Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

27 June 2023

Canada's First Telefome Pome?


These past few weeks have been remarkably busy, which explains how it is that I've read and reviewed just one old, forgotten book this month. Sadly, that volume is John Wesley White's The Man From Krypton.

Heaven help me.

And yet somehow, despite it all, I found time yesterday to thumb through Sacred Songs, Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems, an 1886 collection by John Imrie (1836-1903).

I wonder what the poet, a staunch Presbyterian, might've made of White's interpretation and misrepresentation of the Holy Bible and Superman: The Movie. I expect he would have been mystified. Imrie died in Toronto three years before the first motion picture was screened in that city, thirty-eight years before Action Comics #1, and long before televangelists took to the air.

John Imrie was obviously of a very different time, as reflected in his Sacred Songs, etc. Amongst the 210 pages – referencing orphan boys, newspaper boys, Sunday school teachers, and the Knights of Labour – is this unusual and unexpected verse. It's not brilliant, but it is delightful. To think that when 'A Kiss Through the Telephone' was published, Bell's invention had been available commercially just six years.

Enjoy!

A Bonus (for the musically inclined):

Related post:

24 June 2023

'Juin' par William Chapman



Verse for the day and month by son of Saint-François-de-Beauce William Chapman from Les fleurs de givre (Paris: Éditions de la Revue des poètes, 1912).

JUIN
Très tard le soleil sombre à l’horizon fumant,
Qui garde dans la nuit ses luisantes traînées.
Le fécond Prairial sous un clair firmament
Prodigue la splendeur des plus longues journées.

Une flamme de vie emplit l’immensité.
Le bleu de l’eau miroite... Adieu la nostalgie!
L’Été s’épanouit dans toute sa beauté,
Dans toute sa verdeur et toute sa magie.

Des vagues de lumière inondent les halliers;
Les oiseaux de leurs chants enivrent les bocages,
Et, gais et turbulents comme eux, les écoliers
— Les vacances ont lui — s’évadent de leurs cages.

Sur les arbres, les fleurs, les ondes, les sillons,
Partout nous entendons vibrer l’âme des choses...
Nous voyons par milliers éclore papillons,
Anémones et lis, trèfles, muguets et roses.

Et l’écureuil criard et le bouvreuil siffleur
De nos vastes forêts font tressaillir les dômes...
Les pruniers, les sureaux, les pommiers, sont en fleur,
Et nul mois canadien ne verse autant d’aromes.

Des souffles caressants frangent nos grandes eaux.
Un invisible encens flotte sur chaque grève;
Et, tels les pins, les foins, les mousses, les roseaux,
Nous sentons en nous plus de chaleur, plus de sève.

Nous aimons mieux nos bois, nos champs; nous aimons mieux
Nos pères, dont le culte à nos foyers persiste...
Et dans l’air embaumé vibre l’écho joyeux
Des chants et des vivats de la Saint-Jean-Baptiste.

Bonne fête!

31 December 2022

'The Dying Year' by S. Frances Harrison



THE DYING YEAR
               The old year dies! Of this be sure,
                     The old leaves rot beneath the snow.
                     The old skies falter from the blow
               Dealt by the heavens that shall endure
                     When sky and leaf together go.

               And some are glad and some are grieved.
                     Much as when some poor mortal dies;
                     The first sensation of surprise
               Is lost in sobs of his bereaved.
                     Or cold relief with dry-dust eyes,

               That view his coffin absently, 
                     And wonder first how much it cost,
                     And next, how came his fortune lost,
               And how will live his family.
                     And how he looked when he was crost.

               But tears—no, no—they only surge
                     From those who knew him. They were few;
                     He had his faults; he seldom knew
               The thing to say, condemn, or urge;
                     Tis better he has gone from view.

               So neither do we weep—God knows,
                     We have but little time for tears!
                     A time for hopes, a time for fears,
               A time for strife, a time for woes
                     We have—but hardly time for tears.

               O it were good, and it were sweet.
                     If we might weep our fill somewhere,
                     In other world, in purer air,
               Perhaps in heaven's golden street,
                     Perhaps upon its crystal stair!

