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Read about a recent review of my book Hyaena Season in Image Journal’s Good Letters blog by author, anthologist and long-time Image contributor, Peggy Rosenthal.

I recently posted my video about Poetry as Prayer, from the Logos Project, as well as the full article, and watch here for my upcoming Poetry as Prayer retreats.

What a time we had! La Romita Poetry Writing Retreat in Italy – Summer 2017

A community of poets and painters, great food and creative expression! And lots of laughter! What a time we had! You can check out my Facebook page for pics and blog posts by Sheila, one of the retreatants! Another retreatant, Tonya, wrote this about her experience:

Being at La Romita, in the hills of olive groves, within the deep history of Umbria and the story of the once-Capuchin monastery itself, was enchanting. I’d worked briefly with Richard Osler once and knew he would bring big energy and a head and heart full of poetry. He did that and more. The more is in his uncanny ability to enable people to find their own poetry. He invites, supports and nourishes the opening of inner channels of communication with the people we’ve been missing in ourselves, who all have so much to say. Richard gives poetry and while we received it and worked hard to learn to hear it, we also had an incredibly good time.

Read all about it!

hyaena-season-coverMy new collection of poems, Hyaena Season, launched last Fall! More than ten readings in Toronto, Ottawa, Calgary, Vancouver, New Westminster, Victoria and Calgary. And sold lots of books!

The poems in Hyaena Season touch on the intimacies of a wide range of human experience from the killing grounds of Rwanda and DR Congo, to settings more familiar here in Canada.

Hope to do some more readings in the upcoming months! Here are details on past readings! Launches and readings during the past year. Thanks to all those who came out to hear me read!

You’ll find a complete list of my works here.

Here’s a short piece on what this site is all about.

If you’re wondering where my page of readings has gone, it’s just moved – from the home page to its own place inside the site. You can always reach it from the main menu under “Richard Reading”.

Upcoming Events

There are no upcoming events at this time.

With Thanks to Robin Dyke and the Victoria Fesitival of Authors, an Interview with Lorna Crozier on her upcoming book “Through the Garden, A Love Story (with Cats)”, a Memoir of Her Life with Poet and Novelist, Patrick Lane

Canadian poet and non-fiction writer Lorna Crozier. Photo Credit: Elfrida Schragen

A Small Ambition

To be no more than mist
rising above the rushes,
entering the white
limbs of the trees.

For just one hour
to be a clamness
a lifting up
minus bones and muscles,

minus memory
and cognition
and your own insistent
longing to last.

Lorna Crozier from THE HOUSE THE SPIRIT BUILDS, (Poems by Lorna Crozier and Photography by Peter Coffman and Diane Laundy), Douglas & McIntyre, 2019

This “big” little poem of Lorna’s. This equisite cry to be free of a burdened human life!  Oh, how I hear the longing to be free of the “longing to last.” And yet, and yet as the great Japanese poet Issa says, this poem also stirs my longing to be here. To last.  My realization I am not ready to go.  To never kiss my beloved Somae again, to not write another postcard poem, to not walk our new labyrinth outlined with bricks. Oh, no.  And yet, and yet, I hear so clearly what Lorna means in this poem, in a few words she shares about it in her gorgeous interview below with Robin Dyke:

Sometimes it’s very wearying to be human. Especially when you’re embroiled in being sad, it can be comforting to imagine being another less substantial, less fleshy life form, instead of living in your body, worried about your loved one’s future.

And Lorna’s loved one’s future at the time she wrote the poem was hanging in the balance. Her beloved friend and husband Patrick Lane was struggling with an auto immune disorder no one could unravel, could fix. And it was during this time, before Patrick died in March, 2019, that Lorna began her memoir, Through the Garden, a Love Story (with Cats) of their time, their lives together.
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Mourning Must Not Overwhelm Gratitude – The Hard-Won Wisdom of Jane Hirschfield – Two Poems from Her Latest Book: Ledger and a Poem She So Likes by Gerard Manley Hopkins

My Debt

Like all
who believe in the senses,
I was an accountant,

Not registrar,

Permitted to touch
the leaf of a thistle,
the trembling
work of a spider.

To ponder the Hubble’s recordings.

It did not matter
if I believed in
the party of particle or of wave,
as I carried no weapon.

It did not matter if I believed.
I weighed ashes,
cities that glittered like rubies,
on the scales I was given,
in units of fear and amazement.

I wrote the word it, the word is.

I entered the debt that is owed to the real.

spine-covered leaf, soft-bodied spider,
octopus lifting
one curious tentacle back toward the hand of the diver
that in such black ink
I set down your flammable colors.

