Writer, Journalist, Book Producer & Publisher
Oh! How I wish the letters
Of the word
Would dissolve
Into the very thing
How I would delight
In that incandescence,
That essence emerging
In my bleary dawn,
Like souls coalescing
Out of nothingness…
Engendered by the welling sun,
And the risen mist,
And the stilled air that I breathe.
Oh! How I would sigh
And beg the pending breeze
To hold off—just a moment more
And not disturb this glowing dream…
This fantasy that must always be
Precursor to despair.
Craig Spence
I’m so used
to looking at things,
not into them
that I’m startled when I witness
the space between our molecules of Being
and come to realize:
It’s not empty,
this infinite sky,
this eternal orbiting of day
into night / into dawn /
into the glare of high noon.
I wrote this morning
in my latest revision of a fiction:
She glanced away
then out the window
at the sunrise he’d witnessed earlier;
it had morphed into the blare of morning light
the gorgeous tints of dawn burned off
by the intense rays
of a risen sun.
Will this epiphany of the dazzling light
and its glorious host of questions
well once again at at the end of day?
Can the invisible be divisible?
Is it my plight to know?
How many times can we split
the atoms of our truths
before we discover the ultimate germs of
Infinity, Eternity, Omniscience, and Spirit?
Craig Spence
If you are interested in a workshop that engages participants in responsive writing to shared images (photos & paintings), please contact me. More info below…
Every picture tells a story, which makes art a source of inspiration for writers. The same goes for music, dance, and every other art form out there, but the visual arts, especially, are a trove of ideas.
Open up a family photo album and memories are triggered by the images you see. That’s a source for writers whose chosen genre is memoire. But images from other collections can also inspire.
What if your mode is historical fiction? Take a walk around Chemainus and every wall comes to life in your imagination. You can feel yourself being drawn into the large-as-life scenes and back in time—hear sails luffing, wagons clattering, trains chuffing, the rhytmic stroke of paddlers in dugout canoes.
Is there an image that inspires you? Perhaps it’s not even a specific picture, but a sequence made up of many related images, times, and places.
Craig Spence was inspired to write Waking Dream when he saw Diana Durrand’s mixed media piece Be Still and They Will Come, which has been displayed at the Cowichan Valley Performance Centre. Art galleries are great places to go in search of inspiration!
Stories or poems inspired by images aren’t descriptive exercises; they are works of art in their own right, which add a literary dimension to what you are experiencing.
Art, in the deepest sense of the word, is not meant to be ‘looked at’—or read, for that matter; it’s meant to be ‘invoved in’. Looking at a painting, or reading a story, becomes an imaginative act-—it’s participatory. So stories and poems based on imagery are works of art in their own right.
Would you like to participate in a free workshop built around responsive writing to shared images?
Waking Dream
They came to her
in a dream
on paws as soft
as evening light
They huddled in
the contoursof her restless soul
creatures of the land
between day and night
And she lay perfectly
still…
For an eternity…or so it seemed
Aware only of their being
and her delight
She dared not move
or even think…
of stirring…
for if she did
her moment…
she knew…
would take flight.
Craig Spence
Acts of Kindness I have to admit It was kind of strange for me to be hunched at the edge of the lawn like that… On a Wednesday morning After a Tuesday night-before In a neighbourhood where every sunrise-after lulls the Land of Suburbanites Into their becalmed state Of being. Of wakefulness. It should not have surprised me when a Good Samaritan approached His footsteps cause for alarm! I mean, what could I say? “Just a minor heart attack. The merest constriction of the chest A barely measurable acceleration of pulse… No need for an ambulance.” What other excuse could I invent that wouldn’t besmirch my reputation? Why else would I be staring into the dirt, beneath the parted blades of grass As if I could see something down there, couched in layers of smothering soil waiting to be discovered by archeology Even through the final act… The ceaseless progress of decomposition. “You okay?” he said Summoning me to the brink… To my moment of truth… I could not tell a lie… could I? Couldn’t make up something that would make sense of my peculiarities. “Just watching a worm,” I said. “Burrowing into the earth…” “Found him on the sidewalk…” “They always do that when it rains…” He looked at me as if I might have been another species… Or the long-lost member of an extinct tribe. “Feast for the robins.” he might have hinted. And who was I to argue? Playing at God, Absolving myself of the inevitable sins we’re committed to By being alive? CraigSpenceWriter.ca
Imagine yourself a tiny flea Upon an elephant’s back, Where every gaping chasm Is really just a crack, A crooked little wrinkle In Behemoth’s leather skin, Careful how you tread; you might fall in. Or maybe you’re an atom Inside a nuclear jar Your nearest next door neighbour Might just as well be a star Because a fraction of a fraction of a fraction Of an inch Is a measure beyond measure… And yet, it’s not a pinch. It's a finger on a button, and a mind that will not flinch. We’re tinier than tiny In this greater scheme of things Fodder for the canons In those places anthems ring… But stop and think a moment, If you only will, There’s space between the drumbeats To shout, why must we kill! (Written for the tens of thousands who have died and the untold thousands yet to die in Russian President Vladimir Putin's war)