               For "power and leave to weep" shall be
                     The golden city's legend dear;
                     Though wiped away be every tear.
               First for a season shall flow free
                     The floods that leave the vision clear!

               So if we could we would, Old Year,
                     Conjure a tear up when you go,
                     And pace in solemn order slow
               Behind your gray and cloud -borne bier,
                     Draped with the wan and fluttering snow.

               Yet what is it, this year we miss?
                     An arbitrary thing, a mark;
                     A rapid writing in the dark;
               Dead wire, that with a futile hiss
                     Strikes back no single answering spark.

               There is no year, we dream and say,
                     Again, no year, we say and dream,
                     And dumbly note the frozen stream,
               And note the bird on barren spray.
                     And note the cold, though bright sunbeam.

               We quarrel with the times and hours,
                     The year should end—we say—when come
                     The last long rolls of March's drum.
               And too—we say—with grass and flowers
                     Should rise the New Year, like to some

               Gay antique goddess, ever young,
                     With pallid shoulders touched with rose,
                     Firm waist that mystic zones enclose,
               White feet from violets shyly sprung.
                     Her raiment—that the high gods chose.

               And yet the poet, born to preach
                     With yearning for his human kind,
                     His verse but sermon undefined,
               Will fail in what he means to teach,
                     If he proclaim not, high designed,

               The Old Year dies! It is enough!
                     And he has won, for eyes grow dim
                     As passeth slow his pageant grim,
               And many a hand both fair and rough
                     Shall wipe away a tear for him—

               For him, and for the wasted hours,
                     The sinful days, the moments weak.
                     The words we did or did not speak,
              The weeds that crowded out our flowers,
                    The blessings that we did not seek.
—From S. Frances Harrison's Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis (Toronto: Hart & Co, 1891)

01 December 2022

'December' by S. Frances Harrison


An old poem for the New Month by daughter of Toronto Susie Frances Harrison (née Riley; a/k/a Seranus). This version comes from her second collection, Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis (Toronto: Hart & Co, 1891).

DECEMBER
I long for a noble mood. I long to rise,
Like those large rolling clouds of ashen pink
That deepen into purple, over strife
And small mechanic doings. How superb
That landscape in the sky to which I walk,
And gain at will a spacious colour-world,
In which my finer self may feel no fear!
The distance far between that goal and me
Seems lightly bridged; breathless, I win that goal—
The shores of purple and the seas of gold.
Below, how flat the still small earth—a sphere
That only the leaden soul takes solace in!
The long pine stretches, barred in sombre black,
Cross at right-angles fields that are gray with snow—
Not white, but gray, for all the colours is here,
Colour—a new sacrament—melted gems,
The hearts of all water-lilies, the tips of their wings—
Young angels', plumed in topaz, garnet, rose—
The dazzling diamond white, the white of pearl.
How poor a place the little dark world appears,
Seen from this gold-cloud region, basoned in fire!
Only a step away, and nothing is seen
Of the homes, huts, churches, palaces it bears
Upon its dry brown bosom. There remains
But the masterful violet sea, that angrily
This moment somewhere gnashes its yellow teeth
Against a lonely reef. What's most like God
In the universe, if not this same strong sea,
Encircling, clasping, bearing up the world,
Blessing it with soft caresses, then, for faults,
Chiding in God-like surges of wrath and storm?
But the ocean of cloud is placid, and the shores,
Rolled up in their amethyst bulk towards the stars,
Fade noiselessly from pearl to purple dark.
The shades fall even here. Here—not exempt
From death and darkness even these shining airs—
The night comes swifter on than when on earth.
The fringes of faintest azure, where the bars
Of paler cloud are fading into gray,
Are dulled and blotted out. Opaque has grown
The molten in one moment; fleecy pale
And ghastly all the purple lonely then,
And awed to horror of those glacial peaks,
I bridge the vaporous barrier once again,
And tread the despised earth. Then how too dear
Doth the rude, common light of earth appear—
That of a street lamp, burning far, but clear!
The sign of human life, of human love,
Of habitation sweet, of common joys
And common plans, though precious, yet not prized,
Till in a moment's fancy I had lost them.


