POETRY PACIFIC
[Vol. 15, 2026 edition]
Tuesday, 5 May 2026
PP: Editorial Notes
Hello, dear PP friends,
One year without an "e-see," and we hope each and every one of you has been doing well!
Several important things to note, first and foremost, about this edition:
1/ We are highlighting 10 poems by Koon Woon, the largest number of works by a single poet since the establishment of Poetry Pacific. This is our special way of expressing gratitude to one of our e-zine's strongest supporters and most loyal friends. As he is currently battling late-stage pancreatic cancer, we sincerely hope the treatments he is undergoing prove effective. In Koon's honor, In Our Honor: Poetry Plaza and Beyond was released in Janurary 2026. (https://www.amazon.ca/Our-Poetic-Honor-Poetry-Beyond/dp/1950276384)
2/ We feature an interview with Candice James, showcasing more poems, "poetographs," and paintings by her than by any other poet or artist in a single issue. This is our tribute to an individual who is as versatile and prolific as she is devoted to the arts of writing and painting.
3/ We are introdusing a group of junior writers (under 18) to our global readership. In so doing, we hope to encourage and support young authors.
4/ We feature 5 poems by Yuan Changming, all reprinted from his newly released novel trilogy, TOWARDS. As he mentioned during his Zoom launch interview, this trilogy stands as his "most ambitious" work as a "poetry scribbler."
Now, we would like to provide a statistical review of Poetry Pacific, just as we did exactly a decade ago. Several milestones are worth mentioning:
1/ As of today, our total pageviews have reached 1,291,282. From 2012 to 2025, our yearly average pageviews totaled between 60k and 70k; however, last year alone, we saw an increase of more than 410k.
2/ The all-time high for pageviews in a single month is 150,948 (reached in August 2025), while the record for a single day is 8,262 (reached on September 25, 2025).
3/ The all-time Top 9 country sources of our audience are:
604K
85.2K
70.5K
69.5K
37.3K
35.3K
28.7K
26.1K
25.2K
310K
The Top 10 most-viewed posts are:
Please note one important editorial change we have made as follows:
Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems
in a single attachement (with a brief 3rd person bio note)
to your email and send it to editors.pp@gmail.com
(This email is for editorial submissions only.
We do not respond to personal solicitations or
requests to move conversations to third-party messaging apps.)
But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment
In this issue, we are honored to showcase 65 poetry authors and 4 visual artists.
Last but not least, we thank you, dear PP readers and contributors, for your continuing support of our magazine.
Happy reading and writing!
With all very best wishes from Vancouver for a splendid springtime ahead,
—PP Eds.
PP: Call for Subs - Guidelines
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES [Revised]
WARRANTY & AGREEMENT
By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss, damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims, whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly from breach of this warranty. At the same time, the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.
* All poetic and visual artworks are carefully read/viewed year round on a rolling basis for an anuunal e.edition, due out on or around 5 May;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* sorry, this is not a paying market, but a literary project as a labor of lovepresented to true lovers of words and wisdom;
* Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems in a single attachement (with a brief 3rd person bio note)
to your email and send it to editors.pp@gmail.com(Please note: This email is for editorial submissions only. We do not respond to personal solicitations or requests to move conversations to third-party messaging apps.)But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment
* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance, your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;
* Our response-time is three months though usually much shorter than that, &only those accepted will get a reply;
* we do not require you to mention us as the first publisher of your work,but your mentioning would be much appreciated;
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
********************
for book or poetry collection/chapbook manuscript submissions
send us a brief description together with a literary tv or professional bio
Basic Guidelines for Preparing a Manuscript
1. Proofread everything carefully to make sure there are no typos, misspellings or improper uses of capitalization & punctuation marks.2. Single-space all the textual content;3. Stick to the same font, preferably ‘times new roman’ (12) for sake of conformity;4. Use font sizes (for titles or sub-titles), italics, boldface, underlines in a consistent and conventional fashion;5. Provide a cover image/photo in a separate file, if any;6. Include no more than 5 high-resolution illustrations (images/photos) for a chapbook, 10 for a full-length book, whose sizes should be less than 3/5 of a standard doc page (11x8.5 inches);7. Provide a ‘devotion page’ (optional);8. Provide a ‘acknowledgements’ or ‘attribution list’ page (work title, followed by publication name, & date/issue number if any);9. Provide a ‘table of contents’;10. Paginate the text of the (chap)book beginning from the first poem or first page of the prosework;11. Provide an ‘author page’;12. Provide 3 to 5 blurbs (optional)
Note: failure to comply with the above or provide a camera/print-ready ms would result in eventual termination of the publication process.
MANY THANKS FOR YOUR KIND COOPERATION!
WARRANTY & AGREEMENT
By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that
s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that
s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and
hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss,
damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims,
whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly
from breach of this warranty. At the same time,
the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use
part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses
to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or
other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.
* All poetic and visual artworks are carefully read/viewed
year round on a rolling basis
for an anuunal e.edition, due out on or around 5 May;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work,
are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* sorry, this is not a paying market,
but a literary project as a labor of love
presented to true lovers of words and wisdom;
* Please send up to 5 of your best shortish poems
in a single attachement (with a brief 3rd person bio note)
to your email and send it to editors.pp@gmail.com
to your email and send it to editors.pp@gmail.com
(Please note: This email is for editorial submissions only.
We do not respond to personal solicitations or
requests to move conversations to third-party messaging apps.)
But send up to 10 visual artworks each in a separate attachment
* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance,
your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;
* Our response-time is three months though usually much shorter than that, &
only those accepted will get a reply;
* we do not require you to mention us as the first publisher of your work,
but your mentioning would be much appreciated;
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least two years/issues
before submitting new work to us
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
********************
for book or poetry collection/chapbook manuscript submissions
send us a brief description together
send us a brief description together
with a literary tv or professional bio
1. Proofread everything carefully to make sure there are no typos, misspellings or improper uses of capitalization & punctuation marks.
