This poem was published in Canadian Stories magazine and again in my chapbook How to Remember. It's about a button I found that reminded me of a passage from William Blake's writing.
BLAKEAN BUTTON
"What," it will be questioned, "when the sun rises, do you not see a round disc of fire somewhat like a guinea?"
"Oh, no, no. I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host crying, 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty.'"
From The Book of Thel, by William Blake, 1789
A round disk of silver with petal design -
so what does this button suggest?
Just a flower in metal, the size of a dime,
to decorate somebody's chest?
Look closely, you'll notice a sunflower, styled.
Its intricate pattern is plain,
hypnotically whirling to dazzle a child
who may lack the words to explain.
This flower won't wither and die in the fall.
It outlasted the garment it graced.
Perhaps it endured to puzzle us all
as we think about time and of space.
Does the rising sun seem like a coin in the hand,
like a loonie, or guinea of gold?
To Blake, the sun seemed like a bright angel band
that sang praises in stories of old.
This silvery button the size of a dime
which sparkles like sun upon snow,
can stir thoughts of worlds far beyond space and time,
where fields of tall sunflowers grow.
(c) Ruth Latta, 2020
Sunday, April 26, 2020
Thursday, April 23, 2020
"Sometimes Crime Pays" - Finalist in Capital Crimewriter's contest, 2020
Congratulations to the Finalists on this year’s Capital Crime Writers short story contest, Audrey Jessup Award.
The top five finalists, in no particular order are:
- A Confidential Donation – Kevin Coleman
- Sometimes Crime Pays – Ruth Latta
- I Smell a Mystery – Adrienne Stevenson
- The Perseids – Joe Sornberger
- Midnight at Rocky’s – Wynn Quon
Normally the winners would be announced at our end of year dinner in June. Unfortunately, due to COVID-19 and the need to maintain physical distancing, the final results will be emailed to all entrants, as well as posted on this website and the Capital Crime Writers’ Facebook page on June 10.
Wednesday, April 22, 2020
Poem: A Country Walk
Today, April 22, 2020, it's very cold in Ottawa and we have a new sprinkling of snow on everything. I can't wait until the weather gets warmer and Covid-19 has calmed down, and hope that the day will come when we can take a country walk again.
A COUNTRY WALK
by Ruth Latta
Come with me where light depends
on sailing clouds and sunglass lens,
a place where peace and motion blend
as if time’s passage we suspend.
So silently on threadlike legs
a spider strolls around tent pegs.
A bird with fragile feathered head
comes bright-eyed, near, in hope of bread.
In air of pine and curing hay
some yellow-flowered plants display
their pods, pale green, a heavy load.
A brush, a touch, and they explode.
A COUNTRY WALK
by Ruth Latta
Come with me where light depends
on sailing clouds and sunglass lens,
a place where peace and motion blend
as if time’s passage we suspend.
So silently on threadlike legs
a spider strolls around tent pegs.
A bird with fragile feathered head
comes bright-eyed, near, in hope of bread.
In air of pine and curing hay
some yellow-flowered plants display
their pods, pale green, a heavy load.
A brush, a touch, and they explode.
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
T'was Brillig, Honey
Zephyr me to Samarkand
or maybe to Xanadu.
Raven me to Innisfree.
Be gregarious you.
Flambe me with jubilance.
Spray me with oleander.
Hypnotise me with your pulse
as we forever wander.
Be my knight, my hero.
Don't quit me in a huff.
Braid your verdant yabbadabbadoo
and make me really chuffed,
Persuade my alabaster limbs
with your quintessential refrain.
If you'll be my sweet william,
I'll be your sweet lorraine.
(c) Ruth Latta, 2020
Sunday, April 19, 2020
Poem "Movies at the Mayfair"
This poem appeared in The Banister, an anthology
MOVIES AT THE MAYFAIR
(A Homage to Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to a Village Movie Theatre.”)
One winter afternoon we went to see
this year’s “Best Picture”.
The huge theatre complex was Bedlam.
Lights pulsated. Music pounded.
We were trapped in a blend of
video arcade, rock concert
and fast food restaurant.
To see our film we climbed stairs,
more stairs, then entered a cavern of bleachers
ski-sloping sharply to the screen.
Aloft with the gods, in darkness,
I thought of the washroom, a million miles away.
“Come my love,” I said.
“I can’t do this. Let’s wait til it comes to the Mayfair.”
When we go to the Mayfair, a retro theatre
over eighty years old, we stroll along a busy street
past shops and restaurants. In the lobby we join the queue
of students, cinema buffs and seniors.
Once inside, we pick up a community paper
or buy a used movie poster, like the one from Maudie
on the wall above my desk.
Here we came forty years ago as newlyweds
before there were VHS or DVD players,
let alone Netflix.
Nestled together with popcorn and coffee
we watched movies
we missed in the sad years before we met.
Now we recapture the way we were
and feel young again.
We look up at the cast iron fake balconies
where, over the years,
various faces have peered down on us,
like the cardboard cut-out bear,
a slightly sinister marionette
and a stuffed rodent.
The stage curtains are pulled back
and we watch ads for local businesses
and photos of the theatre
from the days when streetcars ran past it.
