Lipstick Press is pleased to announce the publication of P. C. Vandall's first chapbook titled "Woodwinds".
Pamela is a Gabriola poet and writer who resides there with her husband and two children.
Her work has appeared in numerous magazines, anthologies and websites. She is currently working on her first full length poetry collection. When she's not writing, she's sleeping.
Here is what writer Naomi Beth Wakan ("And after 80...") has to say:
Woodwinds is an apt title introducing a very welcome fresh new voice, Pamela Vandall, for the bittersweet sound of woodwinds is echoed so well in her poetry.
Her imaginatively metaphored pieces dig deep into archetypal images, however her characteristic striking rabbit's-foot-kick in her final lines not only adjust the poems into small miracles of tenderness, but also bring the reader back to the sharpness of reality. A fine first book.
Here is a sample of Pamela's poetry ~
Woodwinds
He's the sound of pine and cedar crackling
in a forest, chain oil greased in his palms,
the low lying rustle of salal, sword
ferns, and chanterelles underfoot. He's snow
crunching under heels of boots, the trumpet
of geese overhead, the drizzle of rain
off black silk boughs. He's the thwack of logs,
the flop of a jean jacket, the swoop
of waxwings to air as the axe catches
glints of light. He's the shake of leathery
drenched leaves, the brush stroke of branches,
the sprinkle of saw dust in his damp brown hair.
He's the sound of the wheel barrow creaking
towards the house, one tire deflating soft
as a stiff breeze in snow. He's the sound of fire
wood being split and stacked, winters breath
haloed in hemp smoke. It's the flutter
of his rumpled blue shirt tied round his waist,
the thump of logs piled beneath the window
sill in tidy rows. It's the lumbering
footsteps on stairs, the squeak of the screen door,
the spark of a Red Bird match. This man who
scarcely says a word can divine a chore
into music. He witches sound like water
from a woodpile, resonating a pitch
that flows a perfect cord between us.
Published by Lipstick Press
He's the sound of pine and cedar crackling
in a forest, chain oil greased in his palms,
the low lying rustle of salal, sword
ferns, and chanterelles underfoot. He's snow
crunching under heels of boots, the trumpet
of geese overhead, the drizzle of rain
off black silk boughs. He's the thwack of logs,
the flop of a jean jacket, the swoop
of waxwings to air as the axe catches
glints of light. He's the shake of leathery
drenched leaves, the brush stroke of branches,
the sprinkle of saw dust in his damp brown hair.
He's the sound of the wheel barrow creaking
towards the house, one tire deflating soft
as a stiff breeze in snow. He's the sound of fire
wood being split and stacked, winters breath
haloed in hemp smoke. It's the flutter
of his rumpled blue shirt tied round his waist,
the thump of logs piled beneath the window
sill in tidy rows. It's the lumbering
footsteps on stairs, the squeak of the screen door,
the spark of a Red Bird match. This man who
scarcely says a word can divine a chore
into music. He witches sound like water
from a woodpile, resonating a pitch
that flows a perfect cord between us.
Published by Lipstick Press
767 Chelwood Road
Gabriola BC V0R 1X1
ISBN: 978-0-9880043-2-0
$10.00 plus shipping and handling
To order email: lipstickpress@shaw.ca
2 comments:
Congratulations Pam on your first poetry chapbook! I am sure it is splendid!
Wonderful!!
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