We present this work in honor of the 115th anniversary of the poet’s death.
William Henry Drummond
Canadian
1854 – 1907
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at do I see w’en I dream of you? A shore w’ere de water is racin’ by, A small boy lookin’, an’ wonderin’ w’y He can’t get fedder for goin’ fly Lak de hawk makin’ ring on de summer sky. Dat ‘s w’at I see.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at do I hear w’en i dream of you? Too many t’ing for sleepin’ well! De song of de ole tam cariole bell, De voice of dat girl from Sainte Angèle (I geev’ her a ring was mark “fidèle”) Dat ‘s what I hear.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at do I smoke w’en I dream of you? Havana cigar from across de sea, An’ get dem for not’ing too? No siree! Dere ‘s only wan kin’ of tabac for me. An’ it grow on de Rivière des Prairies- Dat ‘s what I smoke.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, How go I feel w’en I t’ink of you? Sick, sick for the ole place way back dere- An’ to sleep on ma own leetle room upstair W’ere de ghos’ on de chimley mak’ me scare I ‘d geev’ more monee dan I can spare- Dat ‘s how I feel.
Bord á Plouffe, Bord á Plouffe, W’at will I do w’en I ‘m back wit’ you? I ‘ll buy de farm of Bonhomme Martel, Long tam he ‘s been waitin’ a chance to sell, Den pass de nex’ morning on Sainte Angèle, An’ if she ‘s not marry -dat girl- very well, Dat ‘s w’at I ‘ll do.
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
A.M. Klein
Canadian
1909 – 1972
Bundled their bones, upon ninety-nine stairs – St. Joseph’s ladder – the knobs of penance come, the folded cripples counting up their prayers.
How rich, how plumped with blessing is that dome! The gourd of Brother André! His sweet days rounded! Fulfilled! Honeyed to honeycomb!
Whither the heads, upon the ninety-nine trays, the palsied, who double their aspen selves, the lame, the unsymmetrical, the dead-limbed, raise
their look, their hope, and the idée fixe of their maim, knowing their surgery’s in the heart. Are not the ransomed crutches worshipers? And the fame
of the brother sanatorial to this plot? God mindful of the sparrows on the stairs? Oh, to their faith this mountain of stairs, is not!
They know, they know, that suddenly their cares and orthopedics will fall from them, and they will stand whole again. Roll empty away, wheelchairs, and crutches, without armpits, hop away!
And I who in my own faith once had faith like this,
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 175th birthday.
Isabella Valancy Crawford Canadian 1846 – 1887
My masters twain made me a bed Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder Of dreams of rest; and me they spread With furry skins, and laughing said, ‘Now she shall lay her polish’d sides, As queens do rest, or dainty brides, Our slender lady of the tides!’
My masters twain their camp-soul lit, Streamed incense from the hissing cones, Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl’d Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl’d Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones, Half way about each grim bole knit, Like a shy child that would bedeck With its soft clasp a Brave’s red neck; Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, The awful plumes shake on his crest, And fearful drops his timid face, Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.
Into the hollow hearts of brakes, Yet warm from sides of does and stags, Pass’d to the crisp dark river flags; Sinuous, red as copper snakes, Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, Glided and hid themselves in night.
My masters twain, the slaughtered deer Hung on fork’d boughs—with thongs of leather. Bound were his stiff, slim feet together— His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; The wand’ring firelight drew near And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, On the sharp splendor of his branches; On the white foam grown hard and sere On flank and shoulder. Death—hard as breast of granite boulder, And under his lashes Peer’d thro’ his eyes at his life’s grey ashes.
My masters twain sang songs that wove (As they burnish’d hunting blade and rifle) A golden thread with a cobweb trifle— Loud of the chase, and low of love.
‘O Love, art thou a silver fish? Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, Casting at thee the light-wing’d wish, And at the last shall we bring thee up From the crystal darkness under the cup Of lily folden, On broad leaves golden?
‘O Love! art thou a silver deer, Swift thy starr’d feet as wing of swallow, While we with rushing arrows follow; And at the last shall we draw near, And over thy velvet neck cast thongs— Woven of roses, of stars, of songs? New chains all moulden Of rare gems olden!’
They hung the slaughter’d fish like swords On saplings slender—like scimitars Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, Blaz’d in the light—the scaly hordes.
They piled up boughs beneath the trees, Of cedar-web and green fir tassel; Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, The camp fire blush’d to the tender breeze.
