Poetry

             Along the line of smokey hills

the crimson forest stands

W.W. Campbell “Indian Summer”

Wildfire Season

We have seen the smoke

come boiling crimson

in possession of our forests, 

insatiable in valleys, crest and crag

to raze our villages,

of high proud homes,

and homesteads humble,

villages entire,

to leave us wrecked

amidst the wreckage

as aristocrats or peasants

stared disbelieving from the tumbril

before the guillotine.

The grey shape with the paleolithic face

was still the master of the longitudes.

E.J. Pratt “Titanic”

Domain Poisoning

There is a bear-trap spring release

will catch the unsuspecting overconfident

who steps beyond decorum

in political

(and everything’s political)

domains.

Unless one lives immaculate,

conception to the grave,

there’ll be some incident

— just past puberty most likely —

that grips us in the darker hours

and under light of inquiry

offends

the grey and faceless guardians

(and everyone’s a guardian)

in righteousness indignation

of our own

or someone else's

sensibilities.

We look / like a geography

but just scratch us / and we bleed like / history

Miriam Waddington  “Canadians”

Geography

The seasons know geography

and eastward, rouse the land awake

from Vancouver Island daffodils

across the muskeg miles

to the last Atlantic winter storm

and iceberg melt off Twillingate.

Yet looking westward

other eyes can see

our history’s monuments of grief:

Acadia’s empty farms, the ruins

of citadels, the gun pits of Batoche

the Komagata Maru turned away,

and over all

the silent longhouse

emptied of its artifacts,

the children cloistered,

cultural amputees,

and know

what blood of history has stained

this quilted fabric of

our grand geography.

You fit into me/ like a hook into an eye

        a fish hook/ an open eye

Margaret Atwood  “you fit into me”

Entendres for Intendeds

Love idioms were made

for idiots in love,

for if you think

there is some deep

and heartfelt meaning

in these expressions

of your love,

you might unpack

the imagery 

after romance has gone,

as our own Margaret might.

"Hand in glove" for Bismark

"Head over heels" for Robespierre

"Tie the knot" in Alcatraz

"A soft spot in my heart" to Dr Barnard

"Have the hots" for Torquemeda

Well, now you've got the process

you may never again use these,

unsullied by the implications

in your entertaining mind, to say:

I've got a crush on you

who take my breath away

and tug at my heartstrings.

Be my main squeeze,

my flaming love

as in our burning desire

we take the plunge,

blinded by love.

Women and poems are my sole chance here

  to give expelled breath shape and contour

  and fable it with meaning.

  Irving Layton "The tamed puma"

Marking Time

I will believe in aging

when the chrysalis forgets

to manufacture wings

or clouds enumerate

the times they fell as rain;

and I will credit time

and counting years

when oceans calculate

their calendars of tides,

the heavens, constellations count,

or our own private moon

withholds its golden kiss

upon your always eager face

(that timeless, lifts my heart)

and lights our own forever way

through love’s eternity.