Dutton Paul poet from Canada was born in 1943 has 82 years. Poems were written in Post modernism mainly in English language. Dominant movement is other.
Top ten poems Dutton Paul
dooley did
... a deed was doneduly done was the deed that was doneindeed dulya deed duly done was that deed the deed doneone done dulyand it was he that did the deed that did get donehe did it dulythat deed that he did was done dulyhe did thatthat is he that did that has done the deedand dulyyes dooleydooley did duly dobut dooley's dad what'd he dodid dooley's dad duly do the deed dooley didor did dooley duly do it did he dodooley didoh dooley dooley dooley dooley dooley dooley did did did did did did didand dooley's dad did the deed that dooley did tooit was due to dooley's dad that dooley did itin the dewdooley too did duly do the deed that dooley's dad didduly did dooley do ittwo through the dewthrough and throughthat deed that dooley did and dooley's dad did did dooleytrulythat that that that dad of dooley did do did do dooley and dooley did do it in the dew is trueand it'd do dooley to do it tooas it did do dooley to do itand dooley's dad toodooley and daddone ...
Should've
... 'd have me'n' love'd have us'n' we'd have love'n' you'n' I'n' love'n' I should've loved you, I guess ...
Visionary Portraits
... the ladies all wear white hatsresembling inverted bowlsfrom which depend veils slight of netted nylon white or greyish brown flecked in some cases not in others some longer covering more of the facesome of the hats ridged concentrically some unevenlyfrom inverted base to rimtheir eyes beneath the veilsare uniformly set upon the ground before themlowered as in reverencemouths all set in sombre linescurls tight about their neckssevereand neither particularly blond nor particularly blackthey move in processionone behind the otherbetween the low whiterailinged post fencesthat enclose the walkwayyet they are immobilemoving as though on an endless beltthey are not mannequinsthe walkway is concrete and does not movethese are not images of my motherher many faces that I loved and fearedher many hatsher single still lookher legsthey wear white gloves soft of cotton halfway to their elbows with small buttons at the opening held by a loop from the other side of the slitand their hands aretheir right hands areraisedall of themraised at different heightsexcept a few that are loweredor hand besideor behindor rest upon the railingwhich some of their left hands doleft hands of ladieswho are not images of my motherwith her gloved hand raisedabsently or in distractionby her cheekher right cheekher left hand on a railingor hovering above itor with just her fingers on ittheir tips that barely touch itthe railingthat is notthe railing the ladies move besidewith stationary legsin the white daylightwhere the image is drawn outthrough the wordsthe linesthe ladies all wear dressesthat hang looselyand have a slight sheenand are tied at the waist with a slender beltand reach to the middle of their calvesand hang straightexcept where pulled in by the beltand none of the dresses areparticularly brightor particularly dulland hang above stockingsthat are nylontransparentseameddark at the anklethe darkness beginningrectangularlyjust above the top of the shoecurving down thenbroadening outaround the(and now you can't see thisit's inside the shoe)the smooth roundness of the heel their heels the ladies' heelsand narrowing along the creased solethe dark nylon equal in distancefrom either side of the seam along the sole their soles the ladies' solesand widening at the toesto come around and gather at the top of the toeswhich stick out at the front of the shoeswhich have thick solesand high heels that are also thickthe shoes black or brown or white or beigeor both of some of theseor neitheror nonebut are not particularly brightnot particularly dulland which have holes in the front for the toes to stick outwhich are not the kind of shoes my mother ever worewho wore stocklings nylon transparent seamedthe darkness beganrectangularlynone of the ladiesare particularly fator particularly skinnyand all stand with one foot either the left or the rightin front of the otheror else stand with both feet togetheron the concrete walkwayenclosed by white fenceswith railings where all their gloved hands lingerand those whose hands do not linger theremoveas they all moveon the narrow concrete walkwaysthat intersect a large field of green lawnkept thick and short and lushacross which the ladies do not movedo not crush the plush