The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty— Dream’d of the dead stag stout and lusty; A bat by the red flames wove its round.
The darkness built its wigwam walls Close round the camp, and at its curtain Press’d shapes, thin woven and uncertain, As white locks of tall waterfalls.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 160th birthday.
Archibald Lampman Canadian 1861 – 1899
The leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow. A little while And night shall darken down. In shouting file The woodmen’s carts go by me homeward-wheeled, Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed, Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow, Where the last ploughman follows still his row, Turning black furrows through the whitening field. Far off the village lamps begin to gleam, Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way; The hills grow wintry white, and bleak winds moan About the naked uplands. I alone Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor gray, Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 80th birthday.
Gwendolyn MacEwen Canadian 1941 – 1987
my friends, my sweet barbarians, there is that hunger which is not for food — but an eye at the navel turns the appetite round with visions of some fabulous sandwich, the brain’s golden breakfast eaten with beasts with books on plates
let us make an anthology of recipes, let us edit for breakfast our most unspeakable appetites — let us pool spoons, knives and all cutlery in a cosmic cuisine, let us answer hunger with boiled chimera and apocalyptic tea, an arcane salad of spiced bibles, tossed dictionaries — (O my barbarians we will consume our mysteries)
and can we, can we slake the gaping eye of our desires? we will sit around our hewn wood table until our hair is long and our eyes are feeble, eating, my people, O my insatiates, eating until we are no more able to jack up the jaws any longer —
to no more complain of the soul’s vulgar cavities, to gaze at each other over the rust-heap of cutlery, drinking a coffee that takes an eternity — till, bursting, bleary, we laugh, barbarians, and rock the universe — and exclaim to each other over the table over the table of bones and scrap metal over the gigantic junk-heaped table:
We present this work in honor of the 95th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Robert Stanley Weir Canadian 1856 – 1926
Unscathed as yet by battle-scars, Trampling the sad December’s snow, The Khaki lads on Champ de Mars Are girding for the distant foe. East with a dream comes marching by; Each all aflame for England’s fight. But O presaging heart, say why That sound of weeping in the night?
The Duke came down one frosty day And walked between the khaki ranks. Full grave his look. We heard him say: “Soldiers, the Empire gives you thanks. Love live the King! Our foes shall learn You stand with Him for simple right; And may God grant you safe return.” But still that sound all through the night!
O, marching from the Camp de Mars They cross the seas; they storm the trench, Fighting beneath the troubled stars With Belgians brave and valiant French; Fighting, till victory austere, Shall crush the Great Betrayer’s might. But O my beating heart, dost hear
We present this work in honor of World Elephant Day.
James McIntyre Canadian 1828 – 1906
On Ganges banks roams the tiger, And lion rules by the Niger, Hunder heard shrill cry of peacocks, In Indian jungles go in flocks.
And he saw tiger crouch and spring, To crush a bird with beauteous wing, But the tiger missed his aim, And he hung his head with shame.
Then there came a mighty crush, Of elephants rush through the bush, The tiger cat-like crouched on ground, And elephants rushed in with bound.
In front was baby elephant, To crush its bones did tiger want, But mother saw fierce forest ranger, And she gave a cry of danger.
Leader of herd he madly rushed, Resolved the tiger should be crushed, But tiger strove to run away, Willing to relinquish prey.
But when he found that he must fight, On elephant’s back he strove to light, But elephant struck him with his foot, And then with tusks he did him root.
So now once more must praise be sung, To beasts who nobly fight for young, And grateful feelings were now stirred, Towards the leader of the herd.
In honor of the Canadian holiday, Civic Day, we present this work by one of Canada’s most heartfelt poets.
Emile Nelligan Canadian 1879 – 1941
She was a massive ship, hewn in heavy gold, with masts that fingered heaven on seas unknown. Under redundant sun, with scattered hair, was prowed outspread Venus, bare;
but then one night she hit the huge reef in waters where the Sirens sing, and this ghastly shipwreck tilted its keel to the depths of the chasm, that immutable
tomb. She was a ship of gold, but her diaphanous flanks showed treasures over which the blasphemous sailors Psychosis, Spite and Nausea clashed.
So, what has survived this flash of storm? What about my heart, abandoned ship? …O, still it sinks, deep in Dream’s abyss.
Poets Corner 