The image shows shows a rocky landscape near the ocean. Overhead an old house with a few mechanical devices is floating in the sky on a small piece of land.
All aboard, all aboard!
Cogs whirr, chains clank pistons pump and gears crank hang onto your hats and don’t look down Bethelbert’s ride is the best in town feast your eyes on the folk down there open-mouthed they stand and stare passing over the hills and dales the ocean’s in sight, do you see those whales? clouds above and sea below which way’s up I’d love to know hold on tight and live your dream in Bethelbert’s marvellous mystery machine!
Elizabeth Gauffreau and her new poetry book, Grief Songs
It’s my great pleasure to welcome Elizabeth Gauffreau to this month’s Launch Pad spot. Like me, you may already be familiar with Liz through herblog, and others of you will know her through her wonderful novel, Telling Sonny, a book I thoroughly enjoyed when I read it earlier this year.
So, let’s find out a little bit more about her. We’ll start with her official author bio:
Elizabeth Gauffreau writes fiction and poetry with a strong connection to family and place. She holds a BA in English/Writing from Old Dominion University and an MA in English/Fiction Writing from the University of New Hampshire. After a misbegotten stint teaching high school English and Latin, she spent her career in nontraditional higher education.
Her recent literary magazine publications include Woven Tale Press, Dash, Pinyon, Aji, Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, and Evening Street Review. Her fiction and poetry have also been featured in several themed anthologies, including Ad Hoc Monadnock, Shifts: An Anthology of Women’s Growth through Change,When Last on the Mountain: The View from Writers over Fifty, Familiar, and Poetry Leaves. Her 2018 debut novel, Telling Sonny, was inspired by a family secret and a lot of research into small-time vaudeville.
Liz lives in Nottingham, New Hampshire with her husband. Their daughter has flown the nest to sunny California.
Grief Songs ~ paperback and ebook
Liz’s new book of poetry, Grief Songs – Poems of Love & Remembrance, is just out. It’s a deeply moving collection of poetry which speaks to an album of her family photographs. I just finished reading it yesterday, such a wonderful bitter-sweet collection, it moved me deeply. You can read my review here.
Now, let me hand over to Liz to tell us about the background to her new release.
~~~
Thank you for hosting me on your blog, Chris. I greatly appreciate it.
I am a fiction writer by training, so I never expected to be releasing a book of poetry, much less a book of poetry written in tanka. However, being a part of our wonderful blogging community for the past several years has given me the inspiration to take my writing in new directions and the courage to publish the results for others to read.
Grief Songs started with the last poem in the collection, “Portland Head Autumnal,” although I had no way of knowing that when I wrote the poem. I had been following Colleen Chesebro’s poetry blog, “Word Craft: Prose & Poetry,” for some time and growing more and more curious to try my hand at syllabic poetry adapted from Japanese, such as haiku and tanka. I wrote “Portland Head Autumnal” as a tanka after a trip to Portland Head Light in Maine on a cold, gray, windy day in September when I could not recall any time I had been to Portland Head when the sky and water were gray, rather than bright blue.
Two months later, my mother died, leaving me the last person in my immediate family. As people do, I turned to the family photograph albums in an attempt to keep my mother with me just a little longer. As part of that process, lines of poetry started coming to me. Tanka seemed the appropriate form to give those lines shape and purpose. In the book, photographs are paired with poems to tell the story of a loving family lost.
Grief is a deeply personal experience, yet it’s an experience many of us have in common, particularly as we get older. What prompted my decision to go ahead with publishing Grief Songs were readers’ responses to some of the individual poems I shared. The poems prompted fond memories of their own loved ones. For me, striking a responsive chord with a reader’s own experience in any number of different ways is what poetry is all about.
Thanks again, Chris, for featuring Grief Songs: Poems of Love & Remembrance on your blog and giving me the opportunity to share my thoughts with your readers.
~~~
The blurb
When a loved one dies, the family will often turn to the photograph albums as an act of solace, to keep their loved one with them just a little while longer, Grief Songs: Poems of Love & Remembrance arose from that experience. The collection opens with three free verse expressions of raw grief, followed by a series of photographs from the author’s family album, each paired with a poem written in tanka. Taken together, they tell the story of a loving family lost.
Praise for Grief Songs
“A beautiful, personal collection of family photos and poems that express the author’s most inner feelings. Nostalgic and heartfelt, Gauffreau’s poems are written in the Japanese style of tanka, simple, thoughtful, and full of love. Filled with wonderful memories of the past.”
