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A POET'S
CONFESSIONS, FULL OF HOPE AND JOY,
IN THE SPRING OF RAIN AND CHERRY BLOSSOMS
Carl Leggo
University of British Columbia
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I am delighted and honoured with
the invitation to be a resident poet, located in the Centre
for the Study of Curriculum and Instruction at the University
of British Columbia, residing amidst the network of writers
and readers connected ecologically with(in) new possibilities
unfolding in the universe of cyberspace. In this location,
poets who represent diverse experiences offer their poems
to the world, gifts of words, for encouraging each of
us in the ways of living well together. I am especially
enthused that this space for poets and poetry includes
the poems of children who sing out in energetic voices,
filled with the spirit of hopeful possibilities for playing
with words and celebrating in the world. (Please,
note that even though this web site will include the poetry
of children, it is not a web site intended for young readers.
Children's poetry will be included with the poetry of
adult writers, and the content of some of the adult poems
will not be appropriate for children. We are providing
a space where educators and poets will have the opportunity
to read children's poetry to remind us about the poet's
voice within children, how they live and breathe the world
poetically. Our recruiting of children's poetry is not
done directly to children, but through their teachers
who may have poets in their classrooms whose voices they
want our readers to hear.)
There are so many misconceptions
about poetry. For example, I am always being told that
a poem must rhyme, that it must be obscure and ambiguous,
that it must be about grand themes like love, war, and
religion. But I claim that a poem can be about anything
and everything. I claim that the world is filled with
poems. A poem is written out of engagement with the
world and engagement with words.
As a poet, I am a word-maker,
a wordsmith, a word-weaver. How do I see my words? My
words are line drawings on a doodle pad, pencil-rubbed
disclosures of the world; my words are building blocks
that laid one on top of another are a tower out of and
into the abyss; my words are candles driving away darkness,
lights on the way; my words are stones in a river, a
path, peril, the only way; my words are seeds of grain
in a field abundant with weeds; my words are scraps
of old clothing sewn into a patchwork quilt; my words
are chisels chipping and chopping the block, the concealed
now revealed; my words are love letters tied in yellow
ribbons hidden in an attic chest.
I often claim to be a lonely
poet because I often fear that in our hurly-burly world
of commerce and industry and politics, we forget poetry,
forget to listen to the rhythms of our hearts, the rhythms
of others' hearts. Let's sing out our poetry to the
world, with urgency and generosity and enthusiasm like
a spring of rain and cherry blossoms.
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LONELY POETS
SOCIETY 
I sat in the circle of writers
who meet weekly
in the Minoru Seniors Centre
and I confessed,
I am a poet
and
I am lonely
because
I weave my world
a tapestry of words
I want to show you
the pictures afire
in my head (no photos
I can show guests
on a Sunday afternoon):
pictures of red brick
walls, lines etched
in black and white,
purple-green trees
rooted in the earth's
molten heart, the sun
faraway and faded
as if buried in snow,
the broken horizon torn
from a larger canvas,
the bare branches of alders
like cracks in the air
and I asked,
Who will look?
Who can see?
and one man said,
I like poems that rhyme
and one woman said,
You punctuate wrong
and more said,
What do you mean?
and only Ken said
nothing
and when I explained
how I published my poems
submission rejection
submission sometimes
acceptance poems sent
like an SOS distress
signal to the world
Ken said,
You're lonely
the way
I was lonely;
all my life
I've been a salesman
knocking on doors;
of course you're lonely,
you're a salespoet
so, look for me, folks,
I am everywhere
I am a salespoet
knocking on your doors
and windows
ringing your bells
and telephones
echoing in your chimneys
and air vents
with pitches and promises
you can't ignore:
don't believe me
try my poems
they're good
satisfaction guaranteed
or your money back
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