2. Single-space all the textual content;
3. Stick to the same font, preferably ‘times new roman’ (12) for sake of conformity;
4. Use font sizes (for titles or sub-titles), italics, boldface, underlines in a consistent and conventional fashion;
5. Provide a cover image/photo in a separate file, if any;
6. Include no more than 5 high-resolution illustrations (images/photos) for a chapbook, 10 for a full-length book, whose sizes should be less than 3/5 of a standard doc page (11x8.5 inches);
7. Provide a ‘devotion page’ (optional);
8. Provide a ‘acknowledgements’ or ‘attribution list’ page (work title, followed by publication name, & date/issue number if any);
9. Provide a ‘table of contents’;
10. Paginate the text of the (chap)book beginning from the first poem or first page of the prosework;
11. Provide an ‘author page’;
12. Provide 3 to 5 blurbs (optional)
Note: failure to comply with the above or provide a camera/print-ready ms would result in eventual termination of the publication process.
10 Poems by，& 2 Poems Devoted to, Koon Woon
Note: In Koon's honor, In Our Honor: Poetry Plaza and Beyond was released in Janurary 2026. (https://www.amazon.ca/Our-Poetic-Honor-Poetry-Beyond/dp/1950276384) This anthology is a celebration of PoetryBridge in West Seattle, originating from the C & P Coffee, as its poetic and literary footprints extend beyond local and international boundaries, bringing together diverse and representative voices of the poetic world. Born out of necessity, Koon Woon's poetry, his Goldfish Press, and various literary forums extend outward to every poet and reader who feels the commitment of the Chrysanthemum Literary Society's mission of enhancing literature, education, and world peace. PoetryBridge, under the guidance of Leopoldo Seguel, provided one of the most diverse and necessary community building tools. This volume is a celebration of the power of poetry to transcend any artistic, cooperative, and communal effort in the quest of something tangible and permanent in our flux of life, in all walks of life.
Here I Am
Here I am, dying for poetry, when others live for it.
Here I am, living for poetry, when others die for it.
It didn’t begin with a baby that was never held,
a child, whose name was never called,
a son, who listened to a different drum,
and finally, neither a man, who scorned love at the end.
It really was a normal course of events,
a son when the old couple wanted a son, and
he knows, when to follow, and when to pause,
and listen to the meandering woods sing the course.
There was ample love in his crib,
crisp sounds in the morning from the street’s end.
It was all the machinery present in a game of chess,
when a lowly pawn gets promoted into a knight.
Hard bread that was crumbs others discarded,
unlikely places where a song can eek out of a rock.
He searched, how he searched for what was his,
and finally finds what is the lot of every man.
So, tonight he retires early, even though it is not the plan.
He knew that even as one travel daily half the remaining distance,
it still can be asymptotically too big a gap to span.
He rests his case; the defense offers no more pretense.
That was me, a man who found rest in the end.
When decidedly, he never had expected this breath of wind.
[December 6, 2025]
Love me when I am old
No need to love me when I am young,
because I can only love myself then.
No need to kiss me under the apple bough,
as any pair of fair arms would me arouse.
But love me, love me when I am old,
when the extremities of me grow cold,
when neither food nor drink will do.
For all the years that we drift through,
pretending we each other didn’t know,
now love me, love me as we stand in snow.
Like Water
Today I feel like the saddest water
going to places men reject.
Like water, I ebb my way
to the lowest point in the dungeon.
I harden myself like ice
and crack only under sufficient pressure.
What about the steam power that I
once was, driving great turbines?
What about the gentle rain that I
Was - lovers abed drowsed in?
What has come to pass are
transformations difficult to accept:
all that hails from above
hit the hard ground…
Eventually, everything is ice-cappedor ocean bound.
Why I Write
“Not for ambition or for bread,”
or a command performance before a queen,
I write because uncomfortable feelings rise
to my throat and writing them out prevents
my possible death by choking.
I seek to pull together opposites that
when each is alone, none is complete.
And since I am a being-in-the-world,
my cares aren’t solely my own.
Thus, I write to unveil the world,
to strip it naked and alone,
so we can all see what it is we call home.
Lastly, I write to mourn all the lives I didn’t live.
I thought about them, sometimes long and hard.
In the end, I chose to stay with the common mess,
and of this mess, I managed to find something to bard.
Have no fear of having nothing
Defined by one’s attributes or one’s possessions?
Have no fear of having nothing.
While one grows by extensions,
one does not augment by attachments.
Have no attachments, have no fears.
An onion is composed of many layers.
A tree is made up of branches.
Many rivers flow into the sea.
A man is the total of his influences.
This is by nature, have no worries.
The universe is composed of myriads of things.
A grain of sand can get you started.
Life is composed of things that die.
Death will finally complete the design.
This is natural progression, have no regrets.
Having everything will give you no standing room.
Therefore, have no fear of having nothing.
I Wish We Could Find Comfort in This
Last night and nightly now I am on a train,
running through graveyards hidden inside cities.
The only thing when I frightfully was awakened,
a thin door to you my neighbor was between us.
I cannot ask you to think of graveyards too.
People seldom lift the rug to see if the floor is solid.
I cannot look beneath your face, and I cannot
look away from it.
Sad songs love there sleeping, time arrests it,
and when freed, time has also taken flight.
I do not mean to disturb your rest,
which like an apple has closed its eyes,
I describe you in all the languages in my body,
and then you slip like a child out of her clothes.
The description is all I have now,
to apply to particular and generic things.
The day that I hated you, and the next day
that you hated me back,
decays slower than radioactive carbon,
in all life’s forms.
My simple mind keeps walking
into the same river twice.
When senses return, my bed does not
vibrate like a train berth in Peru.
No, it is at a most sedentary point,
even as land wraps itself around it.
Graveyards in cities are isolated lots,
easily overlooked when you wake,
groom and zoom past.
It does this so mercilessly quiet.
The curtains of nearby buildings are closed.
Postulate then that therein no minds can exis
An Act of Betrayal
Dearest Grandma, seeing you as if you are here in the American cyberspace with me.
You spent thirty-three years in the monastery of your Buddha heart, distinguishing true from false, and so you know I am for the moment sincere. As the lotus pond was full of goldfish, waterlilies, and lotus roots, and as the water was murky, and as the day was long in our Nan-on village. Grandmother, I caught dragonflies in the stillness of the village yard. I gathered snails from the banks of the village pond. The morning glories greeted me as I walked by the graveyard, as if promising those dear to us would live again. And you, Grandma, live now in my conscious, with the colors of blooming chrysanthemums, with the whisper of bee wisps, and with the feel of silk in hot summer. Grandma, you are there when I close my eyes. In the inner space of these decades, closure was smooth skin, and all the garden petals you rubbed abounded.
“Not for ambition or for bread,”
or a command performance before a queen,
I write because uncomfortable feelings rise
to my throat and writing them out prevents
my possible death by choking.