01 September 2022

H.C. Mason Votes Twice for September


A celebration of September from Harold Campbell "Hal" Mason's Three Things Only... (Toronto: Thomas Nelson, 1953). Much cheerier than his 'March, 1918' and 'Easter, 1942'.

SEPTEMBER

                  Let others sing of May and June —
                      To me it doth appear
                  September is the finest month
                      Of all the rolling year.
                  September days are warm and bright
                      As children trudge to school,
                  And weary folk may sleep at night —
                      September nights are cool. 
                  She borrows from all seasons,
                      She lends upon them all,
                  Prolongs the spring and summer
                      And draws them into fall,
                  Prepares the way for winter
                      And yet delays him, too —
                  September, ah, September,
                      I vote, both hands, for you! 
                  Now by the reddening apple,
                      Now by the ripening corn,
                  By every cheerful pullet
                      That crackles in the morn,
                  By harvest safely gathered,
                      By fields no longer sere,
                  September is the finest month
                      In all the rolling year!

01 August 2022

Agnes Maule Machar's Perfect August Day



Ah, August, month of my birth. I've always found it too hot and too humid – rarely more so than this year. In "The Passing of Père La Brosse," Agnes Maule Machar notes: 
...August nights are cool
In these north regions. Summer goes so soon!
I shouldn't complain.

"The Passing of Père La Brosse" is one of the longer poems in Miss Machar's Lays of the 'True North' and Other Canadian Poems (Toronto: Copp, Clark, 1899). "An August Morning," more typical in length, was read Saturday morning during a visit to Agnes Maule Machar Park in Gananoque, Ontario.

AN AUGUST MORNING
      In gleam of pale translucent amber woke
          The perfect August day;
      Through rose-flushed bars of pearl and amber broke
          The sunset's golden way. 
      The river seemed transfigured in its flow
          To tide of amethyst,
      Save where it rippled o'er the sands below,
          And granite boulders kissed. 
      The clouds of billowy woodland hung unstirred
          In languorous slumber deep,
      While, from its green recesses, one small bird
          Piped to its brood asleep. 
      The clustering lichens wore a tenderer tint,
          The rocks a warmer glow;
      The emerald dewdrops, in the sunbeam's glint,
          Gemmed the rich moss below. 
      Our birchen shallop idly stranded lay
          Half mirrored in the stream,
      Wild roses drooped, glassed in the tiny bay,
          Ethereal as a dream! 
      You sat upon your rock, enthroned a queen,
          As on a granite throne,
      And all that world of loveliness serene
         Held but us twain alone. 
      Nay! but we felt another presence there,
          Around, below, above;
      It breathed a poem through the fragrant air
          Its name was LOVE!




Related posts:

16 July 2022

Charles Sangster's Birthday Poem



Son of Kingston, Charles Sangster was born two hundred years ago today. I can't claim to remember much of his verse, the following from The Saint Lawrence and the Saguenay, and Other Poems (Kingston: Creighton & Duff, 1856) excepted. It's thought to have been written in 1855 for Mary Kilborn, whom the poet married in 1856... and who died in 1858. 

MARY'S TWENTIETH BIRTHDAY
                         One of the Fourscore years, Mary,
                            Has passed like a dream away,
                         A dream of laughter and tears, Mary,
                            Like a showery summer's day,
                                 With its rainbow bright,
                                 In the warm twilight,
                            Fair pledge of a happier day, Mary,
                            God's pledge of a happier day.

                        Swiftly the seasons roll, Mary,
                           Like the waves o'er a mighty sea,
                        Searching the depths of the soul, Mary,
                           With their power and mystery.
                                Every hour that flies,
                                Tells in distant skies
                           The words that it heard from thee, Mary,
                           The deeds that are done by thee.

                       See that the tale be pure, Mary,
                          That the Hours may have to tell;
                       Goodness and Truth, we are sure, Mary,
                          Heav'n loveth exceeding well;
                               And the beauteous mind
                               Where Truth is shrined,
                          Glows bright as a sunny dell, Mary,
                          Glows bright as a sunny dell.

                       More of the Fourscore years, Mary,
                          Must pass like the first away,
                       Each, as its turn appears, Mary,
                          May not be a summer's day;
                               But Hope's rainbow bright,
                               With its smile, will light
                          The close of a happier day, Mary,
                          The dawn of Eternal Day.


