... ya, you could see the hairs on his chest, and on his belly, and hanging from his armpits. Maybe you would say he was a hairy guy, but I wouldn't, I've seen harrier, is that how you spell it, I wonder, no that's wrong. "Hairy" gets to become "hairier." "I've seen harrier," ya, that's a good one, I've seen whole suffrin' FLOCKS of 'em, haven't I? You might even say I've been harried. But I absolutely will not allow myself to be hurried. Even harried as I am at times, I take my time. We kind of have an understanding, Time and I. We trade, we exchange, we give and take. When I take it, Time gives. When I give it, Time takes. And we've both agreed to it, it's quite mutual. We're in it for the long haul, both committed, yet we respect each another. And when I'm finally ready to give Time up forever, Time will fully take me. All of me. Kind of comforting don't you think? All of me. All of you. All of us. All together. Birds of a feather. We're ALL birds of a feather, don't you see?
So where was I? Oh ya, the discussion, that's what you were wondering about. Well, I can't say much you know, there's the ban, and there's the incident, and there's the policy, and there's the rules, and there's protocol, and there's the measles, and whaddya know, what next, where will it all stop I ask you? We just can't talk anymore. Can't have that jaw flappin' in the breeze, nosirree podner. Especially now. So much has happened since the last time we talked, nothing will ever be the same.
I love you. We can't help being who we are.
Kiss Lilo for me,
Dura
PS: So that's what it boils down to... can't talk about the discussion any more it seems. Next thing you know it'll be illegal even to speak without permission. Then next we'll have to buy licenses, and then they'll be designating Speakers, (which we'll have to pay for of course) and eventually they'll be built right into our computers. Are you feeling strapped in yet? Maybe I worry too much, if so, it comes from my mother's side. And isn't it the man's side a woman comes from?
Have a side of ribs while you're at it. Ate Smacklik or something like that.
Rojan Zét
Comments
That's really good Rojan, don't take any credit for it but you can put your name on it, just recognize that all you really did was write down the words, and pick out the right ones, and string them together in a certain way, but you could never have thought up something like this yourself, now could you have? How could you have?
M
(found in a drawer) Earthdate 2010 July 10
My dear Majin,
I'm dining at the Y. What a place for laughs! I met this guy Tom with black hair, his jaw came loose, and his T-shirt which started out being on inside out on this one particular evening when we had our discussion, turned out to have EMBLAZONED on it, "Dier Kennrek I", that is to say, "I recognize my kin..." and I saw it right away - as soon as he turned it around. I said so, and I went with it, I meant it, I looked him straight in the eye, even said it again, and he just kept on staring back at me, his smile growing broader and spreading to his eyes until there were wrinkles everywhere.
What could I do?
I mean, it's not that he had me or anything like that, it's just that it seemed so right, so unbelievable, almost like what I always thought about Truth. Nowadays when I try to visualize Truth I think of an old Ariel Square Four, out of the fifties... a black one... timeless... it would fit in today, yesterday, or tomorrow... like Truth... and truth to me is knowing something, like the feeling of being at home, when those around you are like birds with the same feathers as yours. That's where that saying came from, "Birds of a feather, flock together." It's so simple yet so elegant, and true. I'm part of a flock now, well I guess I always was, really, but now I FEEL part of it, due to awareness of those in my proximity. I recognize them around me, and see myself in those I meet. And wonder of wonders, they seem to like me. My brothers, my sisters, love to all of you.
This guy was my brother, and how did THAT thought make my world change? Well it seems at least I had some time to figure it out. Our paths had gone separate ways since that day long ago when the door closed behind him and I had left Aldabra. How long had it been now...? Let's see... it was the summer before I moved under this overpass where the trains always went through and Lilo and I met there too. Well we meant to meet there but the way it all ended was with me meeting myself where the meat gores through. But that's a whole other story.
You remember I said Tom'd had his T-shirt on inside out? He did. And he is SO compliant, I mean all you gotta do is say something and he'll do it, like, "Move this pile of logs before I get back willya, or HEY, your T-shirt's on in side out," and he jumps up and starts throwing logs around or whips off his shirt... flips it around and throws it back on, then looks up at you with those puppy dog eyes - "Did I do good? Huh? Did I? Did I?" and you just have to offer some encouragement. So there he was, halfway between having the T inside in and out side out and inside out and outside in. Sort of reminds you of something doesn't it... ya, you could see the hairs on his chest, and on his belly, and hanging from his armpits. Maybe you would say he was a hairy guy, but I wouldn't, I've seen harrier, is that how you spell it, I wonder, no that's wrong. "Hairy" gets to become "hairier." "I've seen harrier," ya, that's a good one, I've seen whole suffrin' FLOCKS of 'em, haven't I? You might even say I've been harried. But I absolutely will not allow myself to be hurried. Even harried as I am at times, I take my time. We kind of have an understanding, Time and I. We trade, we exchange, we give and take. When I take it, Time gives. When I give it, Time takes. And we've both agreed to it, it's quite mutual. We're in it for the long haul, both committed, yet we respect each another. And when I'm finally ready to give Time up forever, Time will fully take me. All of me. Kind of comforting don't you think? All of me. All of you. All of us. All together. Birds of a feather. We're ALL birds of a feather, don't you see?
So where was I? Oh ya, the discussion, that's what you were wondering about. Well, I can't say much you know, there's the ban, and there's the incident, and there's the policy, and there's the rules, and there's protocol, and there's the measles, and whaddya know, what next, where will it all stop I ask you? We just can't talk anymore. Can't have that jaw flappin' in the breeze, nosirree podner. Especially now. So much has happened since the last time we talked, nothing will ever be the same.
I love you. We can't help being who we are.
Kiss Lilo for me,
Dura
PS: So that's what it boils down to... can't talk about the discussion any more it seems. Next thing you know it'll be illegal even to speak without permission. Then next we'll have to buy licenses, and then they'll be designating Speakers, (which we'll have to pay for of course) and eventually they'll be built right into our computers. Are you feeling strapped in yet? Maybe I worry too much, if so, it comes from my mother's side. And isn't it the man's side a woman comes from?
Have a side of ribs while you're at it. Ate Smacklik or something like that.
Rojan Zét
Comments
That's really good Rojan, don't take any credit for it but you can put your name on it, just recognize that all you really did was write down the words, and pick out the right ones, and string them together in a certain way, but you could never have thought up something like this yourself, now could you have? How could you have?
M
Vancouver Island Beach Art
Beach art photos are when the stars and planets are aligned I come across shell sculptures, inukshuks etc left by leprechauns who ask for nothing but to be admired.
~ byline and photography by Susan Miller, Parksville
~ byline and photography by Susan Miller, Parksville
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