Born in Winnipeg's Women's Pavilion in 1953, and always too square (or straight) to have any friends his own age, I started hangin' out – at da library, when I was 13.
I 'tink it was 1966, (Sorry – vernacular is fun), I loved reading, as did/do my parents (Mom's still with us) and I was a dictionary geek.
• Every 5 years I have read through the dictionary to find the new words, or see the words that have fallen out of use, 'til 2006 when I created my own dictionary of Van-isms and now I use these words for political rant, trying to make the nonsense make sense.
Like my Dad would have wanted me to. I write because of a wonderful woman (in fact many wonderful women), in my life, at 'my' beginning 15/16 years my English teacher was Sharon Engbrecht, and she was a person, and not just a position at Hugh John Macdonald, she was interested in her 'kids' developing, to the point that one class day she brought a tape deck in to school and played Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence" for us, and I became mesmerized by the pictures in their words. I still am!
"... and the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, and tenement halls", if you know anything about tenement life, • read slums – even here *.
She was inspirational. She was killed, last year ('07), along with her daughter in a devastating car accident, and I only heard about it well after the fact, (SO), she is one of the many important women in my life, to whom I now dedicate myself to making the world a better place, or to scream my head off (... on paper), TRYING!
For my mother TINA, for my daughter KASSARA, for MY world filled with Sisters.
Bookings and media inquiries:
www.myspace.com/wernerharder
More words by VAN...
June 26, 2009...
Another new piece by Werner.
Laissez et Fair-y Tale ©.
My T-Rex Territorial Tutorial equals a retail Laissez et Fairy Tale and I am the hammer to smash you in the art, for when your mirror shatters you can again reclaim your heart. Where is DEER Island? It separates the land o fth eO.C., the Ojibwa Cree, as it separates the St. Lawrence River, as it separates us from them, the U.S.A. of the Uncle Sam/uel man, and it is the ultimate Gated Community. DEER Island is the home of the Christian Churches Right-Hand fans, the Yalie, ELI, Skull-and-Bones men and you or I would never be let in, or on to the vacation home of fascist BIG MONEY, a fun in the sun spot, for Fortune's soldiers of economic warfare and the T-Rex of monetary predation. The RE(aper)publican fans of World War 3, and their Neo-CON, con men com padres, compatriots in the fascism for fun and profit, game and the secular society falls victim, trapped in the focused prism of their decisions and the prison of their convictions, co-conspirators in their social indiscretions and as anti-social cretins, creating, new divisions for prophet/ise/ing, proselytize/ing, profiteers. ALA; Iron-minded Eisenhower, wicked Wilsonian thinking, Raging Ronny RayGuunISM, and belligerent and bellicose, the Bush family; ALA; Ron Hubbard, the creator of the psychologically valuable practice of Dianetics, and the manipulative Church of Scientology, (but to be fair all Churches are manipulative), and L Ron Hubbard was asked if he wrote Science fiction to make money and I paraphrase wo say he said, "I don't write Science Fiction to make money. If I wanted to do that, I'd start my own religion". GOSH! Do you think it's too late for ME, ... for US, to start? Yeah, I guess all the woman-hating, misanthropic/s and cattle masters have already got their Holy Rolling soldiers on the end game battlefield, fueled, armed and ready to make war on the Muslim mind, in a faux-secular war, that really kills people (on BOTH sides), who would not support a Holy War. A war against SEMITES, as JEWS and ARABS, ARE! Why pretend we understand the run and gun on 9-1-1, or even building number 7, an attack attributed to the Taliban, an army of women-hating men, who come from a land where they do not, HONOUR, the western white-man's borders, and like, the vicious DANELAND Vikings, and AMERICAN Marines who disrespect other country's borders, in the war on making money.
A war which has devolved from a smoking gun war, to try to contain the SHIITEs by first arming the minority SUNNIs now digressed to paying DANEGELT, in guilt to the 55,000 Sunnis of Saddam Hussein's former army. Money paid to them by the American people so that they would not fight. ... and now they will continue to evolved this conflict further with an American troupe surge, to inspire a new war with the 35,000,000 Pashtun, a people who have proven they are older than all your borders and they disrespect all borders in kind, including those of the Afghani, or Kurds or Iraqi, or Iranian, or Kashmiri, or Pakistani, or Indian, the Pashtun SEE, NONE of those borders. If there is anything to respect of this society, it is that, they, as well as we, are prisoners of the anit-intellectual Tribal mind. The mind of the Religion/azis, or Religion/istas, the people whose church is their country, the Churchers who only see, unity, in dividing us from them, and you, from me. Death is the final UNITY.
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November 24, 2008...
So I've finally taken some time to add a new piece by Werner. He's given me enough to publish a book... who knows what the future will bring.
We are ©.
An ethereal, and yet earthy meld of blood plasma, and bio-electricity, ... that is bio-plasmic energy, and the animal, man or woman, in spine and bone, muscle, sinew, teeth and nails, all bound up in misguided good intentions. Welcome to the human hearted machine.
No Warranty, or Guarantee, available. Obsolescence built right in.
Is that the kind of thinking that has men sometimes seeing a hug as a prison of obligations. I love you, a trap waiting to be sprung, emotional debt, adding up to pre-occupation of my thinking, ensuring my distraction, no wonder NOT thinking is a man's, big thing.
We can see a handshake coming and dimly recognize it as (perhaps) socially evolving to demonstrate a variation of the Roman military greeting, whereby folk would meet each other and approach, open-handed to demonstrate 'empty hands' or peaceful intentions, as each participant puts forward their 'sword arm' to grasp the same as offered by the other. Each warrior would then grasp the other, at the forearm, thus, assuring his counterpart that only a friend would be allowed in ... this close. And it takes time and the battering of real life before an (often) unthinking male, can realize that a hug is a ring or a circle of oath, or a promise, that here we are, heart to heart, and here we are the same. Your pain is my pain, your joy is my joy, our hearts speak when we touch, and our embrace discounts all other things. Not lies, nor death itself, can find us here, outside of this circle nothing else exists. Here heart to heart, in our embrace, here, there is life.
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June 19, 2008...
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 centre 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.
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March 26, 2008...
This is a poem that Werner wrote about me... I am honoured.
Qui vit en tribus Mère ©.
Hair of wheat straw 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.
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Werner wrote this one 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.
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January 6, 2008
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.
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December 6, 2007...
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.
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November 9, 2007...
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.
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October 27, 2007...
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.
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