Jane Hirschfield from Ledger, Alfred A. Knopf, 2020

What a voice Jane Hirschfield speaks. And so good to hear it speak again in her latest poetry collection Ledger which arrived this Spring. Hers, a voice born out of the silence she was steeped in in her twenties in a silent Buddhist monastery. A voice quiet yet with impact of thunder. Of lightning. Here in this poem, as she says in a quote below in a conversation with the American Iranian poet Kaveh Akbar, Hirschfield’s reminder to us, to herself, “that mourning must not overwhelm gratitude.”
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The 2020 Recovering Words’ Virtual La Romita Poetry Retreat!!! Covid- 19 Kiboshed the On-Site Umbrian Version So We Meet Online Instead!

Sunset from La Romita School of Art, Terni, Umbria, Italy, June 2019: Photo Credit: Liz McNally

Nancy writing “en plein air” at Villa Lante, June 2019

A Cento by Nancy Issenman

Say Yes

Sniff the naked page
It is time to praise!
white ash, sassafras

so beautiful on the tongue
waves of language across the skin
(makes) all the world a page

I have to say yes.
I can smell this poem
as one layer devours the next

your calligraphic hand
wraps around our tongues,
like music, portals open

to earth the earth inside you,
furtive thieves of seeds, all goodbyes
wrapped up here, too small to see

river runs narrow and brief

mine is a small threshold of knowing
so tame so predictable so lonely so silent
bowed head, I am

— June 13th, 2020

Welcome, sort of, to the 2020 Recovering Words Virtual La Romita Zoom Poetry Retreat! This cento by poet Nancy Issenman is from lines of poems our seventeen poets have been writing based on “adventures” I have been giving them. Thank you Nancy. She’s become our Cento poet and is writing her own poems as well. What a blessing, this retreat!

Poets writing in Spoleto, Oct. 2018


I was so pleased when I filled my 2020 La Romita ten-day poetry in Italy last year! Eighteen of us writing en plein air in Umbria and Tuscany from June 11th to 21st! Then Covid-19 had other ideas. No more retreat or so I thought. I kept wondering if there was something I could do to keep this group somehow! No ideas until I phoned my friend Sarah in Calgary. She had signed up for this year’s retreat and she told me so was going to keep that holiday time and celebrate each day with some Italian food and clothes she was going to wear in Italy!!! And watch videos of our favorite cities and towns we would have visited like Spoleto, Todi, Assisi and Perugia.

That’s it, I thought. A Zoom retreat. Five sessions of three hours each and a final session celebrating book and paper constructions inspired by Terry Ann Carter who was going to spend a full day during our on-site retreat in Italy for book making and paper constructions featuring lines of our poems written there. Then and there I asked Sarah if she would collaborate with me. Organize the Zoom meetings and receiving and putting all the poems on line as we read them. And sending out daily videos. She said yes! Let me tell you this wouldn’t be happening without her!

Word bowl by poet and paper artist Terry Ann Carter

And so I called Terry Ann. Could she give us examples during the retreat that we could share and celebrate in the last session? Yes! Then I sent out the invite. Eleven of us from this years retreat said yes. And six alumni from previous retreats!

I am so looking forward to our last session and seeing what people have been making as well as the incredible poems that they have been writing from the writing “adventures.” Four done so far. One to go! And I am looking forward to the Italian meals taken from the la Romita cookbook that we will have all made and will eat, with some wine, on Zoom!

To give a flavor: here is a reflection I wrote before the retreat for one of the sessions:

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Coda – The Water Keeps On Keeping On – Three Poets on Water – Lane, Diaz and Owen


It was not the water you tried to find when you were young.
That was the water that lost you.
You climbed trees to look and the water was there.
You walked on the earth and the water was nowhere.
That was the losing water.
This water is the finding water.
It is cloud searching water.
When you are old it comes down.
It stretches out on the earth.
First water is woman water.
The belly of woman has this song.
That water was the first learning song.
This water is the last learning song.
It is the cloud under the earth.
Now you climb down roots to find this water.
Now this tongue is a root.
Open this mouth in the earth
Now sing this water song.
Now you are the last water.

Patrick Lane from Last Water Song, Harbour Publishing, 2007

Lots of watery blog posts these days. I wanted to add a coda to my two part series on the river poems of Natalie Diaz and Catherine Owen. As I read their poems I kept hearing my teacher and mentor Patrick Lane and his poem above, LAST WATER SONG.