01 July 2022

Verse by the First of Dominion Poetesses



Verse for the day by Agnes Maule Machar from Lays of the 'True North' and Other Canadian Poems (Toronto: Copp, Clark, 1899). No less a critic than Edwin Arnold considered Miss Machar "the first of Dominion poetesses." See if you don't agree.


CANADA'S BIRTHDAY

With feu de joie, and merry bells, and cannons' thundering peal,
And pennons fluttering on the breeze, and serried rows of steel,
We greet once more the birthday morn of our Canadian land,
Wide stretching from Atlantic shore to far Pacific strand,
With sweeping rivers, ocean lakes, and prairies wide and free,
And waterfalls and forests dim, and mountains by the sea;
A country on whose birth there smiled the genius of romance,
Above whose cradle brave hands hung the lilied flag of France;
Whose infancy was grimly nursed in peril, pain and woe,
When gallant hearts found early graves beneath Canadian snow;
When savage raid and ambuscade and famine's sore distress
Combined their strength in vain to crush the gallant French noblesse;
While her dim, trackless forests lured again and yet again
From silken courts of sunny France her flower, the brave Champlain;
And now her proud traditions guard four ancient rolls of fame,
Crécy's and Flodden's combatants for ancestors we claim!
Past feud and battle buried far behind the peaceful years,
While Gaul and Celt and Saxon turn to pruning-hooks their spears;
Four nations welded into one with long, historic past,
Have found in these our western wilds one common life at last.

Through the young giant's mighty limbs that reach from sea to sea
There runs a throb of conscious life, of waking energy;
From Nova Scotia's misty coast to far Pacific shore
She wakes, a band of scattered homes and colonies no more,
But a young nation, with her life full beating in her breast;
A noble future in her eyes, the Britain of the West.
Hers be the generous task to fill the yet untrodden plains
With fruitful, many-sided life that courses through her veins:
The English honour, nerve and pluck, the Scotchman's faith in right,
The grace and courtesy of France, the Irish fancy bright,
The Saxon's faithful love of home and home's affections blest,
And chief of all, our holy faith, of all her treasures best!

May she, though poor in luxuries, wax rich in noble deeds,
Knowing that righteousness exalts the people that it leads.
As yet the waxen mould is soft, the opening page is fair;
It rests with those who rule us now to leave their impress there,
The stamp of true nobility, high honour, stainless truth,
The earnest quest of noble ends, the generous heart of youth;
The love of country, soaring far above all party strife,
The love of culture, art and song, the crowning grace of life,
The love of science reaching far through Nature's hidden ways,
The love and fear of Nature's God, a nation's highest praise;
So, in the long hereafter, our Canada shall be
The worthy heir of British power and British liberty,
Spreading their blessings 'neath her sway to her remotest bounds,
While with the fame of her fair name a continent resounds,
True to the high traditions of our Britain's ancient glory
Of patriots, prophets, martyrs, saints, who live in deathless story,
Strong in their liberty and truth, to shed from shore to shore
A light among the nations, till nations are no more!

24 June 2022

'La Fête nationale' par Léon Lorrain


Léon Lorrain
1855 - 1892
RIP
Verse for the day from Léon Lorrain's Les Fleurs poétiques, simples bluettes (Montreal: Beauchemin, 1890).

LA FÊTE NATIONALE

(La Saint-Jean-Baptiste)

A L'HONORABLE M. F.-G. MARCHAND
          Vingt-quatre juin! Salut! ― Ô fête solennelle!
          Apporte dans nos cœurs l'amitié fraternelle,
          Ce sentiment si beau qu'on le dit surhumain!
          Retardez votre cours, heures patriotiques!
          Laissez-nous savourer les plaisirs pacifiques
               Dont vous semez votre chemin!

          Le soleil radieux, comme un puissant génie,
          Répand à flots vermeils le jour et l'harmonie;
          Il féconde nos champs de ses subtils rayons;
          Il dispense partout dans sa course enflammée
          La vie et l'abondance; une brise embaumée
               S'élève de nos frais sillons.

