A need has arisen.

[Guest]

I feel - as a Canadian citizen - the need to expose our poets, new and old. I hope other canucks in here will add their own favourites and, of course, any of you unfortunates who are not from here but lucky enough to have found and enjoyed (a) Canadian poet(s).

Starting with Milton Acorn

I Shout Love

I shout love in a blizzard's
scarf of curling cold,
for my heart's a furred sharp-toothed thing
that rushes out whimpering
when pain cries the sign writ on it.

I shout love into your pain
when skies crack and fall
like slivers of mirrors,
and rounded fingers, blued as a great rake,
pluck the balled yarn of your brain.

I shout love at petals peeled open
by stern nurse fusion-bomb sun,
terribly like an adhesive bandage,
for love and pain, love and pain
are companions in this age.


June, 1958.

​

 

[flyguy69]

THE SWIMMING POOL
By Lorna Crozier

I used to be such
a swimmer, surface diving
to the loud blue hum around the grates,
following the lines and cracks
that led to a cave I could
never find the entrace to,
ears aching. All summer
without shoes, my feet
brown otters pulled me
from the earth. There was a
birth-gleam all over me,
a loss of language, my mouth
an anemone that opened, closed,
my sex unfurling in the broken
light that stroked me underwater.

Now the ticket window's boarded up
and barbed wire bites
the wooden fence I used to climb
at night to be alone
in the blue-green shimmer
stretched taut by moonlight.

Sometimes a boy dropped
from the darkness
above the diving board
and swam beside me, a strange boy
I'd never seen at school.
We moved together, a pair of wings
unfolding, my new breasts
in his mouth or the mouth of the water.

By late August, beetles fell
from somewhere in the sky,
the click of their bodies
on cement like seconds ticking.
My fingers drummed down his belly
as we counted them.

I splashed and tumbled
through every morning lesson
and told no one
I was there
where I shouldn't have been
at night, beetles falling
like walnuts from a tall black tree.

 

[Angeline]

Carole Glasser Langille

Women at Forty

The days are theirs to move through
where all motion smoulders.
Clothes slip off them
and colours fill the lakes of their bodies.
Sun dissolves in hair.
No matter what they carry
the world holds them in its grip
simply because, they have a way to loosen love.


They way they open a blouse, for example,
or open doors, certain, in some room
of some wonderful adventure.
They believe in their bodies,
believe love can deepen,
houses will be cheaper,
on each walk they are growing younger,
in each new house the foundation will be stronger.


Behind them, a world that moves
too slow. They no longer seek
what they do not want, or flaunt
what they begin, or search for those
who do not need them. They know what,
besides time, haunts sleep,
what is moving away
and what keeps coming closer.


Women at forty are the end of summer,
lakes swollen with warm water,
eel grass. They border fall
where they will have to say goodbye
to long evenings. Now, at the height of the year,
nights chill slightly, nights filled
with summer skies - the Big Dipper,
the Pleiades, bodies blazing.


They still believe
they will not relive the past,
though some days,yelling at their children,
they know already they are their mothers,
with the old aches, the old affinities. They do not yet know
even old women search. That one day
the future will be dark and will swim behind them, unhanding them.
They will be cold in winter, cold in summer.

 

[bogusbrig]

A NEED HAS ARISEN?

I have a need arising quite often so I just wondered....

OK I'm showing the depth of my mind.

 

[Guest]

Joy Kogawa

Note to a Gentleman (not aimed at bb)


The time
to talk about your wife
is before


It is the difference
between a shield
and a sword

And if you want the battle
to be fought without arms
bring her with you

 

[Angeline]

I'm really liking Carole Glasser Langille

great thread PoeTess.

When You're Not Here and When You Are

Waking early, alone,
I crave the ripening hay in your field,
the smell of weeds tangled in brine, and along
the inland road, honeysuckle, sharp as juice
sucked from raw crabs by the cove.


Oh, the fine wet inside of your flowers
in your field after rain. The acrostic
of sifting earth with moist fingers, separating
essence from essence, a pebble
rolling in soil. I could lie around all day


wanting the brush of your lips. Between your lips,
the dark field meets a night sky. I am inside
each ragged breath and the pause between. Your legs-
a bridge to the twilight where, overhead,
stars pulse. On such cold nights
you take me as if I were spice in your coffee,
stir me, your beautiful strong arms,
your unbearable aching. I rely on the warmth of your voice
to illuminate the dark. Like a forest
that parts and cinches a road.