I love the structured formalities of Lane’s poem as it contains this slipperiest, hard to contain, idea of water. The anaphoric repetitions of It is not and it, now and all the uses of the, this, and that. And each line an end stopped line. These verb propelled declarations line after line. And how so many of the lines end with water, song and earth. These anchoring, percussive repetitions.
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Rivers and What They Carry – Part Two – River as Wound and Solace – The Continuing Journey Through Grief and Loss in the New Poetry Collection “Riven” by Catherine Owen

Canadian poet Catherine Owen










Come to the window — you call to me

Come to the window — you call to me — I, wanting
 		    to sleep in, to detach awhile from the beauty but, also
		    brood, and you know this so — come to the window,

you say — and it is as if the river is calling to me in its pale blue
		    voice, snow again — thin but continuous — a hunkering
		    down of mist over all those white, incomplete

dwellings, a myth made from weather — come to the window it says and
		    witness — a sun drizzle, this winter cumulus into
		    the deepest part of the river, the wonk, wonk

work of ducks, tetragon booms chained to the tails of tugs, snow in a scrim
		    to the shoreline — not much — what speaks
		    to me these days, gets me out of bed, beckons

come to the window — see — he’s not alive anymore — see, he’s everywhere —
		    some principle of energy the river gathers together, holds.

Catherine Owen from Riven, ECW Press, 2020

Welcome to part two of my series on “river” poems by two acomplished poets on either side of the U.S./Canada border. In part one I featured Natalie Diaz and her poem sequence on her Mojave nation’s great Colorado River – The First Water in the Body. This title resonates so closely to a line in the Canadian poet Patrick Lane’s great poem Last Water Song: First water is woman water. Seems appropriate for two blog posts featuring two gifted women poets.

Part two of this series is a celebration of Canadian poet Catherine Owen’s full length collection Riven deliberately meant to  echo river and also its meaning: to split apart or to cause a rift. Catherine’s river is the great western river, the Fraser that empties into the pacific ocean through the Salish Sea in Vancouver. The rift in Catherine’s life, the death of her spouse, Chris, in 2010 from a drug addiction.

The gift of this new book: to witness a woman’s refusal to succumb to grief, her commitment to heal through writing poems that map how she honours the pact of living on.

It is the Fraser, suffering its own environmental damages from logging and urban expansions, that became her comfort, her confessor as she shared her damaged heart with it day after day in early morning in the aftermath of Chris’s death. This is not a first book dedicated to the death of Chris. I featured what I could call her first “mourning” collection, Designated Mourner, published in 2014, in this blog post. Designated Mourner is one of the most riveting and compelling Canadian poetry collections I have encountered in the past ten years. And what a complement Riven is to it.

Where rage and anger boils up into the pages of Designated Mourner, rage and anger over how addiction captures and transforms an addict, there is a much more elegiac and softer tone in the grieving in Riven. And a huge difference is that the beauty and the damage of the Fraser become part of the healing for Catherine in Riven.
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Rivers and What They Carry – Part One – River Poems and River Poem Sequences by Natalie Diaz and Catherine Owen


Hispanic and Indigenous American poet Natalie Diaz

Running the Rivers with N and C
  — For Natalie Diaz and Catherine Owen

How to write the unruly, the unsettled,
words forever water, slipping past always
and never, too quick for grief, too slow
for regret, but you carry them, carry them,
anyway. The beauty, beauty, carries them.

Richard Osler, May 17th, 2020

Talk about letting the river take you. Take you. Take you. Two new books of poetry. Two epic elegiac river poem sequences in both written by two accomplished women writers far apart on their respective sides of the 48th parallel.

On the American side, the indigenous and Hispanic American poet, Natalie Diaz and her sequence: The First water is the Body from her new book Post Colonial Love Poem which I have featured in two previous posts. And on my side of the border the Canadian poet Catherine Owen and her sequence The River System in her book Riven. And in Owen’s case it is not just a sequence based on a river but her whole book. I feature Diaz and her poem sequence in this first post and Owen and her poems in part two.

It is not easy to be taken by a river. Rivers have a fierce beauty. You court danger as you enter and live in them. The river poems in these two books ache with beauty but carry danger, too. The flood forces in both of them. The grief and the beauty rushing through. And if you know the flood force of a river you will know that exhilaration, that fear in these poems. I know these far too well. The taste of them.

I have been taken by the Missinaibi, west of North Bay, Ontario thrown over, dumped and survived. And by the Nile in Uganda, grade five rapids and worse, and sucked, way, way under and kept there. Kept there long enough I began to drown or so it seemed. Then it threw me back. Then took me down again. Then let me go and rushed me far downstream.