          Notre libre drapeau flotte, au gré de la brise,
          Au sommet d'une tour, au clocher d'une église
          Et domine nos champs, ― resplendissants tableaux! ―
          Sous ses replis mouvants, l'enthousiaste foule
          Se rallie et se presse, ensuite se déroule
               Ondulante comme les flots!

          Tous les cœurs sont émus par la même pensée.
          Voyez se réunir cette foule empressée.
          Elle confond ensemble, en ce jour patronal,
          Au seuil du temple saint où souvent elle prie,
          L'amour du Tout-Puissant, l'amour de la patrie,
              Dans le devoir national!

II

          Du ciel où vous vivez, de ces célestes dômes,
          Esprits de nos aïeux, ô bien-aimés fantômes,
               Venez contemplez vos enfants.
          Dans le ravissement leur âme se déploie;
          Leur chère liberté, le bonheur et la joie
               Brillent sur leurs fronts triomphants!
          Voyez qu'elle sied bien à leur tête ennoblie,
          La couronne de fleurs que vous avez cueillie, ―
               La couronne de liberté!
          Ils ne l'ont pas flétri, ce lys emblématique;
          Mais ils l'ont cultivé de leur main héroïque
               Comme on cultive un fruit d'été!
Félix-Gabriel Marchand
1832 - 1900
RIP

Related posts:

01 May 2022

Is This the Dominion's Only Goose Girl Poem?



Now that National Poetry Month is over, a poem for May by Virna Sheard, pride of Cobourg, Ontario, from Candle Flame (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1926).

It follows verse in which she rightly praises postmen.

ALL ON A MAY MORNING

I saw a lovely lady walk along a leafy lane,
When primroses were blowing and the cuckoo sang again;
She wore a ruffled gown of pink, a hat of rosy hues,
And twinkling silver buckles on her little high-heeled shoes;
     Most daintily she carried a tall tasselled cane,
     While a small beribboned poodle came following in her train.

Then said I to the morning sun: "O do not let her pass!
A more bewitching, beauteous maid ne'er owned a looking-glass!
And if she turns in any gate, and goes I know not where,
It's probable I'll never see another maid as fair!
     Without the faintest knowledge of her charming name, alas!
     I sallied forth to meet her across the young green grass.

My hand upon my fluttering heart, I bowed extremely low,
And said: "A thousand pardons, but my way I do not know,
For since I chanced to see you from yon blossoming orchard tree,
The West is East, the South is North,—and all the same to me!
     And I have not any notion which way the four winds blow,
     Or on what highroad, up or down, t'would be the best to go!

"Of your kindness pray direct me to the left—or to the right;—
(You really should—because 'tis you have put my wits to flight,)
And I'd be quite madly joyful, and grateful this sweet day
If it should hap, by any luck, that your way was my way.
     There surely never was a morn more gay and golden-bright,
     And I have not a thing to do, but walk about till night."

Alack! That shining lady in that green primrosy lane,
Turned first to whitest marble—and then turned back again!
Her cheeks flamed red with fury—and her eyes flamed black with rage,
And she looked at me as might a queen at a good-for-nothing page!
     She tossed her head, and firmly, set down the tasselled cane,
     "I do not know you Sir!" she said,—and walked on with disdain.

"Beauty altogether perfect, cannot possibly be rude,"
Said I, and went the other way—but in a chastened mood;
Nor did I start a-whistling—as on such a day one should—
Till I reached the village common where a little goose-girl stood,
     Egad! The prettiest goose-girl that I have ever viewed!
     (Her flock was one grey gosling, by a frantic dog pursued.)

But tears were falling from her eyes, her eyes of blue-bell blue;
So I said: "Come! Come! Now what's amiss? Why all of this ado?"
And she cried: "O Sir! My darling geese! Of them I am bereft!
Of all the lovely twenty-five, there's only this one left!
     What shall I do! What shall I do! Whatever shall I do!
     The huntsmen came a-riding by—and all my geese just flew!"

I could not bear to see a little maiden so forlorn,
(I noticed that her curls were just the color of ripe corn;)
"Why go along with me!" said I, "tame geese will not fly far, 
And you and I together will discover where they are!"
     So hand in hand we hunted geese that mellow May-day morn,
     And I found that little goose-girl was a rose without a thorn.

