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The Poetry of Julie Loper
Bio:
Julie Loper was born in Ottawa to a French Canadian
father, and mother of Italian decent. She spent most of her formative years
growing up in Sandy Hill. As synchronicity would have it, she in fact lived
in an apartment across the street from the building that would eventually
house the Royal Oak pub on Laurier Avenue East, where Sasquatch and the Tree
Reading Series regularly meet.
Julie wrote her first poem in grade two as an assignment, but didn’t start
writing seriously until her late forties. Her favorite poem of old is “The
Highwayman,” by Alfred Noyes, though since associating with her contemporary
poet friends, she has realized “that you don’t have to go back in time to
appreciate good poetry.” Much of this philosophy arose from participating in
the writing critique group, Jury Room, which she found to be very helpful
with her own writing.
As well as poetry, she has also written a few
short stories and songs, and likes to sing and play guitar. Her guitar work is very basic, but she
still enjoys hamming it up, something she gets from her parents, who were not
shy when it came to entertaining in front of friends and family.
In 1993, Loper (under her previous surname of
Szabo) had one chapbook published, “Prelude to “Ballad of a Clown”, as well
as a few poems published in various anthologies, in addition to a broadsheet,
and poetry recorded on cassette tape. She also won an Editors Choice Award
for her poem “The Magnolia” from the National Library of Poetry. She has had one radio interview in which
she read and sung with her guitar. Some songs and poems have more recently
been recorded onto CD.
In 2000, Julie and Don
migrated to Vancouver Island, making a new home in the town of Comox, where
Julie is now a member of the “Mostly Poets”- a group of five women. Her hope for the future is to continue
writing, publishing and associating with her fine contemporaries.
A Poet’s Prayer
Love never fails
Sometimes though
It becomes dormant for a
while
But then a seed is planted
A
kind word is given
And the seed takes root
Its fibers reach downward
into the soil for nutrition
And the elements
intermingle
(Like poets who seek
encouragement from other poets)
A growth takes place with
such a quickening
The pen is moved
And the paper becomes
filled
Even the margins
Oh exquisite bliss to no
end
Keep coming to me, forever
more
Amen
And as if that night were
again before me
That night we crossed over
the bridge
And here it is, what I saw
Letter of Explanation
It was late one Sunday
evening in 1998, after “Sasquatch,” a poet’s meeting where we shared our
writings with one another.” As it
was a very cold night my husband Don and I were driving a few poet friends
home. As usual we enjoyed the company
of Heather Ferguson, Blaise Downey, and Christopher Sorrenti. Our journey took us through Sandy Hill in
Ottawa and over the Cummings Bridge, which spans the Rideau River. We all had had a wonderful time at
Sasquatch that evening and despite the sub zero temperature our spirits were
high. The sky was clear and black with
the exception of a few stars. The moon
was full and especially beautiful as we could define very easily the moon’s
face. “It was also the night of the Northern
Lights.” (Moonstruck) As we
approached the bridge we noticed that all the large round globes along the
bridges rail were very bright and well lit the way. But as we drove over the bridge we began to
see that after passing each globe the moon was visible, and then as we passed
by another lit up globe the moon was not visible, but there was the globe all
shone up just like the moon. So in
between each globe the moon was visible.
And so it went. The moon, a globe, the moon, a globe, the moon, a globe
(about ten or fifteen) and so on until the bridges end. That night I promised I would write a poem
about it. (Intermittent Moon) There
has been a lapse of a few years time (Intermittent
Poet) since then and a strong yearning to fulfill this desire has held me
captive till now.
