A FEATHERED TUTELAGE ON THE FRONT DECK
for all Ukrainian poets, past and present, who have written and still write on behalf of national independence.
Learning is, or could be,
continues to land safely:
being there, being witness only,
as the chickadee
makes a decision,
chooses a certain seed
to fly off with.
Another morning meal,
no further celebration
or redefined holiday feast.
To know one thing now:
(seated on the red lawnchair)
moments here, are free,
are far from a war, Ukraine,
telling in a way...
the next seed, unchosen
and left behind
for another songful beak.
ACCIDENT AT THE MILL
for Ken Cathers
Ant
large in size,
a new friend
found in the sticks,
sticks going into stacks,
stacks of two by this
and two by that,
destined for the kiln.
Ant,
fallen between boards,
able to survive
a journey to me,
unprepared for the injury
you managed to take on,
your head up proud
but your rear-end taken.
Ant,
I see your legs
trying to do what
they always do,
carrying something,
but this moment
must be uncommon
as I see
and I don't want to.
There is a different direction
you didn't choose
going in circle after circle,
all that can be
leaving me
the big reckless man,
trying to help those legs,
legs part of your damage,
part of how
any escape is possible.
Ant,
I don't give up.
I continue with a sliver
of fir, holding it so still,
moving it under
the crushed section
until I pick you up
and try to prevent
any further confusion.
Ant,
perhaps during the next shift
I will know
you survived,
see no sign of you
on any piece of wood.
CHILDREN OF THE CLOCK
In memory of Swedish poet, Tomas Transtromer
First born.
Second is his name.
He wears a t-shirt
if one were to notice
says, "It costs money
to stay alert and alive",
which somehow lights up
according to, better yet,
in unison with his breath,
a ticking that comes and goes.
Born, importantly, one-armed,
remarkable appendage
for a future of control,
how lives will be lived,
the duration of them
a loud endless repetition
of click click click,
steady show of telling nerves.
Second born.
Minute is her name.
She wears a round mask
if one were to forget
says, "I am clear plastic
so all can see my face
as well as my servant's,
he or she seeking a decision."
On the sunniest of mornings
reflections of their faces
can be seen as Minute
provides, explanations on
when to leave, or why to stay;
face to face, private acceptance,
a hand offering losses and wins.
Third born.
Hour is his name.
He wears a hockey jersey
if one were to choose
says, "I am on backwards
so number 12 is celebrated,
a reminder teams need games
expected to begin when I say".
Hour is unlike the others.
He is the longest.
Closer, perhaps, to clock's
other larger and older family
with locally known names
like Day, Week, Month, Year,
and that one unforgettable uncle
nick-named, Time.
MAKING THE CANDLES FIT
A wish in the snowflake
with the aimless wind
finds my exposed tongue.
Inside now where I live on
fewer doors to open
as the hallway of my life
continues to shorten.
Standing by room sixty-three
a day before I am reminded
about the date of my birth.
Downing my youth
a certain aged mix
makes it taste so fine,
makes it all easy to swallow.
Casa Harris
Truro, N.S.
February 12, 2023
NO AUDITIONS NECESSARY
After the hatching
and flight is possible,
after parents' rapid care,
dry catfood
in the beak,
baby starling has no use
for any idol show:
to possess
the exclusive talent
no human
will ever master,
to land and rest on
a tiny stuffed belly,
return to the safety of a wire.
Chad Norman lives and writes in Truro, Nova Scotia. In 1992, he was awarded the Gwendolyn MacEwen Memorial Award for Poetry, the judges were Margaret Atwood, Barry Callaghan, and Al Purdy. His poems appear in journals, magazines and anthologies around the world. His most recent book, 'A Matter of Inclusion', is out now, with a new collection, 'Parental Forest', scheduled for Spring 2024.
Comments