PEOPLE'S CHOICE
SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke,
And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena,
And the skid-roads blind, and never a look
In my body flows the blood of Gallic
Bastille stormers and the soft, gentle
ways of Salish/Cree womanhood.
Calved from a glacier near Godhaven coast,
It left the fiord for the sea — a host
Of white flotillas gathering in its wake,
You are still on the highway and the great light of
noon comes over the asphalt, the gravelled
shoulders. You are on the highway, there is a kind of
At the beginning I noticed
the huge stones on my path
I knew instinctively
dont worry yr eyes
dont worry yr brain man th snow is
More than a storey high and twice that long,
it looks igneous, the Buhler Versatile 2360,
possessed of the ecology of some …
There are things you have words for, things you do not
have words for. There are words that encompass all your
feelings & words that…
Thou poem of lost attention and half try,
do you fear more the inner world or outer?
I do…
Sometimes a voice — have you heard this? —
wants not to be voice any longer, wants something
whispering between the words, some
The sky, lit up like a question or
an applause meter, is beautiful
like everything else today: the leaves
The air smells of rhubarb, occasional
Roses, or first birth of blossoms, a fresh,
Undulant hurt, so body snaps…
The willows are thinking again about thickness,
slowness, lizard skin on hot rock,
and day by day this imaging transforms them
Hello, listen, I’m on a field phone, do not speak until I say “over.”
Repeat, don’t talk until I say “over.” Over. Do you understand,
1
In view of the fading animals
the proliferation of sewers and fears
Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink
this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism,
disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks — impish
He, who navigated with success
the dangerous river of his own birth
once more set forth
For everyone
The swimmer's moment at the whirlpool comes,
But many at that moment will not say
The train has stopped for no apparent reason
In the wilds;
A frozen lake is level and fretted over
Our life is like a forest, where the sun
Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves;
Living, I had no might
To make you hear,
Now, in the inmost night,
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
What if the sun comes out
And the new furrows do not look smeared?
This is April, and the sumach candles
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
A startled stag, the blue-grey Night,
Leaps down beyond black pines.
Behind — a length of yellow light —
For weeks and weeks the autumn world stood still,
Clothed in the shadow of a smoky haze;
The fields were dead, the wind had lost its will,