My good friend Zeno says to me you can have your jam for free, nothing’s lost except by halves the future never meets the past. So in I dipped my eager blade to test this wondrous promise made. I scraped about the empty glass for evidence of my repast. Alas, the jar seemed quite remiss and jam on toast was sorely missed. Well, never mind, dear Zeno said. At least you have your daily bread and I assure you not a bite will frustrate future appetite. For once you’ve swallowed half that loaf half remains, and half’s the most. Munch and chew to hearts content, the boundless half remains unspent. Alas, I’m left with meagre crumbs and a whole whose parts are not its sum. CraigSpenceWriter.ca
Sound carries meaning. A prayer carries meaning. The words Happy Birthday carry meaning. Listening to Lama Pasang chant Tibetan sutras For my brother, Stewart, my thoughts and wishes Expand across a continent, over mountains Flowing into rivers and oceans, And farther yet, on to distant shores. They expand to encompass as much as I Am capable of. For Stewart to have long life… and happiness I must think of His partner Miao She must be happy, too. And his children, Sky, Joel, Sarah, Jesse, Josh, DarDar And his siblings Lynda, Stephen and myself. And all his many friends. Then my reach must overflow, encircling The families, friends and relations Of all his family, friends and relations. And beyond yet again, the chant reverberates A rejuvenating echo Heard by the children of his children’s’ children And the families of families’ families And the relations of relations’ relations And the friends of friends’ friends. And beyond again… In all places Children Families Relations And Friends May dwell. It must rustle the leaves of distant forests Live in the songs of heavenly birds Survive the shimmer and flash of fins Arise in the twitching of earthly noses. It’s a chant that goes beyond Anything I am capable of… Except Hope… Always Hope… Wishing long life and happiness, Brother To you and all our world! Luv Craig & Diana & Family
Mystic Beach – January 2022
Until now Mystic Beach has been a name on a map that conjured images: glittering vistas, sea breezes, the white manes of a thunderous surf.
The young woman we met at the trail head told us the hike was not too difficult. Some ups and downs, exposed roots, puddles and mud, nothing worth a fret. She and her frisking, mini Labradoodle have not yet conceived the true meaning of fate.
We wondered how it must have been for First Peoples to traverse this place, before the scrape of human infrastructure made it easy for our invasive species to cross its gullies, breach clinging underbrush, reach sacred strands?
Down, down, down we went. Our deepening descent staked by snaking steps and ramps, which would have to be retraced in an uphill climb… when we’d be left behind by younger sprites, sprinting by in the fast lane, leaving us to complain about weary muscles, creaking bones.
Down, down, down into our vision we homed, seeking that place that astounded, where senses are confounded, and the promise of wonder becomes a something known.
And, Oh! What a sight it was. Not the Vatican, or Taj Mahal, or an interminable, stone-faced wall marking boundaries between us and them, but a thrashing, crashing place where ocean, land and sky converge, making sense of an inner urge.
As always, wherever human feet have trod, there’s monuments to past descents, marking the supposed extent of human mind. Mystic Beach? There’s a thousand of its kind, a thousand more inspired vistas to be seen. But none that I have dreamed.
CSW
This morning’s sun dawned on me,
a bleed of light in the ambient air,
impressing with its metaphor of glory.
And I asked: Is this the shining way…
the path?
And I asked: How many dawns
have bathed me in their
blare of blinding light?
And I say: Dawning’s beyond conception.
I don’t remember my mother’s face,
from that first day she held me
swaddled in her arms.
My earliest memories
are assembled pastiches
retrieved from jumbled collections,
fading images in forgotten albums...
Brothers, sister and me
in defining moments picked
from the scrabble of growing up...
Growing old.
And I ask: Is this the past I wanted?
My only possible inception?
And I say: Their love was good enough
to endure a lifetime.
And what of my own sons,
misunderstanding, misunderstood,
good as me at finding fault?
Is their's a future untold,
stories in the making,
or a history already
that I’m to blame for?
In the midst of this day’s dawning
a flight of geese honked and gabbled
up our street;
our suspiring phalanx
of cedars, arbutus, and Douglas fir
stood firm, and jagged against the sky;
a frog croaked in the yard,
awakening my admiration
for ants, and beetles…
and lowly worms.
My morning mantra harkened,
urged me to complete
The Circle…
‘We are defined
by what we are-not
As much as by
Who we think we-are,’
The moment I sense my self
I disappear,
become part of the very nature
that shapes my solitude...
my joy, my fear.
You've heard about the water wheel,
has Chemainus in such a flap?
Well, now the truth has been revealed...
what turns its forward back.
The culprit's name is Flibber T,
that's Flibber T Gibbet for long.
He's the one you're gonna see
if you listen to this, my song.
Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T
You're such a curious fellow,
your cap's as red as red can be
and your shoes are bright, bright yellow
Flibber T is a naughty elf,
as naughty as naughty can be.
Never thinks of anyone else,
out on his troubling sprees.
Turning clockwise the other way
for unbelieving eyes
is just the sort of trick he'll play
to shock, and tease, and surprise.
But when it comes to elfish kind
you've gotta believe to see
you have to alter your state of mind
with the likes of Flibber T.
Oh Flibber T, Oh Flibber T
You're such a curious fellow,
your cap's as red as red can be
and your shoes are bright, bright yellow