I seek to pull together opposites that
when each is alone, none is complete.
And since I am a being-in-the-world,
my cares aren’t solely my own.
Thus, I write to unveil the world,
to strip it naked and alone,
so we can all see what it is we call home.
Lastly, I write to mourn all the lives I didn’t live.
I thought about them, sometimes long and hard.
In the end, I chose to stay with the common mess,
and of this mess, I managed to find something to bard.
Have no fear of having nothing
Defined by one’s attributes or one’s possessions?
Have no fear of having nothing.
While one grows by extensions,
one does not augment by attachments.
Have no attachments, have no fears.
An onion is composed of many layers.
A tree is made up of branches.
Many rivers flow into the sea.
A man is the total of his influences.
This is by nature, have no worries.
The universe is composed of myriads of things.
A grain of sand can get you started.
Life is composed of things that die.
Death will finally complete the design.
This is natural progression, have no regrets.
Having everything will give you no standing room.
Therefore, have no fear of having nothing.
I Wish We Could Find Comfort in This
Last night and nightly now I am on a train,
running through graveyards hidden inside cities.
The only thing when I frightfully was awakened,
a thin door to you my neighbor was between us.
I cannot ask you to think of graveyards too.
People seldom lift the rug to see if the floor is solid.
I cannot look beneath your face, and I cannot
look away from it.
Sad songs love there sleeping, time arrests it,
and when freed, time has also taken flight.
I do not mean to disturb your rest,
which like an apple has closed its eyes,
I describe you in all the languages in my body,
and then you slip like a child out of her clothes.
The description is all I have now,
to apply to particular and generic things.
The day that I hated you, and the next day
that you hated me back,
decays slower than radioactive carbon,
in all life’s forms.
My simple mind keeps walking
into the same river twice.
When senses return, my bed does not
vibrate like a train berth in Peru.
No, it is at a most sedentary point,
even as land wraps itself around it.
Graveyards in cities are isolated lots,
easily overlooked when you wake,
groom and zoom past.
It does this so mercilessly quiet.
The curtains of nearby buildings are closed.
Postulate then that therein no minds can exis
An Act of Betrayal
Dearest Grandma, seeing you as if you are here in the American cyberspace with me.
You spent thirty-three years in the monastery of your Buddha heart, distinguishing true from false, and so you know I am for the moment sincere. As the lotus pond was full of goldfish, waterlilies, and lotus roots, and as the water was murky, and as the day was long in our Nan-on village. Grandmother, I caught dragonflies in the stillness of the village yard. I gathered snails from the banks of the village pond. The morning glories greeted me as I walked by the graveyard, as if promising those dear to us would live again. And you, Grandma, live now in my conscious, with the colors of blooming chrysanthemums, with the whisper of bee wisps, and with the feel of silk in hot summer. Grandma, you are there when I close my eyes. In the inner space of these decades, closure was smooth skin, and all the garden petals you rubbed abounded.
You taught me to see the richness of the heart, not the patches on clothing. You taught me the reciprocity of the hen, as she give me eggs for broken corn. You taught me that heaven does not rain all day, so that it is better to stop when having spoken.
Yet, I am to betray you, without my even understanding how.
“The Snow Man”
One must have a bottle of Gallo in this cold alley
And to shake the cops and other winos
And be on the look-out for some sucker to roll
It has been a long while since my abode
Was taken from me not because of ice or lice
But because of the drive for condos
That in this high rise reaching town
Where all the Californ Dreaming has lost ground
To the sound of broken bottles
Which is the brittle psyche of fife
Which leads the rats from places bare
To places that don’t any longer sustain life
For the dweller of the alley, who is on dope,
And nothing, I mean nothing, beats a quick fix,
Nothing that is pure nor is impure.
I Will See Tomorrow
Tonight the air is calm, no
branches stir, leaves rustling
minutely, I sit, expectant…
The woman I will see
Tomorrow has blown
out the long candle.
The rustling of sheets, a soft
pillow now absorbing the
weight of her scented hair.
Days ago, there was snow and icy
winds, the absence of
sun; it’s been a long time.
Negotiation
Green, greener yet,
geometric yards and gardens,
span a field of white light morning,
up climbing, the familiar family scenes,
morning passes into oblivion.
From the bus window, rain smeared, Lorca is
seen standing on Stockton and Vallejo, without
his saddle and hat,
negotiating with his first morning despair.
Houses with hedges,
an oak on the front lawn,
while the willow supplicates behind
the house,
I will be silent as the rainwater.
Dream on, compadres, as the white horses
with black manes,
come they to the edge of water,
finding a note in bottle, imperially scripted
by the Empress of China,
She said she will install her feeble son
on the golden throne.
Isn’t this how the story goes…
~ Koon Woon, 4/25/26
Bionote
Koon Woon has two award-winning poetry books from Kaya Press, the winner of the Pen Oakland Josephine Award for literary excellence and the American Book Award. He is internationally anthologized. He also is a student of mathematics, philosophy, and modal logic, whose poetics resemble the modal logic S 5. He is also a mentor and friend to many emerging poets. He advocated for them with his Chrysanthemum literary journal and Goldfish Press.
He is presently undergoing chemotherapy for stage 4 pancreatic cancer.