When the Mayfair was new,
the real-life protagonist of a novel I wrote
may have come by streetcar with her husband
to see King Kong, Duck Soup
or Garbo in Queen Christina.
Here, when we saw Il Postino
and, more recently, Neruda,
I remembered Pablo Neruda’s poem
about the village movie theatre.
“Old movies,” he wrote, “are second-hand dreams.
...We will dream all the dreams.”
MOVIES AT THE MAYFAIR
(A Homage to Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to a Village Movie Theatre.”)
One winter afternoon we went to see
this year’s “Best Picture”.
The huge theatre complex was Bedlam.
Lights pulsated. Music pounded.
We were trapped in a blend of
video arcade, rock concert
and fast food restaurant.
To see our film we climbed stairs,
more stairs, then entered a cavern of bleachers
ski-sloping sharply to the screen.
Aloft with the gods, in darkness,
I thought of the washroom, a million miles away.
“Come my love,” I said.
“I can’t do this. Let’s wait til it comes to the Mayfair.”
When we go to the Mayfair, a retro theatre
over eighty years old, we stroll along a busy street
past shops and restaurants. In the lobby we join the queue
of students, cinema buffs and seniors.
Once inside, we pick up a community paper
or buy a used movie poster, like the one from Maudie
on the wall above my desk.
Here we came forty years ago as newlyweds
before there were VHS or DVD players,
let alone Netflix.
Nestled together with popcorn and coffee
we watched movies
we missed in the sad years before we met.
Now we recapture the way we were
and feel young again.
We look up at the cast iron fake balconies
where, over the years,
various faces have peered down on us,
like the cardboard cut-out bear,
a slightly sinister marionette
and a stuffed rodent.
The stage curtains are pulled back
and we watch ads for local businesses
and photos of the theatre
from the days when streetcars ran past it.
When the Mayfair was new,
the real-life protagonist of a novel I wrote
may have come by streetcar with her husband
to see King Kong, Duck Soup
or Garbo in Queen Christina.
Here, when we saw Il Postino
and, more recently, Neruda,
I remembered Pablo Neruda’s poem
about the village movie theatre.
“Old movies,” he wrote, “are second-hand dreams.
...We will dream all the dreams.”
Saturday, April 18, 2020
Today's poem - "A Star is Borne"
I included this poem in "How We Flushed Fluffy", a chapbook of humorous verse.
A STAR IS BORNE
When Liza starred as Sally Bowles
in fishnet stockings full of holes,
her long green nails a sight to see.
she was just what I longed to be.
In school I played a dowager
and though I had some fun with her,
that role did not fulfil my dreams;
I longed to sing with the Supremes.
When Tina Turner struts her stuff
in mini-skirts that flash enough,
and Dolly flaunts her ample charms
while singing "Safe in Jesus' Arms",
I pray that in a future life,
I will not be a mere housewife
but have a chance to shine my light,
at least on Karioke night.
(c) Ruth Latta, 2020
A STAR IS BORNE
When Liza starred as Sally Bowles
in fishnet stockings full of holes,
her long green nails a sight to see.
she was just what I longed to be.
In school I played a dowager
and though I had some fun with her,
that role did not fulfil my dreams;
I longed to sing with the Supremes.
When Tina Turner struts her stuff
in mini-skirts that flash enough,
and Dolly flaunts her ample charms
while singing "Safe in Jesus' Arms",
I pray that in a future life,
I will not be a mere housewife
but have a chance to shine my light,
at least on Karioke night.
(c) Ruth Latta, 2020
Friday, April 17, 2020
Today's Poem: "Driving with Dolly"
Another oldie of mine, first published in the chapbook, How We Flushed Fluffy and other poems, a combined publication effort with another poet, the late Valerie Simmons. The quotes are from songs recorded by Dolly Parton.
DRIVING WITH DOLLY
We glide the miles, we float along
with Dolly and her sweet refrain.
The wind, the birds, combine in song.
We hear the hum of passing train.
The oatfield's dotted with milkweed,
"Wayfaring Stranger" - this we know.
White parachutes on every seed
for "travelling through this world of woe."
The bales of hay look fresh and sweet.
"The crickets sing in fields nearby"
a golden great expanse of wheat
beneath a hazy summer sky.
Our troubles we have quite forgot.
We float with Dolly and her choir.
"They grew into a true love knot
And the rose it wound around the briar."
"We'll meet upon God's golden shore" -
with luck, not for a little while!
This earthly bliss - who'd ask for more
As Dolly sings each passing mile.
(c) Ruth Latta, 2020
DRIVING WITH DOLLY
We glide the miles, we float along
with Dolly and her sweet refrain.
The wind, the birds, combine in song.
We hear the hum of passing train.
The oatfield's dotted with milkweed,
"Wayfaring Stranger" - this we know.
White parachutes on every seed
for "travelling through this world of woe."
The bales of hay look fresh and sweet.
"The crickets sing in fields nearby"
a golden great expanse of wheat
beneath a hazy summer sky.
Our troubles we have quite forgot.
We float with Dolly and her choir.
"They grew into a true love knot
And the rose it wound around the briar."
"We'll meet upon God's golden shore" -
with luck, not for a little while!
This earthly bliss - who'd ask for more
As Dolly sings each passing mile.
(c) Ruth Latta, 2020
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