Poet Laureate

Telling Our Stories Through Poetry - a free, virtual discussion held last April with four published Canadian poets in celebration of National Poetry Month. We hope you enjoy the recording of this event hosted by former Poet Laureate, Claudia Ferrraro.

Authors: Phoebe Wang, Laura Ritland, Randy Lundy and Michael Fraser
 

With financial assistance from The Canada Council for the Arts through The Writers' Union of Canada

Michael Fraser has been published in numerous national and international anthologies and journals. He is published in Best Canadian Poetry in English 2013 and 2018. He has won numerous awards, including Freefall Magazine’s 2014 and 2015 poetry contests, the 2016 CBC Poetry Prize, and the 2018 Gwendolyn Macewen Poetry Competition. 

Laura Ritland is a poet, teacher, and scholar whose poems have appeared in magazines across Canada including The Walrus, Arc Poetry Magazine, CNQ, Maisonneuve, and The Malahat Review. Her debut collection East and West was published with Véhicule Press in 2018 and shortlisted for the 2019 Pat Lowther Memorial Award. She is also the author of a chapbook Marine Science (Anstruther Press, 2016) and recipient of the 2014 Malahat Far Horizons Award for Poetry. Born in Toronto and raised in Vancouver, she currently lives in Berkeley, California, where she is a PhD candidate in the department of English at UC Berkeley. 

Phoebe Wang is a writer and educator based in Toronto and a first-generation Chinese-Canadian. She is the author of Admission Requirements (McClelland and Stewart, 2017), nominated for the Trillium Book Award. Her second collection of poetry, Waking Occupations, will appear in Spring 2022. Her fiction and nonfiction has been included in The New Quarterly, Brick and The Unpublished City, shortlisted for a Toronto Book Award, and she co-edited The Unpublished City: Volume II, The Lived City. Her work has also appeared in REFUSE: Canlit in Ruins (Bookhug, 2018), What the Poets are Doing (Nightwood, 2018). She works with the organization Poetry In Voice and as a Writing and Learning Consultant for ELL students at OCADU.
 

Randy Lundy is Cree, Norwegian, and Irish and is a member of the Barren Lands First Nation. He was born in the mining community of Thompson, MB, and grew up in the logging community of Hudson Bay, SK. Randy has published four books of poetry, most recently Blackbird Song (2018) and Field Notes for the Self (2020) with the University of Regina Press, where he currently serves as editor for the Oskana Poetry and Poetics series. He recently joined the English Department at University of Toronto, Scarborough, following the University's TRC-response search in Creative Writing, Indigenous Literatures, and Oral Traditions. 
 

This section is where you can share your poetry. Please submit any original poem you’d like considered (as a Word document attachment or in the body of an email) and send it to artsandculture@collingwood.ca. Let us know if you’d like to be acknowledged as the poet or be published anonymously. We’ll read every submission and publish what we can. We look forward to seeing your work!

Click on the name of the heading below for the full poem

Canada Day...A Poem for Collingwood by Jim Rickett

Earth Will Live by Judy Dunbar a.k.a. Phoenix Rose

This Angry World by Faye Austin
Dresden Cup by Susan Wismer
Parts of Speech by Day Merrill
Love Will Never Die by Sandra Parsons
The Greatest Show on Earth - Anonymous
New in Town by Ella Pankatz
lifesong by Jaclyn Jarvis
Returning by gloria kropf nafziger
Vs by D.C.
Simple Pleasures by Faye Austin
Launched by Val Losell
Untitled - K. Burland
Weather by Jake McArthur
Life by Gloria Kropf Nafziger
Just Float by R.C.
True Glory by E. Beyer