~Kristi Elizabeth, Manhattan Book Review
“Poetry readers willing to walk the road of grief and family connections will find Grief Songs: Poems of Love & Remembrance a psychological treasure trove. It’s a very accessible poetic tribute that brings with it something to hold onto–the memories and foundations of past family joys, large and small.”
~Diane Donovan, Midwest Book Review
Book Trailer
So lovely, I’ve watched it again and again…
Grief Songs is available in paperback and ebook from all your favourite online bookstores – buy it here
Although their previous dalliance with other-worldly travel had led to a certain equanimity in how to handle unfamiliar situations, nothing had quite prepared Bryony and Mr Eyre with the sight which confronted them now.
They were surrounded by a small group of black-bearded fellows, dressed in indigo army fatigues and wielding weapons reminding Mr Eyre of the stingers found on wasps and other vespids; the overall effect would have been rather intimidating but for their small stature and the incredibly large pointy ears poking out from beneath their caps.
‘Other-Worlders!’ exclaimed one who, from the elaborate insignia adorning his cap, must be the captain; he craned his neck in an attempt to look Mr Eyre in the eye, ‘ready your weapons, men,’ his eyes switched back and forth between his prisoners, ‘these could be tricky customers.’
Six stingers began to buzz; the captain pointed first at Bryony and then Mr Eyre, ‘Turn out your pockets!’
Mr Eyre offered Bryony a reassuring nod before emptying the pockets of his tweed jacket of everything from bus tickets to bits of string; Bryony pulled her notebook from her pinafore pocket and held it out.
‘Word-Peddler, eh?’ said the captain with a sinister smirk.
Bryony, Bethany and Mr Eyre first appeared in my historical fantasy fiction novel, Following the Green Rabbit. They’ve been begging to go on another adventure and it looks like they’ve got their wish!
Heritage Day in the Rainbow Nation (photo Western Cape Government)
Today is Heritage Day, a public holiday in South Africa, our multi-racial, multi-cultural and muli-coloured nation. On this day, South Africans are encouraged to celebrate their culture and the diversity of their beliefs and traditions, in the wider context of a nation that belongs to all its people. It’s a day that has its origins in the post-1994 flush of the Rainbow Nation that sought to create unity in diversity.
Today it means different things to different South Africans, from dressing in traditional finery to firing up a braai (aka barbeque). Its timing coincides with the start of spring and now that some of the covid-related restrictions have been lifted, and it begins a long weekend, it’s a real feel-good holiday, even if you just stay at home.
It is also known as a National Braai Day in commemoration of the culinary tradition of informal backyard barbecues, known as braais. In September 2007, Archbishop Desmond Tutu celebrated his appointment as patron of South Africa’s Braai Day, affirming it to be a unifying force in a divided country by donning an apron and enthusiastically eating a boerewors roll. (Boerewors is a sausage, popular across Southern Africa made from coarsely minced beef and spices). Here’s the great man busy with the braai.
Desmond Tutu at the braai
Many elements and influences characterise my adopted country and when I decided to write a novel set in South Africa, almost 10 years after I came here, I began by auditioning some new characters. I placed them in different settings and through them, tested out some different themes.
In the piece below, which I originally posted in 2019, the characters represent (some of) the different groups in our diverse country. The novel I was planning eventually became ‘Song of the Sea Goddess’. If you’ve read the book, or even followed the various excerpts I’ve posted this year, maybe you can guess who the three men eventually became.
~~~~~~
Parched Earth
‘You must call the San Man,’ she whispers. ‘Only he can bring the rain bull.’
‘But how?’
‘You must go to the cave which watches over the veld. Go at dusk, light a fire.’ She reaches into the pouch she has beside her and holds out a handful of grey-green herbs. ‘Burn a little of this, and then watch and wait.’
He raises his eyebrows at his two companions.
The old woman holds up a finger. ‘He may not come the first night,’ she shakes her head slowly. ‘He may not come at all.’ She stares intently at each of them. ‘Now go.’
The three men depart.
‘I guess it’s worth a try,’ says the first. He is a tall, robust white man, dressed in shorts and sandals; the hint of an overseas accent.
‘Another winter with no rain; we must do something,’ agrees the second, a brown-skinned man, whose features echo the ancient people that once inhabited this corner of Africa.
The third man, by far the youngest of the three is silent. He too is brown-skinned, a son of the Rainbow Nation, where a multitude of peoples have planted their seeds.
Later, the three trudge silently up to the koppie where the ancient cave paintings are. The air is hot and parched like the veld. The sky turns liquid orange as the sun is swallowed up by the smudge-blue mountains. They light the fire and sprinkle herbs onto the flames. The three settle down to watch and wait.
~~~~~
Now, as the sun sets, let’s gather round the fire and enjoy some of the sights and sounds of ‘National Braai Day’.
Bethany stared at the green-clad brother and sister who had turned away and retreated a few steps to confer in private, she strained her ears but her grasp of their conversation was limited to what she took to be oaths and exclamations; whatever could be the matter?
She surveyed her surroundings, as she retrieved the memory of her previous encounter with an ‘other world’; by whatever method she had been transported to this unfamiliar place, it was important to commit the exact location of entry to memory in order to find the way back.
Their discussion over, the green-clad man marched back to Bethany and stared up at her, ‘Greta and I have decided, we have to hand you over to the Owl-King, we don’t want to, but…’ he paused and took a breath, screwing up his eyes, ‘it’s the Rules.’
Greta hurried over to join them; taking her brother’s arm, she whispered, ‘Hans, there’s no need to frighten her,’ she stared around with anxious eyes. ‘Anyway, we haven’t decided; we’ll go back to the house and then we’ll decide.’
Although Bethany still had no idea what was going on, she was certain that this Owl-King was someone best avoided.
Bryony, Bethany and Mr Eyre first appeared in my historical fantasy fiction novel, Following the Green Rabbit. They’ve been begging to go on another adventure and it looks like they’ve got their wish!
Let me introduce you to these two fine gentlemen: on your right is my husband, Cliff (he had hair then!) and on the left is Andreas, the man who made the best chips we’d ever tasted! It’s because of him that the fictional little town in my novel, Song of the Sea Goddess, has a café owned by a Greek, who makes the ‘best chips on the whole of the west coast’.
Back in the late 1980s and 1990s, we spent almost every holiday island hopping around Greece. I was counting them up, and we’ve visited twenty islands over the years (several more than once) and adding all those visits up, we spent at more than a year altogether in that beautiful country. We’d go at the start and end of the holiday season, two weeks in both May and September, taking any cheap flight we could find. Then, armed with a laden rucksack, a few guide books and book of ferry timetables, off we’d go.
We became increasing adventurous over the years and would try to seek out the less well-known islands and the more off-the-beaten track locations. We avoided the popular places plagued by package tourists, seeking a more authentic Greece (and escaping the Brits on holiday). I’d do my research in the local library, poring over Greek guide books on a Saturday morning after the unavoidable weekend shopping. One year, a photograph of some unusually decorated buildings caught my eye. My reaction? We have to go there!
Pyrgi, the ‘painted village’ in southern Chios
And so we did! Here are a couple of photos from our visit. You can just make out the shaded roof garden at the top of the picture on the left. ‘Captured’ by Dmitri off the afternoon bus from the port of Chios, he offered us his rooftop room for rent. Accessed by a rather precarious metal stairway, it had all we needed, including a wonderful view.
On the right is an example of the xysta, the intricate wall decorations that first caught my eye. These adorn many of Pyrgi’s houses and are unique to this medieval village. These patterns aren’t painted, they are scratched into the surface plaster. They are everywhere!
The centre of the village is dominated by a large square, filled with chairs and tables belonging to a handful of tiny bars and restaurants which ring the square itself. In the evening, we found the square was filled with people eating, drinking and chatting while their children played on the periphery. It was here we came across Andreas, who owned the tiniest of restaurants in one corner of the square. His menu was simple, but fresh and delicious – and he made these wonderful chips, served with a generous dollop of tzatziki (thick Greek yoghurt mixed with salted and drained cucumber, garlic, mint and olive oil). Over several evening visits we came to know a little bit about his past, particularly about his time in the merchant navy, an occupation he shared with Cliff’s younger brother.
Spool on to November 2019, when I started writing Song of the Sea Goddess and although I’d not thought about him for years, Andreas suddenly stepped out from the doorway of a building by the harbour in my fictional little town on the west coast of South Africa. He seemed to be very at home and he hadn’t aged a bit!
You can take a little tour of Pyrgi on this clip I found on You Tube:
I hope you enjoyed that. Now, let’s see what my version of Andreas is up to in his little harbourside café.
Excerpt from Song of the Sea Goddess
Later that morning when Porcupine returns to the harbour, Andreas is picking up the battered tin bowl that has been licked clean by the scruffy little dog, which he’s taken to feeding with scraps from his kitchen. He raises a hand in greeting to Sam and Jannie.
‘There’s coffee still in the pot,’ shouts Andreas.
‘Should we tell him about the gold?’ Sam asks as they across the yard.
‘Could be he knows something about treasure like that. He was at sea far longer than I was and he sailed in different waters,’ says Jannie. ‘But I’m not so sure. You know he gossips like no tomorrow.’