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Patrick’s Poets – #4 in a Series – Linda Crosfield of Ootischenia, B.C.!

Canadian Poet and Publisher Linda Crosfield

I Wish I Could Tell You, John Prine

The time I saw you live
you were opening for Arlo Guthrie
but it was you I went to see.
You played them all, your glorious songs,
introduced an angel from Montgomery,
showed us the tracks on a young vet’s arm,
taught us a thing or two about long-distance love,
and I wish I could tell you
about a tiny kitchen in a long-ago apartment,
you on the turntable reminding us
to be nice to old people,
me and a boy, a long, languorous kiss
where we forgot about the other people
in the room rolling joints,
drinking wine, middle of the day,
we’d never be old like the couple in the song,
and I wish I could tell you
how the friend who told me about you in ’75 or so
died a few years back and I know
if there’s any kind of heaven
she’ll have found you by now,
be showing you around,
and I wish I could tell you
how decades later my son walked down
a dusty Mexican road
playing Hello in There on Pedro’s old guitar,
taking me back,
taking me back
like you do.

Linda Crosfield, Facebook, April, 2020

I had been planning for some time to profile B.C. poet Linda Crosfield as part of series on poets taught/mentored by the late great Canadian poet Patrick Lane when I saw the poem above on Facebook a few days after the death of the celebrated U.S. singer John Prine. I thought: that’s the poem I need to feature. But even then after getting a quick okay from Linda it has taken more time than I can believe to get this feature up and online! I have included Linda’s biographical and literary information below! I asked her to write it! Thank you Linda.
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The Great Gift of Women Poets – Another Poem in Memory of Eavan Boland (1944-2020)

Irish poet Eavan Boland. Photo Credit: The Sunday Times, 2018

Time and Violence

The evening was the same as any other.
I came out and stood on the step.
The suburb was closed in the weather

of an early spring and the shallow tips
and washed out yellows of narcissi
resisted dusk. And crocuses and snowdrops.

I stood there and felt the melancholy
of growing older in such a season,
when all I could be certain of was simply

in this time of fragrance and refrain,
whatever else might flower before the fruit,
and be renewed, I would not. Not again.

A car splashed by in the twilight.
Peat smoke stayed in the windless
air overhead and I might have missed it:

a presence. Suddenly, in the very place
where I would stand in other dusks, and look
to pick out my child from the distance,

was a shepherdess, her smile cracked,
her arm injured from the mantel pieces
and pastorals where she posed with her crook.

Then I turned and saw in the spaces
of the night sky constellations appear,
one by one, over roof-tops and houses,

and Cassiopeia trapped, stabbed where
her thigh met her groin and her hand
her gloittering wrist, with the pin-point of a star.

And by the road where rain made standing
pools of water underneath cherry trees,
and blossoms swam on their images,

was a mermaid with invented tresses,
her breasts prints with the salt of it all and all
the desolation of the North Sea in her face.

I went nearer. They were disappearing.
Dusk had turned to night but in the air –
did I imagine it? – a voice was saying:

This is what language did to us. Here
is the wound, the silence, the wretchedness
of tides and hillsides and stars where

we languish in a grammar of sighs,
in the high-minded search for euphony,
in the midnight rhetoric of poesie.

We cannot sweat here. Our skin is icy.
We cannot breed here. Our wombs are empty.
Help us to escape youth and beauty.

Write us out of the poem. Make us human
in cadences of change and mortal pain
and words we can grow old and die in.

Eavan Boland from In a Time of Violence, W.W. Norton, 1994

Last night as I began to write a blog post in honour of the Irish poet Eavan Boland I came back to this mysterious poem of hers. A shepherdess, a mermaid? What gives, I thought. Then I read a passage in her book Object Lessons – The life of the Woman and the Poet in our Time and there was the key. Images of the feminine trapped in masculine-dominated tropes. Women as figurines trapped as shepherdess, as mermaid.

And here I realized how important it was for Eavan to discover her female poetic voice and liberate the feminine from shopworn images. And here, I want to celebrate the female poets I have grown up with in workshops and retreats in my almost twenty-year journey to become a poet. To those brave and flesh and blood voices who are saying: here is what it is to be human, human in the body, soul and mind of woman. As woman poet.
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Eavan Boland (Sept. 24th, 1944 – April 27th, 2020) – Your Poetic Marvels – Poems to grow Old In. To Die In. And Now Your Very Real Death – R.I.P.

Irish poet Eavan Boland (1944-2020), Photo Credit 2015: Independent, IE


I found it among curios and silver
in the pureness of wintry light.

A woman painted on a leaf.