Intermittent Poet
That
night we drove the poets home
Enchantment
filled the air
And
since that night my strange obsession
Has
been permanently there
Just
seconds of that vision seeing
Instilled
this joy within me dear
Reveals
within my inner being
Subconscious
zeal from then to here
The
muse bestowed to me instruction
Eternal
tutor to endure
Ingrains
this autocratic writing
Relieves
the grief, grants the cure
The
gift was mine but here I’m still
Pining
in my love to fill
There
is this joyous agony in writing,
Trials
of reaching and a strain
Wracking brains for words connecting
To
search and skillfully attain
To
write the scene, that fleeting moment
Eluded
pen, years till I now
Surrender
to my writer’s covenant
And
render my poetic vow
A
destined time of inspiration
That
comes but once in a rare while
A
pure occasion for expression
Walk
the endless writer’s mile
Years
have passed and here I’m still
Pining
in this love to fill
An
older woman am I now
But
eager as a mating dove
A
passion has renewed my vow
As
with a sweet young girl’s first love
Oh
joy that moment I relive
Ever
imprinted upon my mind
Incites
a kind of yearning love
An ache of
lasting words to bind
And
here I lay upon my bed
Gone
is the void of poet’s doom
The
block has gone, I am not dead
The
ceiling is my screening room
And
once again that night is still
Pining
in this heart to fill
Intermittent Moon
While
journeying home from a poet’s trove
One
clear cold winter’s night
A
counterfeit account occurred
Which
moved the moon to fight
Upon
a bridge there was a rail
Which
held up many posts
And
every post held up a light
Within
a white glass globe
Each
globe was lit up very bright
Which
mimicked the full moon
And
shone its way o’re the bridge
To
lead the poets home
But
up above the moon did see
His
rivals standing tall
Then
peeked his head between each globe
And
far outshone them all
Past
the bridge the lamps were gone
But
constant was the moon
Who
followed us all the way
Till
we were safely home
The
rightful moon had stood his ground
Until
the journey’s end
Which
proved himself victorious
And
a poet’s trusted friend
I’ll
never forget that clear cold night
With
the sky so black and bare
When
the moon was mocked by lamppost lights
With
a bold and blatant dare
Moonstruck
Oh moon you light the
Sasquatch way
You lead the poet’s
course
And even though
Your long awaited Aurora
Is near
You guide the poet home
Oh moon
You awaken the Sasquatch
hope
You arouse the poets muse
And even though
Your rendezvous
Is due
You spur on the poets
dream
Oh moon
You incite the Sasquatch
gift
You induce the poet’s
hand
And even though
Northern lights
Have arrived
You inspire the poet’s
pen
Oh moon
You expose the Sasquatch
emotion
You entice the poet’s
senses
And even though
Heaven’s dance
Is now
You reveal the poet’s
heart
All poems © Julie Loper
A special bonus!
If ever there was a testament to the power and influence
of poetry, it is when a usually non-poetic type, in this case Don Loper,
writes a poem. Not only did he write it, but also gave us the pleasure of
reading it aloud at a gathering, not long before he and Julie relocated to
Vancouver Island:
Events of a Winter’s Night Delivery
A 6 a.m.
delivery is a paper carrier’s plight
In the damp
dark cold of a long winter’s night
What events
will this winter’s night bring
From a
broken slumber, at two a.m.
Will it be cold
and clear by the moon’s bright light
Or
a winter’s storm that blinds the sight
Sub
zero temperatures that freeze fingers and toes
Or
a balmy breeze if the south wind blows
Will black
ice lay in wait like a hidden mine
To test our
balance and our time
Will there
be roads of virgin snow ten centimeters high
And snow
banks at the end of each driveway to climb
Long johns,
fleece tops, pants and coat
This gear
needed to resist the cold
Perhaps a
warm drink to ward off the bite
Of the damp
dark cold of a long winter’s night
Will the
truck come early or a two-hour delay
More time
and gas is the price we must pay
Then we load
up the car for this delivery guarantee
Three
hundred papers for my partner and me
We face each
faceless home in this arctic of white
As we trudge
through the snow in the deep dark night
Throughout
the wee hours from the dark to the dawn
We deliver
each paper with a sleepy yawn
Abreast of the snow is the
moon’s bright light
And my
partner and me in this arctic of white
A 6 a.m. delivery
is a paper carrier’s plight
In the damp
dark cold of a long winter’s night
By Don Loper © 2000
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