Saguaro: for Koon Woon
- by Valeria Z. Nollan, Author of Rachmaninoff: Cross Rhythms of the Soul (Lexington Books/ Rowman & Littlefield, 2022). https://www.bloomsbury.com/us/sergei-rachmaninoff-9781666917611/
Mighty sentinel of the Sonoran desert
spiny arms spreading towards the sky
Your eyeless face stands guard
in hoary sadness
Your lone column immutable and proud
You hold your loneliness inside,
but I understand you,
for you have whispered your secrets to me:
you sacrifice your knowable form
for unfolding eternal life
Sparrows recognize your generosity,
building their nests
in the crooks of your arms
Your snowy blossoms open in joy
for pollination
Your hidden water quenches multitudes
Tohono O’odham distill your fruit
into sweet syrup for song ceremonies
Brother Guardian of the desert nation,
you remember their stories
Your massive ribs form the walls
of village houses,
creating shade of yourself
when in your natural form
that shade was denied you
- by Valeria Z. Nollan, Author of Rachmaninoff: Cross Rhythms of the Soul (Lexington Books/ Rowman & Littlefield, 2022). https://www.bloomsbury.com/us/sergei-rachmaninoff-9781666917611/
Mighty sentinel of the Sonoran desert
spiny arms spreading towards the sky
Your eyeless face stands guard
in hoary sadness
Your lone column immutable and proud
You hold your loneliness inside,
but I understand you,
for you have whispered your secrets to me:
you sacrifice your knowable form
for unfolding eternal life
Sparrows recognize your generosity,
building their nests
in the crooks of your arms
Your snowy blossoms open in joy
for pollination
Your hidden water quenches multitudes
Tohono O’odham distill your fruit
into sweet syrup for song ceremonies
Brother Guardian of the desert nation,
you remember their stories
Your massive ribs form the walls
of village houses,
creating shade of yourself
when in your natural form
that shade was denied you
Cuckoo: for Koon Woon
by Yuan Changming
alas! you sensitive secretive songster
knowing every secret spirit of the forest
and all the spirit’s secrets in the mists
you keep calling and singing blindly
until your throat becomes all blood-blocked
you never care, nor are you aware
how many ears have heard your sounds
how many eyes will see your figure proper
except some casual hikers going astray
or a couple of local firewood gatherers
you just keep singing and calling blindly
you singular solitary singing species
alas! you sensitive secretive songster
knowing every secret spirit of the forest
and all the spirit’s secrets in the mists
you keep calling and singing blindly
until your throat becomes all blood-blocked
you never care, nor are you aware
how many ears have heard your sounds
how many eyes will see your figure proper
except some casual hikers going astray
or a couple of local firewood gatherers
you just keep singing and calling blindly
you singular solitary singing species
9 Poems by Candice James
Degrees of Depth
I wait
While a lonely violin
Whispers softly through the shadows.
You approach,
And suddenly,
The world is a symphony.
And Now
I have come to these dreams
from the convertible fallout
of torn canvas paintings and prayers,
a pastel palette of color
sashaying into your brilliance,
blinded by the light at first
then slowly moving into
the comfort zone
of your muted shades
and tepid tones.
And now if it is God’s will
we will blend magnificently
into the coveted masterpiece
of true love, true love,
on earth as it is in heaven.
On earth as it is in heaven
The Significance
In the grandiose scheme
of great beginnings
I choose to walk
the less travelled path
of minor beginnings
and undecided endings.
Somewhere in the middle
I know a significance
is hidden in plain sight.
I know I’m getting close
to finally finding it.
My breath slowly fades
I grasp the elusive significance:
The meaning of life.
The dead come to the door.
Some knock..
Some just stand there in silence.
Gone for years, still they come and stare
into the bleak and glint of my heart.
They touch me with the wet moments of past hours
and the rapture and well-worn sorrow of bygone days.
Days lost and yet somehow rediscovered.
Is this madness or simply another side of love and regret?
We talk. We laugh. We cry
and then the sound fades to a whisper
before it dissolves completely,
Candice James is Poet Laureate Emerita, City of New Westminster, BC CANADA. She is a visual artist, singer-songwriter and author of 33 books of poetry. She is a member of the League of Canadian Poets and founder of Royal City Literary Arts Society.
I wait
While a lonely violin
Whispers softly through the shadows.
You approach,
And suddenly,
The world is a symphony.
And Now
I have come to these dreams
from the convertible fallout
of torn canvas paintings and prayers,
a pastel palette of color
sashaying into your brilliance,
blinded by the light at first
then slowly moving into
the comfort zone
of your muted shades
and tepid tones.
And now if it is God’s will
we will blend magnificently
into the coveted masterpiece
of true love, true love,
on earth as it is in heaven.
On earth as it is in heaven
The Significance
In the grandiose scheme
of great beginnings
I choose to walk
the less travelled path
of minor beginnings
and undecided endings.
Somewhere in the middle
I know a significance
is hidden in plain sight.
I know I’m getting close
to finally finding it.
My breath slowly fades
I grasp the elusive significance:
The meaning of life.
A Lark Rising
I saw a Lark rise
beside the quiet lake
on a misty October morning.
It swerved and careened
across the dawning sky.
A surreal ink blot
painting a treble clef signature
for the song it was silently singing
to the music nobody will ever hear.
It was too beautiful for the world.
So, I tucked it away
in a diamond studded satchel
and placed it in
the sacred canyon of my heart.
I saw a Lark rising
beside the quiet lake
on a misty October morning
deep in the heart
of the dream I was dreaming
deep inside the dream I am.
I saw a Lark rise
beside the quiet lake
on a misty October morning.
It swerved and careened
across the dawning sky.
A surreal ink blot
painting a treble clef signature
for the song it was silently singing
to the music nobody will ever hear.
It was too beautiful for the world.
So, I tucked it away
in a diamond studded satchel
and placed it in
the sacred canyon of my heart.
I saw a Lark rising
beside the quiet lake
on a misty October morning
deep in the heart
of the dream I was dreaming
deep inside the dream I am.
Inside the Dream
In a crowd or with someone else,
I always sit alone in my solitude
waltzing yesterday’s shoreline,
skipping blurred stones
in a long ago dream
on a beach who told me
the ocean’s real name.
I open my eyes
to see the dark better
and I close them to see the light.
A beginning is an ending
already beginning
and an ending is a beginning
already ended
inside the dream I am.
Wounded Directions
A bullfight
could not have been as brutal
as the boxing ring
we voluntarily entered.
Bruised, battered and beaten,
we did not die in each other’s arms.
We lived to limp away
in opposite wounded directions.
The Dead Come to the Door.
It’s been slightly raining all night.
A few minutes before dawn,
Crows rustle in their nests
and cry out for the sleeping sun.
Wet branches begin to glimmer.
In a crowd or with someone else,
I always sit alone in my solitude
waltzing yesterday’s shoreline,
skipping blurred stones
in a long ago dream
on a beach who told me
the ocean’s real name.
I open my eyes
to see the dark better
and I close them to see the light.
A beginning is an ending
already beginning
and an ending is a beginning
already ended
inside the dream I am.
Wounded Directions
A bullfight
could not have been as brutal
as the boxing ring
we voluntarily entered.
Bruised, battered and beaten,
we did not die in each other’s arms.
We lived to limp away
in opposite wounded directions.
The Dead Come to the Door.
It’s been slightly raining all night.
A few minutes before dawn,
Crows rustle in their nests
and cry out for the sleeping sun.
Wet branches begin to glimmer.
Seconds come and go,
linger, then break up,
slippery like eels,
impossible to hold on to.
linger, then break up,
slippery like eels,
impossible to hold on to.
