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September 30, 1988 Fs

 

A Douglas College Newslette

 

DALE ZIEROTH SELECTED AS FINALIST IN COMPETITION

New Vancouver poct and Douglas College in-
structor Dale Zicroth was selected as one of the
six finalists in the Canada Poetry Contest sponsored
by the Vancouver-based Canada India Village Aid.

Zicroth’s submission The Death of the Violin, was
chosen from among more than 3,200 poems sub-
mitted by contestants world-wide.

As one of the finalists, Zieroth was flown to Toron-
to September 13th for a reading of his works at the
prestigious Harbourfront reading series. Also read-
ing were the contest’s final judges Margaret At-
wood, Al Purdy and George Woodcock.

Zicroth and the other finalists will have their
poems published in the October issue of the
magazine Books in Canada. In addition, the
contest’s 50 best poems (including the six finalists’)
will be published by Harbour Publishing in an an-
thology called The Dry Wells of India.

First place winner of the contest was also from
B.C.--John Pass of Madeira Park, on the sunshine
coast.

Through the contest, Canada India Village Aid
raised an approximate $15,000 which it will use for
dams and well in drought-stricken Indian villages,
said Zieroth. The funds were raised through a $5
entry fee for cach poem.

 

DALE ZIEROTH - One of the six finalists in the
Canada India Village Aid’s Candian Poetry Contest.

 

"I was surprised and pleased when I heard I was
selected as a finalist," said Zieroth. "One enters
these kinds of things, but doesn’t ever expect to win.
But being selected sixth our of 3,200 isn’t too bad at
all."

A Creative Writing and English teacher at Douglas
College, Zieroth had published three books of
poetry. His most recent, When Stones Fly Up, is
available at the Douglas College Book Store. Zieroth
also edits Event, an award-winning literary journal.

Zieroth’s poem The Death of a Violin portrays a
real life situation when his daughter was struggling
to learn the violin.

THE DEATH OF THE VIOLIN
ae in our house came after four years.
She had practised—and not practised—
long enough to (finally) make music.
She had entertained my father and mother,
and I had been proud of the songs
she had coaxed from those harsh strings.
She was, however, not staying with it.
We could no longer continue with
reminders, because reminders would be
nagging, and we wanted discipline
on her part: we wanted her to bring her will
into play.
November is a hard month to give up anything,
especially if you have held it
four years, watched it grow in your arms
until you knew just how
to make the music leap.
My own father’s violin hangs on the wall
and I remember when he played,
touching the strings, jabbing
at the notes until the instrument
became a fiddle, and around him
guitars and accordians
filled up the family with their talk.
Once, when she played
his violin played back,
reverberating on the wall: just once
there was that calling note. Then silence.
Filled up now with rain,
with arguments about who's supporting whom
through this decision--they last their time
and fade, but stay, fill the air
and are cast back slowly into the pit
of all old family fights,
where the world gets drained off to
when it lurches and
can't move gently into change
and someone's disclaiming all reason
and another's volume rises to the shriek.
—by Dale Zieroth