A clasp undone. The cat purrs.
A rustling as the leaves stir.
In the yielding light,
a pale sky warms. There.
The grassy rise is splashed with rain.

 

[Guest]

great thread PoeTess.

When You're Not Here and When You Are
<clip>.......

I love this one! Truly erotic, to my mind.

Thanks.

 

[Tzara]

bill bissett

th kaptin sd he was mercurial

Definitely an acquired taste.

 

[Guest]

th kaptin sd he was mercurial

Definitely an acquired taste.

Something tells he's been seen in these hallowed halls.

a violent prson

is marreed 2 a changling

th changling can adapt
can sumtimez radikalee b
on her his gud side evreethings
going swimminglee sumtimez
get shit whn he she runs out
uv prsonas masks goez 2
th closet n thers nothing

hanging ther can b myself he
she thinks thn thats th feer
that th punishment will cum
fr sure if he she cant leev her
him self fast enuff breeth b
call her him n start packing

him her self is alredee enuff
is alredee fine is alredee all ther
can go now can b now she he is
sew flexibul now who 2 trust or
2 find discovr

a mountin sliding in2 th sand
sumwun who wud stay yu cud
with hold n they cud find yu they
wudint leev n yu wud bcum all
ther with them not that

thers anee all ther

th changling writes lettrs 2 her him
selvs in th ambr waves n touchinglee
with love keeps th nite


I wonder what his Lit name is.

 

[flyguy69]

th kaptin sd he was mercurial

Definitely an acquired taste.

I cn c y u linked it!

 

[Angeline]

I love this one! Truly erotic, to my mind.

Thanks.

I think darkmaas told me about her once, but I just rediscovered (or discovered) her thanks to your thread. I find her writing very sensual.

One more, just for you. (I think it's my favorite.)

Not In the Warm Earth
Carol Glasser Langille

This is where we come
to find our parents.
In the fine cloth. In the neat hand. Did you
make this for me, mother? Are you
proud, father? Though I didn't
hit the ball, though I didn't
go to meetings.


I lived mostly in my dreams. Remember,
I would go into the yard, my bike
a horse. I'd race. I'd vault
fences. By the time I got home,
I'd crossed the border,
was in my late thirties, children
holding both my hands.
New lock on an old door.


This is where we find our parents,
white water rafting down rapids
in the same boat we're in.
But it tips, it turns over.
I can't save them.


In the middle of the night
they wake me. They tell me I've made mistake
after mistake. They're worried.
I get up. Heat milk. Tell them
I visit often. Am still touched
by incandescent moments
of their great caring, their heroic endeavours.
I know how hard it was to live
in that house. In that life.


"But, mother, it's late. Father, you're dead, it's time
you were asleep. When you do visit
you don't have to rattle the doors.
Knock gently, I'll be listening. Tell me
why you have come. What can I give you?"

 

[Angeline]

P.K. Page

This Heavy Craft

The wax has melted
but the dream of flight
persists.
I, Icarus, though grounded
in my flesh
have one bright section in me
where a bird
night after starry night
while I'm asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
and practices.

 

[Guest]

I think darkmaas told me about her once, but I just rediscovered (or discovered) her thanks to your thread. I find her writing very sensual.

One more, just for you. (I think it's my favorite.)

Not In the Warm Earth
Carol Glasser Langille

Why am I not surprised you like this one?

Dark Pines Under Water

By Gwendolyn MacEwen

This land like a mirror turns you inward
And you become a forest in a furtive lake;
The dark pines of your mind reach downward,
You dream in the green of your time,
Your memory is a row of sinking pines.

Explorer, you tell yourself this is not what you came for
Although it is good here, and green;
You had meant to move with a kind of largeness,
You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.

But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper
And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper
In an elementary world;
There is something down there and you want it told.

 

[Tzara]

Amour Immaculé
Émile Nelligan

Je sais en une église un vitrail merveilleux
Où quelque artiste illustre, inspiré des archanges,
A peint d'une façon mystique, en robe à franges,
Le front nimbé d'un astre, une Sainte aux yeux bleus.