lawn beneath their shoesdo not turn it brown nor wear it down to white sandand are silentalong the several intersecting walkwayslaid out in straight linesthat never curveare perfectas the colours are perfect perfect white of fences perfect green of lawn which is not there: only perfect white space beyond the perfect straight lines of the concrete walkwaysand no one is thereis somewhere elsewatching the ladiesfrom a distanceand at some heightseeing them in lines that crossthe beige and near white glare of sandwhere the other walkways do not intersectthe walkways the ladies are onbut do intersect each otherso that the men remainapart from the ladiesand hurry intentlynot caring about their destinationsbetween the perfect white fences of walkwaysrunning parallel tothe walkways where the ladies areor at angles to themturning sharplyjust where they would intersecttaking off in other directionsacross the lush green expanse of glaring whitethe men all wear suits and shirtsand vests and hatsthat are different shades of brown and grey and blackand do not care where they are goingwearing stern expressions mouths set foreheads creased eyes fixed towards their earnest goalstheir vests conceal suspendersconceal much of the ties they are wearsome of them with their shirts open at the collartieless and vestlesstheir pants held up by beltsand all of them wearing hats with brimsor no hats at alland their hair is combed back flatand is blackor dark brownalways either one or the other or something in betweenbut never sandy or blondthe men wear their suitcoats severely buttonedflapping openas they proceed with swift pacescoats open to reveal tightly buttoned vestsloose shirtscollars openwith no tiesat the necks of their close-fitting shirtsbuttoned upto where the expert windsor knots occurin the ties that hang over their shirtsthat do in places stick with sweat to their bodiesin the day's heatthe cool airthat keeps the shirts from sticking to their bodiesas they hurryso unlike my fatherwho never hurriedalways hurriedknew where he was goingwent therenever arrived where he really would have liked toand wore a moustachewhich he always shaved offthe men do not wear moustachesdo not know where they are goingare frozenand are not like my father always wearing a moustache and a hat and a suit flapping open to reveal a severely buttoned vest although his face was kind and he never really knew his destinationthe men dressed in dark bluein light blackor greyor brownand most of them wear moustachesand are not images of my fathertheir faces sternintentandfor the most partkindtheir shirts whitelight bluelight checkedlight brownnever intensely colouredthere is nothing intense about any of themexcept those that press their waypast the slower onesstretching their right hands out to clear a passagethrough the long line of menall of whom move at exactly the same pacefrozen in postures of hasteforever stoppedin progress towards goals they don't knowand don't wantso intenselythe men wear expressions that are set and firmand bear signs of painhorrorangerfearas my father's set expression didalthough they are not like my fathernone of them arealthough they wear shoes like hisas they stroll through the walkwaysshoes black or dark brownin one plain stylelow-heeledlow-backedthe toe-piece attachedto the body of the shoewhich has twelve eyeletssix on either side or perhaps ten five on either sidefor the lacesthat hold the shoes onshoes out of which arisesocks of varying coloursall of which are bright ranging through dark blue or grey dark red or olive light brown perhapssocks that hold tightto the shape of the anklethe lower calf their calves the men's calvessocks without creases or rollsheld up by tiny leather garterson elastic strapsenormous garterson a belt that encircles the huge musclesof the back of the lower legwhich is very whiteand slender their legs the men's legswhite and faintly lined with blue veinsnone of the men are particularly fator particularly skinnybut have paunches all of them most of them some of them have paunchesand appear angrythey all donone of them ever reaching the ladiesthe many narrow walkwayscrossing and not curvingthe ones the men are innever intersecting the ones the ladies are inthe men with their eyes set upon the ground before themlowered as in reverencenot reaching the ladieswhose dresses are buttoned to their throatsad whose eyes are fixed intentlyon a point somewhere in front of themand they are neither are neither the men nor the ladies areimages of my parents ...