Related posts:

28 April 2022

Ten Poems for National Poetry Month, Number 10: 'April' by Mary Morgan


For the month, the last of ten poems
find interesting, amusing, and/or infuriating.

A final poem for National Poetry Month, 'April' comes from the pen of Mary Morgan, daughter of James and Catherine Morgan, niece of Montreal merchant king Henry Morgan of the Henry Morgan Company. The brief biography included in Types of Canadian Women by Henry James Morgan (no relation, I believe) suggests a life of both privilege and constraint.

cliquez pour agrandir

'April' is found in Poems and Translations (Montreal: J Theo Robinson, 1887), her first volume of verse.

APRIL

                         Thou balmy April evening,
                              I love thy beauty rare;
                         The clouds obscure the heavens,
                              A star shines here and there.

                         The breath of love is filling
                              The zephyrs as they blow;
                         The fragrance of the violet
                              Is wafted from below.

                         O for a strain of music
                              To suit the pensive hour
                         Some cadence low and tender
                              To lell its soothing power!
The poet identifies 'April' as a translation "from the German of Geibel." I'm unfamiliar with the language, but believe the original to be 'Im April' by Emanuel von Geibel:
                        Du feuchter Fruehlingsabend,
                        Wie hab' ich dich so gern!
                        Der Himmel wolkenverhangen,
                        Nur hie und da ein Stern.

                        Wie leiser Liebesodem
                        Hauchet so lau die Luft,
                        Es steiget aus allen
                        Talen Ein warmer Veilchenduft.

                        Ich moecht' ein Lied ersinnen,
                        Das diesem Abend gleich,
                        Und kann den Klang nicht finden,
                        So dunkel, mild und weich.
Am I right?

My conclusion is based on a translation provided by Google:
                         You damp spring evening,
                         How I like you so much!
                         the sky overcast,
                         Just a star here and there.

                         Like a gentle breath of love
                         breathe so lukewarm the air,
                         It rises from all valleys
                         A warm violet scent.

                         I want to think up a song
                         The same this evening
                         And can't find the sound
                         So dark, mild and soft.
Assuming I am correct, I much prefer Mary Morgan's.

How 'bout you?

25 April 2022

Ten Poems for National Poetry Month, Number 9: 'My Own Canadian Girl' by W.M. MacKeracher


For the month, the ninth of ten poems
find interesting, amusing, and/or infuriating.

What could be considered romantic verse from W.M. (William MacKay) MacKeracher's Canada, My Land and Other Compositions in Verse (Toronto: William Briggs, 1908).

MY OWN CANADIAN GIRL
                    The demoiselles of sunny France
                         Have gaiety and grace;
                    Britannia's maids a tender glance,
                         A sweet and gentle face;
                    Columbia's virgins bring to knee
                         Full many a duke and earl;
                    But there is none can equal thee,
                         My own Canadian girl.

                    Thy hair is finer than the floss
                         That tufts the ears of corn;
                    Its tresses have a silken gloss,
                         A glory like the morn;
                    I prize the rich, luxuriant mass,
                         And each endearing curl
                    A special grace and beauty has,
                         My own Canadian girl.

                   Thy brow is like the silver moon
                        That sails in summer skies.
                   The mirror of a mind immune
                        From care, serene and wise.
                   Thy nose is sculptured ivory;
                        Thine ears are lobes of pearl;
                   Thy lips are corals from the sea,
                        My own Canadian girl.

                   Thine eyes are limpid pools of light,
                        The windows of thy soul;
                   The stars are not so clear and bright
                        That shine around the pole.
                   The crimson banners of thy cheeks
                        To sun and wind unfurl;
                   Thy tongue makes music when it speaks,
                        My own Canadian girl.

                   God keep thee fair and bright and good
                        As in thy morning hour,
                   And make thy gracious womanhood
                        A still unfolding fiow'r.
                   And stay thy thoughts from trifles vain,
                        Thy feet from folly's whirl,
                   And guard thy life from every stain,
                        My own Canadian girl!