The dead come to the door.
Some knock..
Some just stand there in silence.
Gone for years, still they come and stare
into the bleak and glint of my heart.
They touch me with the wet moments of past hours
and the rapture and well-worn sorrow of bygone days.
Days lost and yet somehow rediscovered.
Is this madness or simply another side of love and regret?
We talk. We laugh. We cry
and then the sound fades to a whisper
before it dissolves completely,
I stand on a desolate pier
rainbowed with the oil
of a shimmering thought
passing back and forth
in a tango of tandem.
Locked into the eye of the hurricane
I feel myself slip-sliding into oblivion.
As the wind takes my breath away
the sky clasps my final heartbeat to its chest.
rainbowed with the oil
of a shimmering thought
passing back and forth
in a tango of tandem.
Locked into the eye of the hurricane
I feel myself slip-sliding into oblivion.
As the wind takes my breath away
the sky clasps my final heartbeat to its chest.
And just as I start to vanish
I realize I’m not going anywhere
I haven’t already been.
Water and Rain
I long to go down to the shore again:
to hear the water speak to the rain,
to see the seagulls fly on high,
to hear the sadness in their cry.
I realize I’m not going anywhere
I haven’t already been.
Water and Rain
I long to go down to the shore again:
to hear the water speak to the rain,
to see the seagulls fly on high,
to hear the sadness in their cry.
The days of life are beginning to fade,
an age-old stain on invisible suede.
The mast now hung with ragged sail.
The long and winding path grows pale.
an age-old stain on invisible suede.
The mast now hung with ragged sail.
The long and winding path grows pale.
The sky-blue skies have turned to gray
and soon my soul will fly away.
And I long to go down to the shore again
to hear the water speak to the rain …
and soon my soul will fly away.
And I long to go down to the shore again
to hear the water speak to the rain …
Down to the Crescent Beach shore again
to hear the water speak to the rain.
A Matter of Punctuation
It comes down to a single moment
cloned from a bit of history
from a box inside a box, inside a box,
where my poems are layers of skin
hidden inside my bones.
to hear the water speak to the rain.
A Matter of Punctuation
It comes down to a single moment
cloned from a bit of history
from a box inside a box, inside a box,
where my poems are layers of skin
hidden inside my bones.
The birds of silence have landed
with broken wings
and taken up residence
inside the ever-changing hours and minutes of my mind
where the seconds keep winding down
past the limits of the metronome
that has become my life.
with broken wings
and taken up residence
inside the ever-changing hours and minutes of my mind
where the seconds keep winding down
past the limits of the metronome
that has become my life.
I still have my words
and a vague memory of a haunting song
that plays like a rain dance
stolen from an indigenous dream.
and a vague memory of a haunting song
that plays like a rain dance
stolen from an indigenous dream.
I imagine the movements,
supple and static,
as I mime the names of the dead
for no reason at all except
to pay tribute and respect.
supple and static,
as I mime the names of the dead
for no reason at all except
to pay tribute and respect.
Tears punctuate my sentences
and form rivers in my story
as it heads toward the silence of the lake
I know awaits just around the bend;
And suddenly there it is.
The flowing story of my life
and the lake that holds
all my punctuated sentences.
and form rivers in my story
as it heads toward the silence of the lake
I know awaits just around the bend;
And suddenly there it is.
The flowing story of my life
and the lake that holds
all my punctuated sentences.
And there it is ….
The end. Period.
Bionote
The end. Period.
Bionote
Candice James is Poet Laureate Emerita, City of New Westminster, BC CANADA. She is a visual artist, singer-songwriter and author of 33 books of poetry. She is a member of the League of Canadian Poets and founder of Royal City Literary Arts Society.
PP's Intervew with Candice James
PP's INTERVIEW WITH CANDICE JAMES February 2026
1. The "Starting Point" of Chaos: You’ve said that you don't draw or sketch; instead, you put colors on a palette, spread them into a "mess" with a knife, and wait until you "see something" in the abstraction. This sounds remarkably like the "First Thought, Best Thought" school of poetry. Is this process of finding a shape in the mess an act of painting, or is it an act of translation—finding a message that was already waiting for you in the colors?
ANSWER: I look at my empty palette and then I decide which colors I want to use. I then put those colors onto the palette and take the knives to bring the canvas to life. I truly love vibrant colors and vivid contrasts. I think finding a shape in “the mess” is an act of inspiration from a different realm of unreality. Most paintings I never really know how they will end up looking, in fact sometimes it’s like some other essence is painting them instead of me.
2. The Ancestry of the Pen: Every great poet stands on the shoulders of giants. As someone who has spent decades exploring the rhythmic and lyrical depths of the English language, who are the poets you return to when you need to recharge your own spirit? Do you find their "voices" or their philosophies echoing in your mind when you are standing before a blank canvas?
ANSWER: I return to my favorite poets time and again which are: Shakespeare; Michael Drayton; Edward Dowson; William Blake T.S. Eliot; Fred Cogswell; W.H. Auden and many more, but too many to list. Sometimes I type a sentence into google and ask what poem this is in.... sometimes no answer, but sometimes a jackpot and I find a new poet I had never heard of before. I check it out and sometimes I really like the poem and the poet and if so, I then search for more works by that poet. It’s sort of like finding a shiny Gold coin in a sea of Copper pennies.
3. Inspirers and Turning Points: Versatility like yours—spanning poetry, music, and painting—often requires a catalyst. Looking back at your creative career, who or what played the most pivotal role in inspiring you to become a versatile poet-artist-musician all at once? Was there a specific mentor or event that helped you realize these were not three separate lives, but one singular expression?
ANSWER: POETRY: Fred Cogswell of Fiddlehead Poetry Books, University of New Brunswick, Canada was the first person to accept my poetry for publication and he published a 100 page book of my poems back in 1979. Truly, his belief in my work was a catalyst to me not only continuing to write, but believing in myself and my poetry. MUSIC:– My mother, my dear old mother, God rest her soul, made me take piano lessons and organ lessons for 8 years learning to read and play music and learning the theory of music. After I no longer had to take lessons, I really didn’t bother much with music, but in later years the music lessons early in life stood me in good stead when I switched to guitar and singing and playing by ear in bands professionally. When playing in a band we sometimes had to include afternoon jam sessions on a weekend and when someone came up and wanted to sing a song I was not familiar with, I could more or less figure the chord changes of the song by knowing the theory of music and the number system. Regarding PAINTING: I started painting when I saw a blurb in a local community magazine that said “If you think you’d like to paint come to our drop-in and try it.” So, I did in 2012 and have continued enjoying that aspect of my personality with extreme joy. To pick up a palette knife and put colors on canvas with no idea of where it will lead me is always such a joy to see the finished painting once it has taken shape and been completed. I am quite a prolific painter: I paint 3-5 paintings a week generally in the space of about 5 hours. I feel so blessed to be able to paint, paint, paint and then ... paint some more!
