Winged Spirits and Hope
Last week, a breakthrough research in spinal cord injury sent waves of hope and admiration across the airwaves. It highlighted another piece in the puzzle toward helping people walk again after such injuries. The study, published in the journal Brain, was funded in part by the Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation.
I never met Christopher Reeve, but this research study brought back memories of an outpouring of feeling in verse which Bayeux published in 1995. “Winged Spirits,” one of our treasured volumes of poetry, was edited by the poet Franklin Reeve, Christopher’s father. The book was blessed with some priceless collage paintings by New York artist, Jean Zalesky, each one of the images uniquely complementing the verses by twenty four contemporary poets –
lighter than air
dreaming their wings
rushing toward love…
Franklin dedicated the book, among others, to Christopher and Dana, even as his son lay in a hospital bed in Mount Kisco, New York. The lines quoted above were by Franklin himself, the poem named “Snow Angels.”
Actually, angels are everywhere. From “The Guardian Angel in New York,” –
You stood in the doorway in the snow:
Times Square, a late hour.
The sill was black with chicken blood:
your black boots open: your glass like O’s:
you touched your finger to your lips, you said:
Here: Wisdom. Wisdom and power.
That was Jean Valentine. And from Henry Taylor’s “At South York Cemetary,” –
It had no voice, or anything like that,
as it came across a field to where we worked
at restoring an abandoned burial ground –
a silent whirlwind we could see was there
by leaves it spiraled higher than the trees.
It slapped a leaf or two against our bodies,
Then wandered on across the empty road.
As if the thoughtless world were generous,
we took that quirk of air as something given
and turned to cutting brush and righting stones.
Many summers later, while my family and I were in Machias, Maine, a few days before the August Annual Blueberry Festival, Franklin called us to meet him in Cutler Harbor, a few miles up the coast. One by one, we dinghied to his sailboat; it was looking white and splendid against the blue ocean. It was during the hours that we spent sailing the waters of the Grand Manan Channel off the coast of Maine, the brilliant sun flashing on the waves, the sail bloated by a light breeze, that I felt possessed, totally engulfed in silence. It lasted perhaps no more than a minute, put that was space enough for me. I felt possessed by – and saw for the first time – the angel of the ocean.
Our beloved author, Don Brestler, passed away this week in September 2019. An ex-cowboy, Don loved the mountains of Southern Alberta and, until recently, would go horse-riding for hours on end. His beloved wife, Ingrid, passed away in 2016, leaving Don...
Bayeux Arts loses a brilliant author, Sudhir Jain It is with considerable sadness that we note the untimely passing of a gifted and tireless writer and a constant friend, Sudhir Jain. His friends and all who knew him and his writing will miss him. Over the years,...
Now available in ebook format, this award-winning title brings together diverse artwork, images and themed reflections to introduce the life of Guru Nanak. An ideal study resource on the Sikh faith for high school students and adults, it also makes an ideal gift for...
Ashis and Swapna from Bayeux Arts are in Latin America for the 2019 Canadian creative industries trade mission this week! More Information
Battle River Writing Centre is delighted to offer this exciting workshop by BAYEUX ARTS Digital and Traditional Publishing.
Join Shelf Life Books for an evening with Ayesha Chatterjee as she reads from her latest collection of poetry, Bottles and Bones. Ayesha previously published The Clarity of Distance in 2011. Born in India, Ayesha currently lives in Toronto.
Launch of new Bayeux title, “From Cell to Sanity” on March 15 at St. Mary’s University, Calgary
Toronto launch of Ayesha Chatterjee’s new volume of poems, “Bottles and Bones”
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles,