Werner wrote this after attending Tracy Bone's CD release party at the Norwood Hotel on Thursday, May 29th, 2008...
Tracy Bone CD Release ©.
Winnipeg music community ALERT: the city at the center of the
country, celebrates Muddy Rivers' well known, and unknown as we
arrive at the darkly lit, Pub room in the Norwood Hotel. Winnipeg's
music stars, shine under the hot lights, at an A&R revel; that blends
fine wine, a good time and great music, and features our siren of
song, Tracy Bone, as she plays rocking chanteuse, and hot-loving
mama bear, Tracy growls and prowls, singing to soothe the night, as
she shoots out the lights in a highlight of delight for the fans of
GOOD music, and we learn that Tracy Bone teaches life in song,
singing the stories of real people, real life, and how hot love, keeps a
good man, at home.
This is a poem that Werner wrote about me... I am honoured.
Qui vit en tribus Mère ©.
Hair of wheatstraw and golden grains,
her native heart, sees this fragile land
through eyes as blue, as Northlands
lake and sky. Her French blood
sings as the breezes over field and forest,
a sacred song of grace and promise.
The mind of a 'moderne' and the soul
of this ancient land. All people are her
children, all hearts are on her mind.
She is Mother Earth, Erda, Gaia,
she is Tribal Mother.
Qui vit en tribus Mère. Paulette.
So Werner wrote this for Martins Weah, a man who has lived through some of the most horrible times in his country Cameroon. Many of the people in his village were slaughtered because of the diamond mining operations going on there. Subsequently, there are over 100 children that are homeless and living in an orphanage. Martin escaped and currently lives in Winnipeg and works for New Directions www.newdirections.mb.ca. Since his arrival in Canada, he's set up The Weah Foundation and recently held a benefit concert to raise money for the orphanage.
Werner and I attended the concert and these are the words he wrote...
Soul Flowers (Children of Weah) ©.
Wide awake and dreaming, the soul flowers of Cameroon
sing Huzzah and Hallelujah, praising god and growing, ... glowing,
in the burning sun. Their beautiful, dark skin gleams,
freshly scrubbed faces frame laughing features, eager eyes,
and big, brave smiles. Tiny re-born lives; adorned in fresh
African garb clean clothes, and well-fed souls.
These orphans of the blind god, can now glory, and grow
... in the garden of Martin's dreams.
I really like this one... speaks of youthful passion revisited... that's my take on it.
You... again, VAN, 2007 ©.
Imprisoning; high, coarse walls of unconcerned basalt rise
all about us, hiding our shamed, stinging – naked flesh
and wanton senses in the gathering dark of the still-borne, moonless
near-night. My hand – fingers splayed, stretches out – reaching
alongside to graze questing fingertips along the nearby chilled
rock-face; ensuring my steps as we trek a near-unseen, but well
known ribbon of shaded gray yesterdays that descends to the steep
rock-strewn decline of the shores, we had known in our youth.
To the beach, ... and a last look at the dying moments of the sun.
"Too early for starlight,", I say; and your laughter at my nervousness
bursts skyward, routing the heavens and rousing nesting birds
who hiss and jabber – chiding us in our silly conspiracy;
and my ambitions again steel my ... uh, – resolve.
"Sex-on-the-beach isn't just for breakfast anymore",
I try to sound suave, but I only hear my hunger for you.
"... and we don't even drink", you offered. Again; she and I emerge
from that vista of high cliffs (now towering far above us), and this
hard scrabble of sand and shoreline. Our beach. Our naked bodies,
on our beach; our loving minds and the last light of day as the
ocean-borne sky burns in a fevered shimmer of searing, soaring
orange and reds, smudged beneath a spattering, saffron sun –
fitfully raging, to fade against the dirtying black sky of impending
night. the late summer air clings; ... close; heavy with that
impersonal sweat of heat and spindrift spray. The kiss of the mist
and breezes that cavorts among the spume-flecked greybeards;
splashing and a'roil, churning the blue and green waters that covet
and 'grudgingly' co-mingle with the gritty sands of the indifferent
shore. I turn away from that failing sight and look into your eyes
to see the fire in your soul-in-rapture, my hands clasp yours and
you raise them to your soft, warm – still firm breasts. Our eyes close
(overcome, in the moment); with our nearness as we descend
into the dark and cooling depths of a kiss to bring a fire of our own
into the eternity of this night.
A new "old" piece that Werner did at the last Sounding Board Open Mic...
Pussycast and Landmines, VAN, 2007 ©.
Pussycats and landmines
are some things that go off (in the night).
Will your margin quotes and tanlines
help you re–make everything all right
... and while pussycats and landmines
may still go off in the day
now you spray–on, your tan's shine
and learn – what, you've been taught to say.
'Cause who–the–hell? owns their daytime;
... and aren't we all lost – in our own way?
We live our life under signs, of developing headlines
learning all about dues we must pay.
So, you will find – (in the rewind),
grimace of pain – Cheshire–cat – grin of delight.
Life; versus – not living ... is the battle defined.
You only live when you learn how to Fight!
... pussycats; and landmines.
The lighter side of VAN...
Woman Song, VAN, 2007 ©.
There were many things my father taught me ...,
'when the women are happy / comfortable / (besonderes),
then you are truly at home'.
Every woman is my mate, (NOT that I might bed her)
– that I might be her strength / while she might be my heart.
Every woman is my sister, mother, daughter, Oma ...
for we are all people / all folk. All one.
Every woman is a song — unsung; and when she chooses her mate,
it is a (kaerl's / kerl's / earl's) – man's job to let the women sing.
... and it is for every man
to make a place to embrace that song,
to build a home for their women, their folk.
God is the greatest artist ... ask any woman–loving man.
My folk adore women — for woman is the proof of Divinity,
she is blessed / cursed by the source eternal – the sea.
The sea was / is — the bearer; and the way.
As the rise and fall of the sea echoes with the nearness of the moon,
so too — woman's body follows the stream and cycle of our time.
She (woman), is born to guarantee our folks survival and our men live
for the opportunity and honor to exalt them, to raise them up to the
darkness
of heaven–at–night.
... and to swear that life will win over Death
as Father Sun (Sonne), chases the lord Darkness
from our world mother's bosom
our men must always bring light unto their women.
While they bring life to our folk.
So this is the inaugural 'words' page. I'm going to be putting up poems, stories — words by people who have touched my life and have shared a part of themselves with me.
Paulette LaFortune
Sweet Spot Productions
Starbuck, MB
Werner "VAN" Harder is one of my favorites spoken word artists or as he puts it... "wordist". He has been frequenting the Sounding Board Open Mic at The Lounge of Charlie O & Friends at 164 Stafford Avenue pretty well every Wednesday night for the past few months. He will be recording three pieces for the "Sounding Board Sessions, Volume I" on Halloween, October 31, 2007. He has given me copies of some of his other work and, with his permission, I am presenting VAN to you.
The trees are Talking, VAN, 2007 ©.
The trees are talking.
The leaves are
ecstatic. The storm must be near.
... too
near.
The trees are
... dancing (?),
cavorting, distorting. TWISTING!
Lightning
in a daytime sky! The shuddering
— constant —
ROAR of the pagan god of storms, grooving
to a spooky dance mix
in a looped sound track
of train cars
bashing together. Sheeting rain;
rolling thunder;
lightning flashes of God's
Papparazi
taking pictures of
the scrabbling
Earth/
ers.
Chaos has been introduced
to the weather system,
and the death of seasons
is upon us;
and where God promised
NEVER
to drown us
— AGAIN —
doesn't mean
we won't do it
to ourselves.