Since its the 20th Anniversary of the CPA to show our gratitude to our membership we added to the HM list. After all its all about the promotion of Canadian poetry... and many thanks to everyone who submitted to the contest!
by Kate Marshall Flaherty Spinnaker's Run by D. Allard Tea at Jubilee Manor by Linda Crosfield Lost In Wisdom's Sleeve by Walter Robert Allan Serendipity by Norma West-Linder Persephone, What Prayer - for Rainer Maria Rilke by Richard Vallance East West Passage by D. Allard Sagging by Bernice Lever Acadie! by Donna Allard Shelter in the Icestorm by Marion Beck Bouncing Along by Walter Robert Allan Walking On Water by D. Allard
Coordinator Trish Shields BC |
On Looking at a Krieghoff Exhibition
by Kate Marshall Flaherty
In the luminous white
of snow blobs stark against the grey mauve sky,
children skitter on ice to fetch a bucket
where horse hoof and dog collide
I am lost
in the tiny pinprick bead lines
painted into a minuscule moccasin,
the hair wisp of an ice fishing line.
I am drawn into
the infinitesimal detail
of a stack of logs, Hudson Bay coat,
Indian blanket, a stand of naked trees.
(Those same three sashed fellows pop up, again,
hooded, happy, fixed forever rosy in their carefree sled.)
Now imagine the crimson raw
of a baby’s angry toes
in the crust-frozen booties;
the snot of the chopper
breathing ice into his beard and sweaty lip
as he flails his might to cut a cord by dusk;
the grown of the mother as
she heaves her sloshing slop bucket
out from the steamy house and
wipes the greasy fish guts and bloody slime scales
from her embroidered apron.
She sighs for her lost child.
by Kate Marshall Flaherty
In the luminous white
of snow blobs stark against the grey mauve sky,
children skitter on ice to fetch a bucket
where horse hoof and dog collide
I am lost
in the tiny pinprick bead lines
painted into a minuscule moccasin,
the hair wisp of an ice fishing line.
I am drawn into
the infinitesimal detail
of a stack of logs, Hudson Bay coat,
Indian blanket, a stand of naked trees.
(Those same three sashed fellows pop up, again,
hooded, happy, fixed forever rosy in their carefree sled.)
Now imagine the crimson raw
of a baby’s angry toes
in the crust-frozen booties;
the snot of the chopper
breathing ice into his beard and sweaty lip
as he flails his might to cut a cord by dusk;
the grown of the mother as
she heaves her sloshing slop bucket
out from the steamy house and
wipes the greasy fish guts and bloody slime scales
from her embroidered apron.
She sighs for her lost child.
| © Copyright 2006-08 Canadian Poetry Association. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed in any form without permission from the CPA. Authors retain copyright. |
The Charcoal Burners
by Kate Marshall Flaherty
The calypso beat rumbles my spine
We sit, crammed sweaty
in this greasy minivan.
Buju Banton blares behind the chicken squawk
coming from a raffia bag
between bowed legs.
A soft lap cradles nutmeg and mace,
pungent spices mix with the sharp smell of sweat
and some woman voice “eh eh” punctuates the bumps
of this wild Cliffside banana road.
Potholes like death.
When we screech and jolt to a halt, the oranges
tumble on top of the moaning fowl.
Scoa snaps to silence.
Down the precipice, under palm shade
the charcoal burners squat
while their foul incense
wafts up like a snuffed taper.
What skunk garbage are they burning?
When the diesel cloud clears
we rumble on again and I see
the crocked finger, like a statue fragment,
beckoning grey from the dust.
by Kate Marshall Flaherty
The calypso beat rumbles my spine
We sit, crammed sweaty
in this greasy minivan.
Buju Banton blares behind the chicken squawk
coming from a raffia bag
between bowed legs.
A soft lap cradles nutmeg and mace,
pungent spices mix with the sharp smell of sweat
and some woman voice “eh eh” punctuates the bumps
of this wild Cliffside banana road.
Potholes like death.
When we screech and jolt to a halt, the oranges
tumble on top of the moaning fowl.
Scoa snaps to silence.
Down the precipice, under palm shade
the charcoal burners squat
while their foul incense
wafts up like a snuffed taper.
What skunk garbage are they burning?
When the diesel cloud clears
we rumble on again and I see
the crocked finger, like a statue fragment,
beckoning grey from the dust.
| Place Of Endurance by Peggy Fletcher This the house of bruised egos, pain flowers in dark patches on pale skin. Sorrow rises. Through thin walls, notes on a demented violin play themselves out. They still drown baby girls in some cultures men thank God each day they were not born female. The veil is ordered to deter lust. Yet here in our own territory we are declared castrators. Bitter words flung down the halls of the betrayed. Rage fills the throat like unwanted semen, force-fed in the act of rape. Blessed are they without wombs. Blessed are the rule makers. Terror reigns. Fear subsides, I, Eve, child centered, woman wise welcome you to the middle of my obsession, here where the air is alive with grief, here in a crystal clear antechamber to death lie the forgotten victims. Dark anger pulses through veins of the defeated.. Freud called it penis envy. He doubted his patients claims, declared then hysterics, yet on the pages of his hidden journals he entombed his own undeclared intolerance. The seeds of incest and immorality were born in the Garden harvesting deceit. From the beginning, the curse of all women has served all men, was planted, re-inforced by nature. You who have taken part in this loveless horror story, in the name of the defiled, hear me. Even as my sisters cover up their flesh to absolve partners, hear me. I, Eve, cry for all of you, you are the focus of my attention, a merry-go-round of faces turning endlessly. Newly rounded forms to be plucked, consumed, like ripe apples, their tender flesh scarred by violence. World weary, the God-force waits as cold and hostile acts pile up like snow, where females lie frozen in deep crisis, unwilling to stop their own destruction, unable to lift their bruised selves to the sun. The Garden withers. Women weep. Men prey, pray. |
| REASONS to read poetry |
| Association Canadiennede la Poesie |
| Poetry ContestWinners 20th Anniversary 2005 |