4. The Geometry of the Mind: You mentioned that you can't "copy" or "sketch," and that everything comes from "mind visualizations." In your poetry, you’ve mastered the "geography of the soul." When you close your eyes to visualize a painting, do you see literal images, or do you see cadences and emotions that eventually clothe themselves in color?
ANSWER: This is a hard question to answer, but I will try my best. Everything does come from my mind when I paint, but I only visualize what I see happening on the canvas which enters my mind and revisualizes itself and I try to get the revisualizion back onto the canvas as I “feel” it in my mind. I don’t really see the visualizations, I feel them in my soul and they come to life through my hands and knives.
5. Ekphrastic Healing: The Gift of Art: You have a beautiful and generous habit of giving paintings away to poets so they can "take the painting home" after writing a poem to it. This creates a living cycle of inspiration. Do you feel that a painting is truly "finished" when you put the palette knife down, or is it only completed when another poet breathes a new, written life into it?
ANSWER: This is a very good question and a double barrelled one at that. When I finish the painting it is finished for me. When the painting has someone bring more life into it with their words and vice-versa the painting births new words into the poet’s mind, then the living cycle of inspriration has completed another lap on the track of art’s dream which is continuously static and yet forever changing. Everything is interconnected on some level of being whether ethereal, real, or both in consecutive unison. If that seems a little hard to understand. I can commiserate as I find it hard to understand myself.
6. The "No-Lesson" Philosophy: By never taking a lesson in painting, you’ve preserved a very raw, "primitive" purity in your visual work. However, poetry and music often have strict structures (meter, rhythm, key). Does your "self-taught" approach to painting feel like a holiday away from the formal "rules" of poetry, or do you find yourself unconsciously applying a musician's sense of "time and tempo" to your palette knife?
ANSWER: This is the most difficult question to answer but I will attempt to answer it. For me the only poetry that I adhere to its rules are Shakespearian Sonnets and Traditional Haiku. Everything else, I just do it as I feel it at the moment I am writing a poem. I never have been one to follow strict rules or structures. I just sit down with a pen or a knife and write or paint what comes from my mind at the time. I feel fortunate as I can write a poem quite quickly. I just start with one line and once I write that one line down all the rest just start flowing out of the pen or if I’m at the computer, then out of the fingers onto the keyboard into a poem. Regarding the musician’s sense of time and tempo.... I fell that many times in my poetry, but never in my palette knife or when I’m painting.
7. Spiritual Synesthesia: For a musician and poet, "cadence" is everything. When you look at your paintings on the Silver Bow website, can you "hear" them? If one of your recent acrylics were a song or a chord, would it be a soaring anthem or a deep, bluesy vibration?
ANSWER: To be honest, when I look at my paintings I never hear them, but I seem to move to a different plateau of being when I look at them. It sort of feels like I am looking inside myself and all the different aspects of myself and my other selves that I may be interacting with on a different level of spiritual vibration. When I look at my paintings I am so grateful to the universe for giving me the ability to create paintings. I look at my paintings and I feel happy, blessed and filled with love. Regarding songs I might be thinking of when I’m painting No soaring anthem, no deep bluesy vibration, If I were to think of a song while painting it would be either a medium tempo country shuffle Faron Young song like “Step Aside” or “Wine Me Up” or “Twin Fiddles” with a predominant drum beat, a prevalent bass guitar holding down the bottom end and a full country band including steel guitar, electric guitar, violin and piano. Or it could be a rock’n’roll song like Electric Light Orchestra songs “Rock’n’Roll is King” or “Don’t Bring Me Down”; or a Roy Orbison song like “In Dreams” or “Lana” or “Blue Bayou”; or torch jazz songs by Della Reese like “And That Reminds Me” or “And the Angels Sing” or “Someday”; Or some good old Al Jolson songs like “Swanee” or Rosie You Are My Posie”or “When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along; or Frankie Laine’s signature song “That’s My Desire” I absolutely love Della Rees and Al Jolson and Frankie Laine. And one of my absolute favorites is Nat King Cole singing what I consider to be the greatest song ever written “Stardust”.
8. The Universe’s "Mysterious Ways": You’ve spoken about the spiritual hand in your life. When you are scooping up a color on your palette knife, do you ever feel a "nudge" from a higher power to pick up a blue instead of a red, or is the spiritual connection something that only reveals itself after the mess is already on the canvas?
ANSWER: I don’t think much about anything else but painting when I’m painting. I really get into the zone. I usually start with a combination of colors on the palette. Always there is black and there is white on my canvas because I never mix paints to get a color, if I want it darker I add black. If I want it lighter I add white..... once I’ve added the black or the white, I may add another darker shade or lighter shade of the actual color I am working with (a primary color such a blue or red). but I never mix primary colors to get another color. If I want orange, or pink or turquoise or purple, I buy a tube of the color I want. If I change the color at all it will just be by adding black or white to it. Regarding the spiritual connection: Truthfully I never know when the spirit is not present. It seems to be near me constantly. I know it is there and it is part of me and I am happy about that as I move the colors about and together the spirit and I birth a new living breathing creation.
9. Curating the Soul at Silver Bow: As a publisher, you look for spiritual and intellectual depth. Now that you are a visual artist, has your "eye" for manuscripts changed? Do you find yourself looking for writers who—like your paintings—start with a "beautiful mess" and manage to pull a profound truth out of it?
ANSWER: As a publisher, I try to feel the soul of the writer as I read the words that came from his or her soul. Everything begins as a thought and then outpictures itself into some sort of reality, written, engineered, built, painted, etc. All thought is a living thing creating and outpicturing itself into reality. As a publisher reading a manuscript, I look to feel the soul of the writer in the words. It is almost as if some manuscripts breathe beautifully and some choke and stumble and stutter and can’t be brought to proper fruition. The most rewarding thing as a publisher is when I read a manuscript filled with soul and spirit and I feel like I am taken to a new and heady realm of existence even if only for a short while. It feels like spending time outside of the structure of time. It is a beautiful feeling of euphoria as the words electrify my synsapses.