Sam shrugs. ‘We don’t have to tell him the whole story.’
‘You mean say it’s something we just heard…’
‘…from a friend of a friend.’
The two men grin at each other.
The two conspirators enter through the back door of Andreas’s little café. Moments later they’re sitting at the counter while Andreas fills two tiny cups with thick, sweet Greek coffee and sets them down on the counter in front them.
‘So what’s new?’ asks the café owner as he resumes his slicing and chopping in preparation for lunchtime. Andreas serves up a simple menu from his native Greece: fried fish, kebabs, chips and salad. He makes the best chips on the whole of the west coast and if you can’t afford meat or fish, you can always dip your chips in his thick, garlicky tzatziki. It is this that he’s busy making.
Andreas frowns as Sam explains about the friend of a friend and the strange pot of gold coins which no-one can touch with their bare hands. The wiry old Greek listens until Sam has finished, then throws his head back and laughs.
‘Well, you must know what that is,’ he exclaims.
‘What d’you mean?’ Jannie asks. ‘I sailed around the South China seas and in the cold waters of the far north, but I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
‘Really? And you’ve never heard of the ‘treasure that can’t be touched’?’
Jannie shakes his head.
‘They say it’s the old gold of Atlantis.’
‘Atlantis?’
‘Yes, you know, the lost city…’
Jannie shakes his head. ‘That’s just a legend. It doesn’t exist.’
Andreas chuckles. ‘Well, gold coins that burn your fingers don’t exist either.” He shakes his head. ‘Come on guys, I’m having a joke with you.’ He pours them a second cup of coffee. Then he notices the coin shaped scar on Sam’s right hand. He points to the scar and raises his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Don’t tell me. That’s how you got that scar?’ Andreas’s eyes widen. ‘That’s what you were off-loading earlier, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Jannie. He cocks his head sideways feigning innocence.
‘Well,’ Andreas leans forward on the counter, his chin resting on his hand, ‘when Porcupine first entered the harbour this morning, she was sitting very low in the water. I thought Sam here had made it big. A net full of snoek maybe. But after he tied up the boat, rather than landing his catch, he called you over, Jannie. Then a few minutes later, deep in conversation and looking a little shifty by the way, you were both on the boat and heading out of the harbour.’
Andreas pauses, looking from one friend to the other. He grins. ‘I figured it wasn’t an illegal haul of perlemoen, since that wouldn’t have weighed so heavy. Nor crayfish.’ He wags his finger slowly from side to side. ‘And in any case, neither of you would do such a thing, would you?’
Sam and Jannie remain silent for a moment.
‘Okay then, Sam,’ Andreas says. ‘Where did you find this treasure you can’t touch? And what have you done with it?’
‘Perhaps this landed in the bush when Bethany fell?’ suggested Mr Eyre, holding out the object which he’d just lifted from the buddleia bush.
Bryony shook her head, ‘I don’t remember Bethany having a beautiful bracelet like that, in any case, it’s not the sort of thing people wear unless they’re going somewhere special,’ she took the bracelet from him and held it up to the light, gently unfastening the catch.
The bracelet fell open into two half-moon sections, an inscription ran around the glossy inner rim, written in a language which Bryony didn’t recognise; Mr Eyre peered over her shoulder, trying to decipher the strange script; then it dawned on him: ‘it’s mirror writing, Bryony, look!’
Mr Eyre took out his pocket-watch and opened it, tilting the inside of the shiny silver casing so they could read the inscription: to faraway lands, travel you may, now seek and you will find; Bryony looked up at her tutor, eyebrows raised, ‘What do think, Mr Eyre?’
The bracelet began to vibrate and Bryony began to shake with it; Mr Eyre held onto on her shoulders to steady her.
A moment later they vanished, leaving the buddleia bush swaying silently behind them.
Bryony, Bethany and Mr Eyre first appeared in my historical fantasy fiction novel, Following the Green Rabbit. They’ve been begging to go on another adventure and it looks like they’ve got their wish!
More stories here and we’d love you to join us… just follow the link!
At day’s end when golden rays slide silently into shadow running through the shorter colours of the rainbow while sun’s bright disk is swallowed by dark waves I wonder, what did I achieve today?
Unlike dawn with her sacred dazzling promise of a brand new day and a fresh clean start another tiny chapter of life has closed one more page has turned, waves washing over sand, erasing.
I sit on the sun-worn steps gazing out at the ocean her timeless waves her heart beating and wonder what might tomorrow bring?
The image shows a view of the setting sun over a body of water. In the foreground, you can see wooden steps leading into the water. Grey clouds are drifting in the sky.
luna's on line 