Canada Day...A Poem for Collingwood by Jim Rickett

Our Place
I've been in Collingwood for twenty years,
and enjoyed my time, with very few fears;
a better place to live, cannot be found,
it's a most wonderful town all around;
I ride my bike on its' many winding trails,
the beautiful scenery excites and never fails;
our Arboretum certainly can't be beat,
it's numerous labelled trees are really neat;
along the streets are home of distinction,
being large or small there's no extinction;
downtown shopping, we really trust,
and a large mall is not even a must;
Our town centre is more than a tax haven,
hockey players for the arena are cravin'
on the bay the lighthouse catches our eye
at Millennium Park the elevator reaches the sky;
People are what really makes our town,
Friendliness it the characteristic all around;
we're getting a lot of new homes buit,
soon our population will rise like a stilt
We'll never forget our "Side Launch" fame,
and will adjust to our new tourist game.
That's all I've got to say for now,
My last word for Collingwood is "Wow!"
 

Earth Will Live by Judy Dunbar a.k.a. Phoenix Rose

Healing our planet begins with you and me
Doing our best to love all life we see.
Others then feel this and display their true worth,
Soon it's contagious – a lovefest for Earth!

Each morning when you arise,
Sun streaming brightly in your eyes. 
Go! Open the window and breathe in
Fresh life for today's precious season.

Minutes and hours you're given, 
Make the most of them and live in
Harmony, balance and gratitude - 
We have choice in action and attitude.

Choosing thoughts good and kind
Resonates through body and mind.
Every cell, fiber, and nerve
Helps the body to be well served.

Yet, we tend to tread upon Earth
Believing we're of greater worth.
Simply, we should humble be
As Nature surely rules thee and me.

Mother Earth – Gaia,
Warns with high winds, floods, fire.
We've nearly strained her entirely -
Headed to issues that challenge direly.

Unless we change courses
Of stripping Earth's resources -
Water, air, fish, trees, soil -
We may these deplete or forever spoil.

But there's hope at every turn,
Human spirit does hotly burn
As advocates and youngsters show
Strong resolve and numbers grow.

They seize the torch that Greta lit
Marching forward with true grit,
Inspiring leaders to open their eyes -
See climate truth and compromise.

Within themselves a courage woke,
Refining goals and rather stoke
Ingenuity in all its glory
Creating new ways – a brand new story!

Like regrowing bleached out coral reef
Or finding a substitute for beef,
Nothing turns on just a dime -
Retraining often takes some time.

But leave the oil in the ground,
Create energy without pollution. Sound 
The alarm as time grows short
The canary may die unless we abort.

Cease the endless growth and expansion,
Build smaller homes - forget the mansion.
For quality of life, realize
Less is more (even family size).

There's limits to our space and scope,
Without balance we're unable to cope.
As sea levels rise and drought limits crops
Our future sustainability drops.

Plastic waste won't just disappear,
It pollutes and lasts hundreds of years.
Try waxed wraps or glass: clean, reuse.
That way Earth is not abused.

A forest logged takes decades to regrow.
Hemp trees aren't nearly so slow -
Used for paper products like TP,
Saving the Boreal for songbirds' trees.

Coastal wetlands act as lungs
Absorbing CO2 that doesn't belong.
Farm pesticide-free -- a chance to guaranty 
Food and water pure, that all life needs.

Electric vehicles - the new rage,
Are on the rise and set the stage
For petroleum-free quieter rides.
Are we finally making strides?

Nature's laws – humans can't control;
Working with them, we'll reach our goal
Of contentment and peace the world around
Each having enough – a prize yet to be found.

Wisdom ways of Indigenous past
Offer reminders and gently cast
Hints to tread lightly. Be minimalist,
If we wish to continue to exist.

On sacred Mother Earth,
Share her gifts – trees, birds – with mirth.
Enjoy tranquility about us,
Else, she would do just fine without us.

So, Go! Open your window and breathe in
Fresh life for today's precious season.
Think about what you can do 
To respect Great Spirit – Manitou.

This Angry World by Faye Austin

The world is angry, spitting fire and ash.
How many eruptions must it create?
Where must it next open earth and roar?

It’s had enough of our senseless squabbles.
Its threat is real, we should abide, revere its mighty roar,
fear its inevitable outcome, desist our squabbles.

