All Poems
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Liturgy: Visiting P.K.
© Meyer Bruce
There is a woman floating in a windowTransparentChristmas wreaths in passing housesShine now in eye and now in hair, in heart.-- P.K. Page, "Reflection in a Train Window"
The Ferry to South Baymouth
© Meyer Bruce
My daughter's eyes are blue as Georgian Bayand sparkle with the glint of tiny starsthat define each wave on a summer's day;
Chinatown
© Meyer Bruce
A summer rain falls and dampens the smellof limp brown bok choy draped from boxescollected on the curbside of Spadina Avenueas an old woman turns over a ripe durian,touching its spines with a scientific curiosityand feeling its flesh for soft spots in the green
A Canticle for Canis
© Meyer Bruce
I rise to shut the window but dawn won't let me go back to dreaming, so I watch rain falling on the lawn, and your breath is softly syncopated.
Tom Deadlight (1810)
© Herman Melville
During a tempest encountered homeward-bound from the Mediterranean, a grizzled petty-officer, one of the two captains of the forecastle, dying at night in his hammock, swung in the sick-bay under the tiered gun-decks of the British Dreadnought, 98, wandering in his mind, though with glimpses of sanity, and starting up at whiles, sings by snatches his good-bye and last injunctions to two messmates, his watchers, one of whom fans the fevered tar with the flap of his old sou'-wester
Shiloh: A Requiem (April, 1862)
© Herman Melville
Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly lowOver the field in clouded days, The forest-field of Shiloh --Over the field where April rainSolaced the parched ones stretched in painThrough the pause of nightThat followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh --The church so lone, the log-built one,That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there --Foemen at morn, but friends at eve -- Fame or country least their care:(What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low,While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh
The Portent (1859)
© Herman Melville
Hanging from the beam, Slowly swaying (such the law),Gaunt the shadow on your green, Shenandoah!The cut is on the crown (Lo, John Brown),And the stabs shall heal no more.
The March into Virginia Ending in the First Manassas (July, 1861)
© Herman Melville
Did all the lets and bars appear To every just or larger end,Whence should come the trust and cheer? Youth must its ignorant impulse lend --Age finds place in the rear
The Berg (A Dream)
© Herman Melville
I saw a ship of martial build(Her standards set, her brave apparel on)Directed as by madness mereAgainst a stolid iceberg steer,Nor budge it, though the infatuate ship went down
Young Canada, or Jack's as Good as his Master
© McLachlan Alexander
I love this land of forest grand! The land where labour's free;Let others roam away from home, Be this the land for me!Where no one moils, and strains and toils, That snobs may thrive the faster;And all are free, as men should be, And Jack's as good's his master!
Where none are slaves, that lordly knaves May idle all the year;For rank and caste are of the past,-- They'll never flourish here!And Jew or Turk if he'll but work, Need never fear disaster;He reaps the crop he sowed in hope, For Jack's as good's his master
Woman
© McLachlan Alexander
When my gloomy hour comes on me, And I shun the face of man,Finding bitterness in all things, As vex'd spirits only can:
We Live in a Rickety House
© McLachlan Alexander
We live in a rickety house, In a dirty dismal street,Where the naked hide from day, And thieves and drunkards meet.
We Lean on One Another
© McLachlan Alexander
Oh, come and listen while I sing A song of human nature;For, high or low, we're all akin To ev'ry human creature:We're all the children of the same, The great, the "mighty mother,"And from the cradle to the grave We lean on one another
Up and Be a Hero
© McLachlan Alexander
Up my friend, be bold and true,There is noble work to do,Hear the voice which calls on you, "Up, and be a hero!"
Ontario
© McLachlan Alexander
O far away from my forest home,In the land of the stranger I must roam;And sigh amid flowers and trailing vines,For mine own rude land of lakes and pines