Le soir, l'esprit hanté de rêves nébuleux
Et du céleste écho de récitals étranges,
Je m'en viens la prier sous les lueurs oranges
De la lune qui luit entre ses blonds cheveux.

Telle sur le vitrail de mon coeur je t'ai peinte,
Ma romanesque aimée, ô pâle et blonde sainte,
Toi, la seule que j'aime et toujours aimerai;

Mais tu restes muette, impassible, et, trop fière,
Tu te plais à me voir, sombre et désespéré,
Errer dans mon amour comme en un cimetière!

 

[Tzara]

Amour Immaculé
Émile Nelligan

Je sais en une église un vitrail merveilleux
Où quelque artiste illustre, inspiré des archanges,
A peint d'une façon mystique, en robe à franges,
Le front nimbé d'un astre, une Sainte aux yeux bleus.

Le soir, l'esprit hanté de rêves nébuleux
Et du céleste écho de récitals étranges,
Je m'en viens la prier sous les lueurs oranges
De la lune qui luit entre ses blonds cheveux.

Telle sur le vitrail de mon coeur je t'ai peinte,
Ma romanesque aimée, ô pâle et blonde sainte,
Toi, la seule que j'aime et toujours aimerai;

Mais tu restes muette, impassible, et, trop fière,
Tu te plais à me voir, sombre et désespéré,
Errer dans mon amour comme en un cimetière!

Oh, dear. Quoting myself. How low have I fallen?

Hey, people! I wasn't trying to kill the thread, just trying to recognize that Canadian poetry is not just Anglophone, ya know. Give the Québécois et Québécoise a shot at this also!

So, um, here is my undoubtedly very bad and inaccurate translation of the Nelligan poem I posted earlier. Those of you who can actually read French, please correct me:

Immaculate Love

I know a church with a marvellous window
of stained glass where some great artist,
inspired by angels, painted in mysterious manner
a fringed robe, a brow haloed by star,
a saint with blue eyes.

At night my spirit, haunted by vague dreams
and celestial echoes of strange songs,
comes to pray under the orange glow
of the moon that shines on her blonde hair.

On the leaded window of my heart I paint you,
my romantic love, my pale blonde saint.
You, the one I love and will always love.

But you remain mute, impassive, and too proud.
You are pleased to see me somber, desperate,
wandering in love as in a graveyard.​

 

[Guest]

Oh, dear. Quoting myself. How low have I fallen?

Hey, people! I wasn't trying to kill the thread, just trying to recognize that Canadian poetry is not just Anglophone, ya know. Give the Québécois et Québécoise a shot at this also!

So, um, here is my undoubtedly very bad and inaccurate translation of the Nelligan poem I posted earlier. Those of you who can actually read French, please correct me:

Immaculate Love

I know a church with a marvellous window
of stained glass where some great artist,
inspired by angels, painted in mysterious manner
a fringed robe, a brow haloed by star,
a saint with blue eyes.

At night my spirit, haunted by vague dreams
and celestial echoes of strange songs,
comes to pray under the orange glow
of the moon that shines on her blonde hair.

On the leaded window of my heart I paint you,
my romantic love, my pale blonde saint.
You, the one I love and will always love.

But you remain mute, impassive, and too proud.
You are pleased to see me somber, desperate,
wandering in love as in a graveyard.​

"Haloed" that's what 'nimbe' means??? I've been trying to think of it all afternoon - now I'm hungry and supper's ready.

P.S. I like this poem in both languages.

 

[Guest]

Oh, and here's another Canadian poet I like.

A Man From France

By Susan Musgrave

He’s a dancer
he makes you wild

he dances the dance of
lonely women

he’s a deserter.

I lived with him
he made me smile

that was enough for me
but not enough for those
French ladies.

Bitches, they were brought up
differently.

They wanted a man to marry,
a man to bury.

They didn’t want Harry.

 

[SeattleRain]

damn, my hub bought me a book of translated French Canadian poetry when we were on our honeymoon up there.....damn it had some great stuff in it! where the heck is it? Tess, have you seen it?

 

[Tzara]

"Haloed" that's what 'nimbe' means?

Actually, nimbé.

And, no, I have no clue as to what it means. Some dictionary plunked that out for me (I'd just love to say something here about runnels of spunk, my personal favorite phrase of the year, but ya know time constraints and all...). I am assumin' that's correct. My translation depends upon it.