One potentate after another trying to fight – not play.
To destroy – not create.
To pollute our destiny with destructive toys.

Cease and Desist!
We have what we’ve been given the use of –
not the right to
destroy each other,
tower over,
defeat
mankind and its companion species,
inhabitants of this great blue sphere
we all call home.

Dresden Cup by Susan Wismer

Germany  1943 
Found 
by the roadside
three cups, three saucers

spare beauties of shape
      uncertainties,  loss
                  some hesitant hand
             brushed paint     upon porcelain,
blue rise of line       over curve, up to lip        
            small waver,  split into

            horns of a ram or
fern tendril rising in spring
            from wet earth, soft curls at the back
of a small daughter’s head

                                    Carried them
with her                         after the war                           never said much
                              about
            work in dark nights      her doctor hands bloodied
scalpel and morphine      sirens      Red Cross           her children
            in Canada                    safe                 far away              so      little
                                          
                       could be saved.

            England 1945

What endures is by chance –
the fragile made
sacred by circumstance.

Canada 2019

I want
hot black tea, this Dresden cup
warm in my hands,  steam pearling the air
afternoon’s burnished half light 
to imagine

the artist lifts up a cup
                    tips brush to paint
                                places
                                             one small last dot
                                                                     below each tender curl.
 

Parts of Speech by Day Merrill

The morning the towers fell, 
I ran outside, sobbing and wild-eyed 
              into the arms of my neighbor. 
 “Why do they hate us so much?” my first response. 
No rhetorical question, that, for an unthinkable event. 
Unthinkable by me, at least. 
By us, by a country unfazed by warning shots 
              fired over bows in Yemen’s harbor and elsewhere.
Blindsided is what happens when you look straight ahead. 
You lose perspective, 
              see only where you are going. 
You may remember where you’ve been, 
               but not what your being and doing did to those outside your story. 
That was not in the textbooks for what was called, bizarrely, Social Studies. 
I stand on the wrong side of so many dates:
Not just 09-11, but 1066 and all that ensued from that frank encounter. 
1492 and the ocean blue that was really red with the blood of those pushed
               to the margins or killed by sword, gun, disease. 
The Crusades: rosy English knights in those improbable helmets, 
               parading across the story books of my childhood. 
The Salem Witch Trails, an ancestor the Hanging Judge, 
               condemning wise women for the threat their knowledge posed.
The twin suns of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, 
Napalm and Agent Orange in the Mekong Delta, 
decimating both us and them.
Us and them, always us and them. 
And now Babylon again, the real weapons of mass destruction sown like bad seed 
               as we make others them over and over and over.
Brother, sister, where art thou? 
Where is knowing each other as who, not what? 
First person singular, second person familiar, 
               declined into he and it and them. 
I want new language. 
Rules of a higher order, interdependent, universal. 
Grammar that holds us to lines 
               we must parse in parallel with No. 2 pencils mightier than any sword. 
Exchanging the pluperfect subjunctive of “if only we had known, we would have”  
               for future perfectible, less tense than taut. 
Beating imperatives 
               into tempered actions that plow the soil we share.
Planting together adjectives and adverbs that, 
               twining round each other’s hearts,
tell us who we are and how we can become.

Love Will Never Die by Sandra Parsons

As you lay your head upon your pillow
your dreams go silent as you lay still
your family stands waiting underneath the willow
as your spirit merges from over the hill
like a deer you run so fast to see their faces
you stop a distance so they know it’s you
you’ve come to stay forever at one of your favourite places
you realize it’s your final dream come true
although you’re sorry you didn't say goodbye
you never ever wanted to make them cry
please kiss the boys and tell them why
I’ll love you always, for love will never die.