1. The "Starting Point" of Chaos: You’ve said that you don't draw or sketch; instead, you put colors on a palette, spread them into a "mess" with a knife, and wait until you "see something" in the abstraction. This sounds remarkably like the "First Thought, Best Thought" school of poetry. Is this process of finding a shape in the mess an act of painting, or is it an act of translation—finding a message that was already waiting for you in the colors?
ANSWER: I look at my empty palette and then I decide which colors I want to use. I then put those colors onto the palette and take the knives to bring the canvas to life. I truly love vibrant colors and vivid contrasts. I think finding a shape in “the mess” is an act of inspiration from a different realm of unreality. Most paintings I never really know how they will end up looking, in fact sometimes it’s like some other essence is painting them instead of me.
2. The Ancestry of the Pen: Every great poet stands on the shoulders of giants. As someone who has spent decades exploring the rhythmic and lyrical depths of the English language, who are the poets you return to when you need to recharge your own spirit? Do you find their "voices" or their philosophies echoing in your mind when you are standing before a blank canvas?
ANSWER: I return to my favorite poets time and again which are: Shakespeare; Michael Drayton; Edward Dowson; William Blake T.S. Eliot; Fred Cogswell; W.H. Auden and many more, but too many to list. Sometimes I type a sentence into google and ask what poem this is in.... sometimes no answer, but sometimes a jackpot and I find a new poet I had never heard of before. I check it out and sometimes I really like the poem and the poet and if so, I then search for more works by that poet. It’s sort of like finding a shiny Gold coin in a sea of Copper pennies.
3. Inspirers and Turning Points: Versatility like yours—spanning poetry, music, and painting—often requires a catalyst. Looking back at your creative career, who or what played the most pivotal role in inspiring you to become a versatile poet-artist-musician all at once? Was there a specific mentor or event that helped you realize these were not three separate lives, but one singular expression?
ANSWER: POETRY: Fred Cogswell of Fiddlehead Poetry Books, University of New Brunswick, Canada was the first person to accept my poetry for publication and he published a 100 page book of my poems back in 1979. Truly, his belief in my work was a catalyst to me not only continuing to write, but believing in myself and my poetry. MUSIC:– My mother, my dear old mother, God rest her soul, made me take piano lessons and organ lessons for 8 years learning to read and play music and learning the theory of music. After I no longer had to take lessons, I really didn’t bother much with music, but in later years the music lessons early in life stood me in good stead when I switched to guitar and singing and playing by ear in bands professionally. When playing in a band we sometimes had to include afternoon jam sessions on a weekend and when someone came up and wanted to sing a song I was not familiar with, I could more or less figure the chord changes of the song by knowing the theory of music and the number system. Regarding PAINTING: I started painting when I saw a blurb in a local community magazine that said “If you think you’d like to paint come to our drop-in and try it.” So, I did in 2012 and have continued enjoying that aspect of my personality with extreme joy. To pick up a palette knife and put colors on canvas with no idea of where it will lead me is always such a joy to see the finished painting once it has taken shape and been completed. I am quite a prolific painter: I paint 3-5 paintings a week generally in the space of about 5 hours. I feel so blessed to be able to paint, paint, paint and then ... paint some more!
4. The Geometry of the Mind: You mentioned that you can't "copy" or "sketch," and that everything comes from "mind visualizations." In your poetry, you’ve mastered the "geography of the soul." When you close your eyes to visualize a painting, do you see literal images, or do you see cadences and emotions that eventually clothe themselves in color?
ANSWER: This is a hard question to answer, but I will try my best. Everything does come from my mind when I paint, but I only visualize what I see happening on the canvas which enters my mind and revisualizes itself and I try to get the revisualizion back onto the canvas as I “feel” it in my mind. I don’t really see the visualizations, I feel them in my soul and they come to life through my hands and knives.
5. Ekphrastic Healing: The Gift of Art: You have a beautiful and generous habit of giving paintings away to poets so they can "take the painting home" after writing a poem to it. This creates a living cycle of inspiration. Do you feel that a painting is truly "finished" when you put the palette knife down, or is it only completed when another poet breathes a new, written life into it?
ANSWER: This is a very good question and a double barrelled one at that. When I finish the painting it is finished for me. When the painting has someone bring more life into it with their words and vice-versa the painting births new words into the poet’s mind, then the living cycle of inspriration has completed another lap on the track of art’s dream which is continuously static and yet forever changing. Everything is interconnected on some level of being whether ethereal, real, or both in consecutive unison. If that seems a little hard to understand. I can commiserate as I find it hard to understand myself.
6. The "No-Lesson" Philosophy: By never taking a lesson in painting, you’ve preserved a very raw, "primitive" purity in your visual work. However, poetry and music often have strict structures (meter, rhythm, key). Does your "self-taught" approach to painting feel like a holiday away from the formal "rules" of poetry, or do you find yourself unconsciously applying a musician's sense of "time and tempo" to your palette knife?
ANSWER: This is the most difficult question to answer but I will attempt to answer it. For me the only poetry that I adhere to its rules are Shakespearian Sonnets and Traditional Haiku. Everything else, I just do it as I feel it at the moment I am writing a poem. I never have been one to follow strict rules or structures. I just sit down with a pen or a knife and write or paint what comes from my mind at the time. I feel fortunate as I can write a poem quite quickly. I just start with one line and once I write that one line down all the rest just start flowing out of the pen or if I’m at the computer, then out of the fingers onto the keyboard into a poem. Regarding the musician’s sense of time and tempo.... I fell that many times in my poetry, but never in my palette knife or when I’m painting.
7. Spiritual Synesthesia: For a musician and poet, "cadence" is everything. When you look at your paintings on the Silver Bow website, can you "hear" them? If one of your recent acrylics were a song or a chord, would it be a soaring anthem or a deep, bluesy vibration?
