2024 *Posts for previous years can be viewed from the left side menu.

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My Inspiration 
 
I have a special place in the Yukon overlooking Lake LaBarge where the hills vibrate with a colourful a carpet of lichen and wildflowers and the lake rolls out before me in all its glory. I go there to meditate and honour the spirits of my loved ones. 
 
Today I'm thinking about my journey as an artist, how I got started, and where I am today. The highest compliment I can receive as a poet comes from those who seldom if ever read a poem. That's who I write for. I am a poet of the people. My friends are my Tribe. 
 
Since my 30th anniversary as Laureate I've been sharing parts of my journey. Here’s a little about how it began.
 
Yukon Writers: I wrote my first poem in 1968. I still have it. I became a published poet in 1978, and I began supporting fellow writers in Whitehorse Yukon in the early 1980’s. Although the Yukon Government occasionally sponsored established writers from outside the Yukon to come and perform readings in Whitehorse - Yukon writers seemed to be left out of the picture. 
 
I recall attending the inaugural meeting of the first Yukon writers group which happened to be a men-only event held on a backstreet in downtown Whitehorse in the early 80's. I remember standing up in a roomful of men stating that by omitting women writers they were leaving out half the talent. It went over like a lead balloon but as I recall the group soon folded. A few small groups sprang up including one that was less than welcoming to me - yes smalltown politics in the North is a thing - but other than that there wasn't much in the way of support for Yukon writers.
 
Then in 1989 along with a few other Yukon writers I helped facilitate the first Yukon Writers Conference and I organized and hosted the first Yukon Writer's Open Mic event at the Talisman Cafe in Whitehorse. It was a hit that continued for a number of years and spawned the first Yukon writer's anthology. 
 
Some of those who performed at that first open mic have since left us. I still have rotas naming those who participated over the years. I also have some wonderful memories. The first writer's conference had quite an impact - a renewed spirit to perform and create was forged in the Yukon and it was contagious! 
 
In the following years I campaigned to have Yukon writers included in literary events that had previously only featured visiting writers from outside the Yukon in events like the annual Young Author’s Conference in Whitehorse. True to form I spoke out and the squeaky wheel being what it is, I was invited to participate in the Young Author’s Conference in 1993 in Whitehorse along with visiting writers Roch Carrier OC FRSC, Nino Ricci, and Jane Urquhart. That in itself was an education! 
 
We had a wonderful time getting to know one other, the teachers, and the students. Many new connections were made and new poets were born that week at FH Collins Highschool in Whitehorse Yukon! 
 
As I look back I realize that with the advent of the internet my circle of colleagues has increased exponentially. Today I am blessed to be connected with writers, storytellers, poets, and other creatives from around the world and my creative works have been translated into many languages and published internationally.
 
My Message to Future Poets and Artists: Pick up that pen, that guitar, that paintbrush, that camera, that microphone and get started! There's no time like today. Just do it! - I did.
 
Massi Cho from the Yukon! – PJ Yukon out!
 

I am a Poet of the People. My friends are my Tribe. And I celebrate them. Amen.

~ PJ Yukon Poet Laureate
 
yukonpoetlaureate.com #yukon #yukonwriter #literaryarts #poetrycommunity

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*Video of an interview with Valerie Pringle on CTV below.

May 14 2024: Well the snow's still on the mountains and subzero temps at night but these tiny crocuses pop up to remind us that spring is on its way to the Yukon! At some point.

 

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The poem “Long Live the Sourdough!” was written in 1982 and published in my first book “I Sing Yukon” which was dedicated to Anne, Princess Royal.

Whenever newcomers arrive in the Yukon we call them Cheechako. When they have survived an entire winter in the Yukon (and pist in the Yukon River) we call them a Sourdough.
 
We sometimes use the term ‘Outside’ to refer to anywhere that isn’t in the Yukon. *If you see a few words that aren’t in the dictionary it’s because I invented them. ©PJ Yukon

“Long Live the Sourdough!”

there’s frost upon the window
there blows a northern gale
and some say here comes winter
and some say here comes jail
for winter in the Yukon
continues all year round
save for two months of summer
so short as to astound

the north is full of wonder
and certainly extremes
with pageantry eccentric
she’s bursting at the seams
she never gives out samples
and seldom is she shy
with bold austere examples
she glares you in the eye

the twining birch is quaking
and sways as if to bow
leafless cold and shaking
the winter from her brow
do snow flakes fall from heaven
i see them drifting down
like grim eternal leaven
distorting summer ground

the mercury coerces
the sun to hibernation
it’s winter in the yukon
with little hesitation
a ghastly cloud of ice fog
obscures what precious view
of yukon sun allotted
as winter venoms spew

some huddle in their cabins
as other flee ‘outside’
while some don furry parkas
with relish undenied
and mock old mother nature
for many times they’ve faced
the war of wills she wages
upon the bitter waste

they go their way despite her
as sub-degrees impend
and yearn but to requite her
for northern lights she’ll send
with hearty jubilation
they welcome forth the snow
they are the salt of yukon
long live the sourdough!