I am still hopeful that someone who actually knows French can clarify this. This translation is largely guesswork on my part.

Nice thread, though.

 

[Tzara]

The Strange Moth
Louis Dudek

Last night, against the white wall, by the bed-post
....I saw a light-brown moth
angled like a broken umbrella,
..............silently resting.
Not beautiful, not frightening,
....but very strange and original.
How he got into the house I cannot imagine,
.......but I left him there

no doubt he had come to die

 

[Angeline]

Morgan's Bones
Jill Battson

When Frank said
____put something of you in the place
he plunged me into a rest-of-the day funk
like I could never be the jazz-loosened loose bone thing he is
the improv that jazz is all about
a conversation that moves across the stage
lightening moments between the instruments
as the response is rethought
the voice that jazz speaks
____tell me in that voice

When Frank plays his horn
it's like yesterday never happened
or tomorrow doesn't need thinking about
the music is just there, his breath following the voice
his fingers squeezing the notes
melody he sees on his darkened retina
like nothing written and everything felt
when Frank says
____Always leave room to do what's in your heart
I feel squeezed like an exhalation of breath
like I cannot do what he does
even with my words

When Frank plays live
I am hearing the breathy intake of air beneath music
the tack of saliva between tongue and reed
a cushioned tap of brass keys
his life's history in the metallic edge of methadone
I am hearing a life lived, a man learning
I am hearing Bird and Miles and Louis
in countless hotel rooms and back alleys, the weed urine aroma
when Frank says
____I'm no good at taking care of myself
I remember Thelonius with his wife packing a cardboard suitcase
and Frank's toffee skin, the reed leaning bottom teeth
I know it's too late for me to live that life

When Frank's music envelopes me
in 7am rising light, the Chamisa blooming in my breathing
I am driving up through mountains, along the high road past Chimayo
carried away with the salty extravagance of sound
the smooth quality of knowing one's heart
remembrance of love lost and regained
a floating cushion of familiarity
and Frank's notes breathing across a landscape serene
the modulated security of distance
when Frank says
____All I want to do is rehearse my craft
I understand the need for selfishness
the quality of genius

 

[darkmaas]

This Poem Contains Nudity

Write me, it whispers,
inviting. Write me now.

Oh, I couldn’t, I say. I am shy.
I hardly know you.
Your conventions, your breath.
It is too intimate.

Tiptoe through me in ankle bracelets.
Pluck my lines from vines like grapes
and hold me in your mouth.
I want you to know me
from the inside.

I am scared.

In its unwritten state, the poem
is naked, stripped of clothes, of body.
It has no shame, exists without form,
wants a body to enter the world wit, any body.

The poem isn’t coy, it is wide open.
I am the prude, the one
trying to fit its huge expanse of self through this
small inky orifice.

Write me, it whispers.
Write me now.


Ronna Bloom

 

[Guest]

Hello, Mr D. For you ~

the perfect Canadians

By Earle Birney

out in every weather
they never complain
tactiturn perhaps but honest
& though inclined to live in built-up areas
they love flowers lawns trees
and are friends to the smallest creatures

law-abiding they are never known to rob
fight rape or play pinball
in crowds they form queues
& keep to them
never smoke drink take drugs
will volunteer their names at once
ages war service next of kin
& any opinions they might have
or had
about immortality
now that they are all
in the cemetery

Oh! Is the really us?

 

[eagleyez]

Joni Mitchell

"coyote"

 

[Angeline]

Write me, it whispers,
inviting. Write me now.

Oh, I couldn’t, I say. I am shy.
I hardly know you.
Your conventions, your breath.
It is too intimate.

Tiptoe through me in ankle bracelets.
Pluck my lines from vines like grapes
and hold me in your mouth.
I want you to know me
from the inside.

I am scared.

In its unwritten state, the poem
is naked, stripped of clothes, of body.
It has no shame, exists without form,
wants a body to enter the world wit, any body.

The poem isn’t coy, it is wide open.
I am the prude, the one
trying to fit its huge expanse of self through this
small inky orifice.

Write me, it whispers.
Write me now.


Ronna Bloom

Ronna Bloom! Not Carole Langille, Ronna Bloom!

Carole's good though, huh?