The Greatest Show on Earth - Anonymous

The Show

Come One, Come All
To the Greatest Show on Earth
One day, one call
Feel what a connection is worth

Want, need, hope
A connection, a hand
Please give some rope
Tie us together, see the band

Glittering with gold
Hands show off our bond
To have and to hold
Nights flew by, mornings dawned

We were marching to the same beat
Heart, Body, Soul
Everything took a back seat
We were on a roll

But it all took a toll
We lost ourselves in each other
I became a troll
You, no longer a lover

Love was lost
Words were said
What a hefty cost
Without a marital bed

Disconnected

Was it the greatest show on Earth?
Where did the fireworks go?
Where went the passion
For life, for each other
Was it you, was it me?

Now that you’re gone, no rebirth
Only memories, dreams crushed so
No more conversation
Hurt, heart, try again why bother
Why can’t I just let it be?

Afraid, afraid, afraid
To hurt that much again
Hibernate from the world
Don’t want to trust again
Never again to feel close

I sit alone trying to be brave
All I want is a friend
Experience the joy of words
Wanting to mend
A wish, but unable to approach

New in Town by Ella Pankatz

I have found this trail on a city map
along White’s Bay leading to  an isle
called Hens and Chickens – a farm,
succulents?  I am about to discover,
 hoping for green, a glimpse of spring.
Pieces of ice break off with a crack,
Meld with the water, liquid at once.
Redwing blackbirds cling to branches,
screeching, proclaim  their  territory.
Wings of geese whistle overhead.
Mergansers bustle to and fro.
Willow catkins and moss by my feet,
 velvety pillows greeting. All around 
celebration, spring is here.
Abruptly, the path to the island ends.
A footbridge has been taken out 
by ice and winter storms. Over there,
I see some mounds, homes of muskrats.
Water birds weave through the marshes.
A swan detaches from yellow grasses,
head held high, white wings pristine,
he floats through the gap a few paces 
from me. He doesn’t care that I am there,  
so sure of his domain.

lifesong by Jaclyn Jarvis

if in the silence
there is no plea
to echo off the heavens
like waves crashing
against shallow tides
if in stillness
we listen to
earthen rhythms
the pounding of atriums
nestled amongst willows
if in this peace
fraught with transient eternity
anointed by a network
of venation
fragile; ephemeral
if such quietude
can abide ancestral quaking
rending sacred binds
millennia of aching rifts
tethering the hallowed to the lost
am I heard amidst the breathless chant of
the world?

Returning by gloria kropf nafziger

Surrounded by succulent sweet crab apple blossoms
dripping in the wind, the ground a pink carpet, creeping flocks,  
red yellow tulips alive and dead, deep purple iris,
a wicker chaise lounge cushioned  comfort,

filled with memories,  fields of wheat undulating,
unfamiliar beauty, wildflowers,
climbing  above constant change.

The Bay calls me, the heat,
invites perhaps demands,   jump,

like cool mountain streams at the end or middle
of those days welcomed toes and feet
filled with  bygone knowledge,
Roman,  medieval,  visible ruins.

I walk now on land,  remembering, that
where  I walk…”Indian children used to play…”
called to be aware to notice, history here.

 “ Jesus carried his burdens,”  he said
she replied “  I am not Jesus, and he was not sixty.” 

Yesterday, after the vegetable beds, were mulched, 
and seeds were planted,  the labyrinth was mowed and
dainty blues forget me nots were placed in vases, 
I watched rain fall, glee filled,

holding knowledge of thunderstorms,
in the valley, on distant mountain ranges, 
rain covers over packs,  swelling stick clicks on earth,
petitioning for five  more kilometres of grace.

You wave as you go by,  “ welcome home,’ 
familiar comfort on your face.

I met him, for the first time at the airport,
heading to St.  Jean,  three meetings later, he fell
into my arms,  a mountain climbed, descent accomplished,
we lost each other on day five.

She gave me my wedding album, forty three years ago,
I was nineteen,    so young and wise,  
now changed.

Forty countries more or less 
                            gifted me
with wisdom
                  from their citizens.

my pack sits empty on the floor,  
not put away,
not yet. 

Vs by D.C.

I am my own arch nemesis,
bound to lead myself to death
In the time between now and then
I will use my heart, my courage, and my voice
to make my enemy
my friend.