©PJ Yukon 1982

Let it not be said that I don't have a sense of humour.

 

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A new poem called "home"

 

home

 

she’ll grab you by the heartstrings

and never let you go

she’s a haven for your heartbeat

and a heaven made of snow

she’s a harbor where the midnight sun

never lets you down

and the blazing bright aurora

nails you to the ground

 

where the beaver slaps his happy tail

by the shore of an alpine lake

and the river runs right through ya

where the salmon clear the gate

where the moose calls out in the wilderness

to lure himself a mate

and the air is clear and the water here

is more than worth the wait

 

where you can walk across forever

and never see another soul

where the trails the moss and the tundra

ever beckon you to go

where the raven’s laugh and the grizzly’s roar

in the land of the quanlin dun

will always leave you craving more

when a northern day is done

 

some call her a barren wasteland

some say she’s a nowhere land

where it’s 50 below and the ice and the snow

are unfit for the fittest man

some say she’s an empty horizon

she’s really no big deal

yet the gleam and the glow of the natural world

clearly say that the magic is real

 

some call her a wonder

some call her a drain

some wander and wonder

and wander again

but she’ll get in your blood

like the verse of a poem

some call her the yukon

but i call her home

 

©PJ Yukon April 22 2024

*This poem was made in Canada. 

And so was I.

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Your Name is Important!

 

I was once advised that as a published author it would be tantamount to artistic suicide to change my last name after a divorce, so for decades I carried the last name of an abusive ex – a violent man who left scars on me and seared my soul.

 

After my divorce I never freely volunteered my last name and whenever I had to a little part of me died inside. I felt angry and ashamed.

 

In 1984 I was able to legally change my first name to PJ, but that was only after it was thrown out of court three times on the grounds that there was no precedent to legally change a name to two letters.

 

By the fourth time I think the judge was just tired of seeing it come across his desk and finally stamped it. That was 40 years ago. My friends had given me the nickname PJ. It was friendly and I liked it. So I kept it.

 

When I was born my maternal parent traveled to Vancouver, gave birth, and hit the road leaving me with a string of names I couldn’t relate to. Then the Canadian Government scooped me and I ended up in a string of foster homes where my name kept changing and my first name was bastardized.

 

I didn’t really belong to anyone or anywhere. And I didn’t really have a name. I never met my father so I didn’t know his last name or who he was. All I know is that genetically his DNA says he had some FN blood.

 

Since I’ve never had a claim to a name I chose one for myself. I advise anyone, especially women who get stuck with the last name of an abuser, to take steps to claim a name they feel good about.

 

I am so proud of my new name PJ Yukon! It’s so me! It’s also great knowing I will never again be forced to answer the question “Last Name?” with anything other than Yukon!

 

I love my new name! You should love yours too.

 

Sincerely, ©PJ Yukon April 18 2024

https://yukonpoetlaureate.com

#domesticabuse #domesticviolence #friends #yukon #poet

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April 15 2024: My legal name is PJ. My last name used to be Johnson. I was advised that a published author's change of name could mean artistic suicide. Still I chose to lose the name. Who wants to be referred to by the last name of an abusive ex? Not me! Sign me: PJ Yukon!

 

PS The legalities are in the works.

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February 2024: Every now and then I come across a few of these - honours given to me by various organizations. As an artist it is always appreciated to be recognized for the work you do however the thruth is I don't do it for the recognition. I do it to share my heart. Most poets do.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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A little gem I penned 35 years ago

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how can i

 

how can i sit and write poetry 

when children are dying in the street 

and the sky is a sea of red madness

that is burning my feet

 

how can i look you in the eye 

and see only yesterdays

and the steel trap of a mind that i know

will never change
 

how can i pardon myself 

for knowing the bitter truth of you

and never choosing
to run

 

©PJ Yukon January 9 2024

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God Is

 

God is my comfort. The very air I breathe. The land I walk. The blueness of an October sky.

 

God is the happy song of birds returning to the north. The welcome bloom of a summer rose. The sunshine reflected in my puppy's eyes.

 

God is the sudden slap of a beaver tail. The soulful echo of the loon across the lake. The warm caress of the breeze that blows away my cares.

 

God is the soul-stirring scream of a high-flown eagle. The joyful buzz of a honey bee. The arc of a brilliant rainbow that shines and brings new hope.

 

There is no escaping it. No running away. We are surrounded. God simply is

everywhere.

 

©PJ Yukon February 12 2024

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