ANSWER: To be honest, when I look at my paintings I never hear them, but I seem to move to a different plateau of being when I look at them. It sort of feels like I am looking inside myself and all the different aspects of myself and my other selves that I may be interacting with on a different level of spiritual vibration. When I look at my paintings I am so grateful to the universe for giving me the ability to create paintings. I look at my paintings and I feel happy, blessed and filled with love. Regarding songs I might be thinking of when I’m painting No soaring anthem, no deep bluesy vibration, If I were to think of a song while painting it would be either a medium tempo country shuffle Faron Young song like “Step Aside” or “Wine Me Up” or “Twin Fiddles” with a predominant drum beat, a prevalent bass guitar holding down the bottom end and a full country band including steel guitar, electric guitar, violin and piano. Or it could be a rock’n’roll song like Electric Light Orchestra songs “Rock’n’Roll is King” or “Don’t Bring Me Down”; or a Roy Orbison song like “In Dreams” or “Lana” or “Blue Bayou”; or torch jazz songs by Della Reese like “And That Reminds Me” or “And the Angels Sing” or “Someday”; Or some good old Al Jolson songs like “Swanee” or Rosie You Are My Posie”or “When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along; or Frankie Laine’s signature song “That’s My Desire” I absolutely love Della Rees and Al Jolson and Frankie Laine. And one of my absolute favorites is Nat King Cole singing what I consider to be the greatest song ever written “Stardust”.
8. The Universe’s "Mysterious Ways": You’ve spoken about the spiritual hand in your life. When you are scooping up a color on your palette knife, do you ever feel a "nudge" from a higher power to pick up a blue instead of a red, or is the spiritual connection something that only reveals itself after the mess is already on the canvas?
ANSWER: I don’t think much about anything else but painting when I’m painting. I really get into the zone. I usually start with a combination of colors on the palette. Always there is black and there is white on my canvas because I never mix paints to get a color, if I want it darker I add black. If I want it lighter I add white..... once I’ve added the black or the white, I may add another darker shade or lighter shade of the actual color I am working with (a primary color such a blue or red). but I never mix primary colors to get another color. If I want orange, or pink or turquoise or purple, I buy a tube of the color I want. If I change the color at all it will just be by adding black or white to it. Regarding the spiritual connection: Truthfully I never know when the spirit is not present. It seems to be near me constantly. I know it is there and it is part of me and I am happy about that as I move the colors about and together the spirit and I birth a new living breathing creation.
9. Curating the Soul at Silver Bow: As a publisher, you look for spiritual and intellectual depth. Now that you are a visual artist, has your "eye" for manuscripts changed? Do you find yourself looking for writers who—like your paintings—start with a "beautiful mess" and manage to pull a profound truth out of it?
ANSWER: As a publisher, I try to feel the soul of the writer as I read the words that came from his or her soul. Everything begins as a thought and then outpictures itself into some sort of reality, written, engineered, built, painted, etc. All thought is a living thing creating and outpicturing itself into reality. As a publisher reading a manuscript, I look to feel the soul of the writer in the words. It is almost as if some manuscripts breathe beautifully and some choke and stumble and stutter and can’t be brought to proper fruition. The most rewarding thing as a publisher is when I read a manuscript filled with soul and spirit and I feel like I am taken to a new and heady realm of existence even if only for a short while. It feels like spending time outside of the structure of time. It is a beautiful feeling of euphoria as the words electrify my synsapses.
10. The Poet’s Eternal Frontier: You’ve mastered the "Mind Visualization" in art and the "Public Voice" as a Poet Laureate Emerita. If you were to write one definitive poem that captured the essence of your journey through music, verse, and color, what would be the title and very first line? Where is the poet in Candice James heading next?
ANSWER: The Title would be “Flying through Myself” The line below would be the very first line which I have come up with just now: “I lift my soul once again to the periphery of the dream I am ─ ” I must admit I wrote the first line then the title but once I wrote the first line the title just came to me immediately out of the blue.
ANSWER: The Title would be “Flying through Myself” The line below would be the very first line which I have come up with just now: “I lift my soul once again to the periphery of the dream I am ─ ” I must admit I wrote the first line then the title but once I wrote the first line the title just came to me immediately out of the blue.
8 Poetographs & 10 Paintings by Candice James
BRIEF ARTIST STATEMENT
Candice James is a self-taught visual artist who started painting late in life. She is Poet Laureate Emerita, City of New Westminster, BC CANADA; - musician, singer songwriter; and member of Arts BC and League of Canadian Poets.
FULL Artist Statement:
I am a self-taught Artist who started painting late in life. I have never taken a lesson and I can’t draw, sketch or copy, so everything I paint comes from my mind visualizations. I mostly use palette knives in a paintbrush style and sometimes, very little, I used brushes. I start with deciding which colors I want to use and put them on my palette and then I pick up one of my palette knives and scoop up one of the colours on my palette and spread it on the blank canvas. I do this with a bunch of the colors and then I look at the canvas. I always see something in the “mess” and I use that as a starting point and then the painting begins to take shape. I mostly paint in acrylics but I have done a few watercolour paintings also. I have been fortunate enough to have sold many paintings but I have also given paintings away to ekphrastic workshop presenters so the poets can choose a painting to write a poem to and then they get to take that painting home with them. I am a member of Arts BC; New West Artists; Century House Artists; and Arts Council New Westminster. You can find me on https://www.silverbowpublishing.com/candice-james-paintings.html and also on youtube, facebook and various other websites. 
Candice James is a self-taught visual artist who started painting late in life. She is Poet Laureate Emerita, City of New Westminster, BC CANADA; - musician, singer songwriter; and member of Arts BC and League of Canadian Poets.
FULL Artist Statement:
I am a self-taught Artist who started painting late in life. I have never taken a lesson and I can’t draw, sketch or copy, so everything I paint comes from my mind visualizations. I mostly use palette knives in a paintbrush style and sometimes, very little, I used brushes. I start with deciding which colors I want to use and put them on my palette and then I pick up one of my palette knives and scoop up one of the colours on my palette and spread it on the blank canvas. I do this with a bunch of the colors and then I look at the canvas. I always see something in the “mess” and I use that as a starting point and then the painting begins to take shape. I mostly paint in acrylics but I have done a few watercolour paintings also. I have been fortunate enough to have sold many paintings but I have also given paintings away to ekphrastic workshop presenters so the poets can choose a painting to write a poem to and then they get to take that painting home with them. I am a member of Arts BC; New West Artists; Century House Artists; and Arts Council New Westminster. You can find me on https://www.silverbowpublishing.com/candice-james-paintings.html and also on youtube, facebook and various other websites.
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| Tilt-A-Whirl Ejection |
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| Sailing into Sunset |
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| Painted Desert |
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| Encantodo Alpine Valley |
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| Piano Concerr in the Ether |
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| Fog Rolling in |
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| Early Light Snowfall |
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| Twilight Breaking |
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| Survivor |
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| The Fairie and the Ombre Rose |
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