LXXII.

Raymond C. Booth

LXXII.

If all rivers are sweet,

where does the sea get its salt?

How do the seasons know

they must change their shirt?

Why so slowly in winter

and later with such a rapid shudder?

And how do the roots know

they must climb towards the light?

And then greet the air

with so many flowers and colors?

Is it always the same spring

who revives her role?

Pablo Neruda

The best questions are the first questions. Child questions. Wonder questions. “Why is the sky blue?” The remarkable thing about that question is that the child is aware that the sky could have been a colour other than blue. It seems as if we adults lose the ability to think this way.  Like in the fantasy books where children experience magic, but forget it as they get older. That always makes me sad. Why do we forget? Is it possible that this magic can return as we get older/wiser? I remember my university professor saying that the story arc goes from Innocence to Experience to Experience + Innocence, and that the last was best of all because it was Innocence that cannot be taken away. Neruda’s question poems remind me of that. These are Musing and Marvelling Questions rather than Requiring-an-Answer Questions. Child-like without being childish. Here is acknowledgement of mystery, of puzzles, of possibilities; awareness that things could have been another way, and a sense of wonder that they are the way they are. Neruda’s questions give me hope that we jaded, cynical, so-called “realists” simply haven’t reached the age of Wonder Wisdom yet.  So here’s to the return of wonder! And God help us on our way.

A Northern Morning

Anna Larmoliuk

A Northern Morning

It rained from dawn. The fire died in the night.
I poured hot water on some foreign leaves;
I brought the fire to life. Comfort
spread from the kitchen like a taste of chocolate
through the head-waters of a body,
accompanied by that little-water-music.
The knotted veins of the old house tremble and carry
a louder burden: the audience joining in.

People are peaceful in a world so lavish
with the ingredients of life:
the world of breakfast easy as Tahiti.
But we must leave. Head down in my new coat
I dodge to the High Street conscious of my fellows
damp and sad in their vegetable fibres.
But by the bus-stop I look up: the spring trees
exult in the downpour, radiant, clean for hours:
This is the life! This is the only life!

Alistair Elliot



“I brought the fire to life. Comfort spread from the kitchen.” This brings up old memories. How I would hear my mother lighting kindling in the kitchen stove. Waiting under the covers as the rooms slowly warmed. The sound of pots and pans rattling as she set about making breakfast. The kettle singing on the stovetop. Yes, comfort spread from the kitchen. From my mother’s presence and movements. This poem brings it all back. “A world so lavish with the ingredients of life.” I like that word “ingredients”, as if life were a meal. As if the world were composed like a recipe. And then the trees! Exulting in the spring rain – radiant. The way Elliot brings these words and images together, their placement and flavour - stirs up joy.