Fine lines drawn on a veined surface
in a hand-made frame.

This is not my face. Neither did I draw it.

A leaf falls in the garden.
The moon cools its aftermath of sap.
The pith of summer dries out in starlight.

A woman is inscribed there.

This is not death. It is the terrible
suspension of life.

I want a poem
I can grow old in. I want a poem I can die in.

I want to take
this dried-out face,
as you take a starling from behind iron,
and return it to its elements of air, of ending-

so that Autumn
which was once
the hard look of stars,
the frown on a gardener’s face,
a gradual bronzing of the distance,

will be,
from now on,
a crisp tinder underfoot. Cheekbones. Eyes. Will be
a mouth crying out. Let me.

Let me die.

Eavan Boland from New Collected Poems, W.W. Norton & Company, 2008

Eavan Boland one of the great Irish poets of her generation died yesterday, aged seventy-five. And may I add, one of the greatest poets of her generation worldwide. Boland may not be as well known as her near contemporary Seamus Heaney but make no mistake she is/was one of the great ones. Drop inside a Boland poem and you will come out changed. Hers a searing poetry of loss, love and suffering so often seen through her lens of a tragic Irish history and as important through her awareness of the importance of seeing the world through a woman’s eyes, a woman’s experience. Not a man’s.

The epigraph poem above. Oh how Boland wants to loose the woman painted on a leaf from the bounds of history. And how I do not want to imprison Eaven the same way! Not make you an object of my idea of what a woman poet is. And imprison you there. Not to objectivfy you but let you live, the hurting loving, erotic, praising woman you were. So, Eavan I will let you die. I will try not to freeze you into some lifeless portrait. I will try and let you fly back into elements of air. I will let you put out your wing, the erotic longing in it expressed in your poems, that extraordinary wing from your searing poem The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me :

The blackbird on this first sultry morning,
In summer, finding buds, worms, fruit,
Feels the heat. Suddenly she put out her wing –
The whole, full, flirtatious span of it.

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A Look Inside the Surprising Heart and Mind of American Poet Carl Phillips – A Poem From His 2018 Collection Wild Is The Wind and One from His 2020 Collection, Pale Colours in a Tall Field

American poet Carl Phillips (1959 – ) Photo Credit: The Huffington Post, 2015


To have understood some small piece of the world

more deeply doesn't have to mean we're not as lost

as before, or so it seems this morning, random bees

stirring among the dogwood blossoms, a few here

and there stirring differently somehow, more like

resisting stillness...Should it come to winnowing

my addictions, I'd hold on hardest, I'm pretty sure,

to mystery, though just yesterday, a perfect stranger

was so insistent that I looked familiar, it seemed

easier in the end to agree we must know each other.

To his body, a muscularity both at odds and at one

with how fragile everything else about him, I thought,

would be, if I could see inside. What's the word

for the kind of loneliness that can feel like swimming

unassisted in a foreign language, for the very first time?

Carl Phillips from WILD IS THE WIND, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2018

I wanted to feature the gay African American poet and essayist Carl Phillips and a poem of his for many reasons. The first is to say he has just released his fifteenth collection of poems, Pale Colours in a Tall Field; second is to honour one of the most distinctive and unusual poetic voices of his generation; and third is to celebrate his skills as a teacher of poetry and poetics. I have attended two week-long poetry retreat/workshop sessions with Phillips and each triggered me into fresh new poems.

I won’t list all Phillips’s many poetry honours but just to say he is a professor at Washington University in St Louis and from 2010 to 2020 he has been the most recent judge of the prestigious Yale Series of Younger Poets Award. He has also been a finalist (2014) and a judge (2010) for the celebrated Toronto-based Griffin Poetry Prize and a finalist (2011) for prestigious American National Book Award. To see a 2014 video interview with Carl through the Washington Post please click here.

The book from which the poem above comes from has been folded to the page of that poem on my desk for months. Periodically it gets buried and I forget it. Then it gets unearthed and then buried again! But last week I discovered the eco-journal Emergence Magazine on-line and found an astounding essay by Phillips called Trees. There is both an audio and print version of the poem on the Emergence site. To hear or read the essay please click here. To hear Phillips read this equisite piece of writing is to be cast under a spell that takes time to  fade!

To enter into a Carl Phillips poem is to embrace wonder and mystery and to surrender to both. The wonder of his rich language and his disarming conversational voice that seems to place him right beside me as I read. Yet in that seemingly casual voice he can throw out astounding complex and perplexing ideas one after another. And as well he can communicate a sense of physicality and intimacy especially around sexual encounters that adds a haunting immediacy to his work.

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