Lorna Crozier and her partner Patrick Lane are among Canada's leading poets. Crozier is the author of ten books of poetry, including
The Garden Going on Without Us (1983), the Governor General's Award-winning
Inventing the Hawk (1992),
Everything Arrives at the Light (1995),
A Saving Grace (1996) and
What the Living Won't Let Go (2000). In 1995 she co-edited
Breathing Fire: Canada's New Poets with Patrick Lane.
Patrick Lane, considered by most writers and critics to be one of Canada's finest poets, was born in 1939 in Nelson, BC. He grew up in the in the Kootenay and Okanagan regions of the BC Interior, primarily in Vernon. He came to Vancouver and co-founded a small press, Very Stone House with bill bissett and Seymour Mayne. He then drifted extensively throughout North and South America. He has worked at a variety of jobs from labourer to industrial accountant, but much of his life has been spent as a poet, having produced twenty-four books of poetry to date. He is also the father of five children and grandfather of nine. He has won nearly every literary prize in Canada, from the Governor General's Award to the Canadian Authors Association Award to the Dorothy Livesay Prize. His poetry and fiction have been widely anthologized and have been translated into many languages. Lane now makes his home in Victoria, BC, with his companion, the poet Lorna Crozier.
Save the Al Purdy A-Frame Campaign The Canadian League of Poets has declared a
National Al Purdy Day!
Al Purdy was born December 30, 1918, in Wooler, Ontario and died at Sidney, BC, April 21, 2000. Raised in Trenton, Ontario, he lived throughout Canada as he developed his reputation as one of Canada's greatest writers. His collections included two winners of the Governor General's Award,
Cariboo Horses (1965) and
Collected Poems (1986)
and other classics such as
Poems for All the Annettes,
In Search of Owen Roblin and
Piling Blood. Later in life, he travelled widely with his wife Eurithe and settled in Ameliasburg, Ontario and Sidney, BC. In addition to his thirty-three books of poetry, he published a novel, an autobiography and nine collections of essays and correspondence. He was appointed to the Order of Canada in 1983 and the Order of Ontario in 1987. His ashes are buried in Ameliasburg at the end of Purdy Lane.
CIGARETTES (I)by Michael CrummeyThe day my grandfather died he ate
a meal of salt beef and cabbage in his
sick bed, his appetite returning for
the first time in weeks, the skin
hanging from the bones of his face like an oversized suit.
My father had gone in to see him
earlier that morning, fifteen years old then
and thinking the old man was recovering;
they spoke for a few minutes about the cold
and about going out in the spring,
and then my grandfather asked his son for a cigarette.
Summers, after the caplin had rolled,
the cod moved into water too deep for traps
and the two of them would spend the days jigging,
standing at the gunnel with a line down
two fathoms, repeating the rhythmic full-arm jig
as if they were unsuccessfully trying to
start an engine;
mid-afternoon they'd stop to eat,
stoking the galley's firebox to stew cod's heads
and boil tea, then my grandfather would sit aft
with a pipe, pulling his yellow oilskin jacket
over his head until he was finished.
He'd known for years that my father was smoking
on the sly though he'd never acknowledged it,
hid beneath a coat to give his son
a chance to sneak a cigarette
before they got back to work.
The air in the sick room was so cold
their breath hung in clouds between them.
My grandfather was about to die of cancer or TB
and his son sat beside the bed,
his pockets for once empty of Bugle or Target tobacco,
telling his father he had no cigarette to give him
which happened to be the truth, and felt like
a lie to them both.
THE LAST SOCKEYEby Tim BowlingAlways I think of the last sockeye,
the one in late October; blind,
blood-red, half-rotted, so far from the creeks of spawning,
it just lay beside our net
in the silt-grey water -- confused
or resting, we couldn't say --
then with one weak push
gilled itself
so we had to roll it in.
The last of its kind for the season;
most had died, or spawned and died,
at least a month before;
I could not gaff it.
We stood in the chill north wind, bemused,
as though we'd been given an early Christmas gift,
red-wrapped and taken
from below the mountains' undecorated evergreens;
we stared at the rotted eyes
and scales like bloodied coin,
a glove of chain-mail
after a Crusades slaughter
the living hand still inside.
Three separate instincts
and a whole long winter to forget
your drinking and failed marriage
my loneliness and too often
days of great despair
over things I cannot change
and always the gap between us
as wide as the gap
between the sockeye and its goal;
three separate instincts
with nothing to win
three separate species:
I don't remember what we said
or even if we spoke at all
but the salmon, at least,
knew what it wanted,
so I gave it back to the river,
blind, rotted, and doomed,
I gave it back
while we stood in the stern like the last men
and watched the bloody hand of the year wave goodbye
HALF-LIGHTby Suzanne BuffamIn the green half-light of three a.m.
my brother wakes me, pulls my slumbering body
into the yard to see the rabbits being born.
They emerge all wet and pink as finger
tips nestled into sawdust beneath
their mother -- one, two, then three
naked bodies in the sudden beam
of my brother's flashlight. We hold
our breath as her small eyes take us
in, red in the light, full of fire,
and there is a moment, heavy as
the moon, when we know it is too late
to retreat, unsee, resume our innocent
beds. The mother's eyes angry
as she hunches up and turns away,
leaves us watching, the wind
cold through our nightclothes, as she swallows
up her children -- one, two, then three
wriggling bodies disappear into her tiny
sharp-toothed mouth, the flashlight
dropping to the grass at our feet. (
Excerpts: Poems by Michael Crummey, Tim Bowling and Suzanne Buffam )