Simple Pleasures by Faye Austin
Morning sun beams through the blinds,
warms my face as I gaze out the window.
My teacup nestles between my hands.
I raise it to my waiting lips and tip.
Its golden elixir slides smoothly
over my teeth, onto my tongue.
The sweet flavour runs down my throat.
I swallow. Breakfast tea.
I sigh, smiling at the pleasure
it brings me every morning.
Each day a good beginning.

Launched by Val Losell

The boy is gone; he’s launched
and left a gaping space
wet towels, drums and reeking rugby shirts
used to fill.
It’s too quiet now; the sparkle’s gone.
Gabe shared his joys and passions easily;
kept his sorrows and fears for his friends.
No more, “Hi Mom!” though truth be told,
we’d heard it less of late.
Now sometimes over skype,
him sprawled on his dorm bed,
I’ll say, “So, how was your day?”
watch him stroke his beard and calculate
what he’s willing to share (while
admiring himself in the camera).
Just a few weeks gone and he’s already
pitched a ticket home to catch
Viking Metal in TO. (oh ya,
and dad’s birthday too, I guess).
He’s already jamming at a friend’s,
prepping for open mike,
fishing in Ste. Mary’s River
and shaving with his KA BAR knife
by the campfire.
Yes, he’s launched.
I’m happy he’s so full of his own life now,
but I also wish he were still six,
and I were still the apple of his world:
As he will always be of mine.
 
Untitled - K. Burland

I.
Thankful 
for blessings, opportunities, challenges
Praying 
for strength and guidance
Giving
my best always
Commitment 
to high ethics
Continuing 
with optimism, renewed energy, and commitment to service
Goals ahead, and no task beyond
I am thankful.

II.
Life is full of peaks and valleys.
Mountain tops are barren,
in valleys find opportunity for true growth.
Talents, dreams, backgrounds, occupations.
Not exactly like anyone else, 
these differences provide good for the common goal.
Peace, Tranquility, Freedom.
Giving thanks to be blessed with friends, laughter and fun,
a heart that is always grateful.

Weather by Jake McArthur

I delight in weather
I flow in the passage of weathers
I don’t wield umbrellas to ward off the rain
or deflect the brilliance of solar light and heat
I don’t live buffeted by the chaotic imagined vagaries of weathers
I revel in the stillnesses and breezes and buffets of true air flows
I don’t moan about the dim and damp of wet summers
I search for secrets and treasures in the shadowed picnics of the dark
I don’t shiver in the midst of winter blizzards, yearning for spring greening
I sing lullabies to sleeping embryos and cuddle the icebergs of silence
I delight in weather
I don’t plant cultivated gardens or water weedless lawns
I write symphonies for wildflowers and float blinded by oceans of dandelions
I don’t gasp in panic with summers passing and the turning, falling of leaves
I dance in harmony with the penultimate colours drifting to their birthing graves
I don’t listen to the manic meteorological dramatizations of media prophets
I watch cloud patterns, leaves and cows and open my nostrils to shifting scents
I don’t get worked up by weather
I flow with it
I delight in it
I’m grateful for weather … of any kind … on any day
affirming every moment …
I’m alive.
© Jake McArthur 2009 
Exasperated with the whines and complaints and sighs from people reacting to a summer of more than average rain; the emotional pot-stirring of media around weather forecasts and the endless cycles of complaining about the cold in winter, the heat and humidity in summer and the wishing for something else than what is. Stop … feel blessed!

Life by Gloria Kropf Nafziger

Climb, refuse to 
give up.
speak, forward
stand back
speak back
be afraid 
with nothing to admire
listen 
empty 
repeat.

Just Float by R.C.

And then the tide recoiled
when the urge to grow 
wealthy as an ocean
was more futile than 
the strength it took 
to float.

True Glory by E. Beyer
And then the bicycle
glided,
the air
to ground
cool
on a breeze,
more spectacular
than the automobile
it took to arrive in.