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a Sasquatch tribute to Seymour Mayne A long time supporter and participant
of Sasquatch since its inception, Seymour Mayne provides an eclectic balance
of academic backbone and wry sense of humor whenever he graces our
gatherings. |
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The Poetry of Seymour Mayne
A volume of his selected short fiction is scheduled to be published in Spanish translation later this year in South America.
At the University of Ottawa he has supervised the publication of a series of seventeen annual anthologies of new writing by his poetry students.
Practice Run What is this sleep? Practice? I put up my feet to
float into reverie. I smile, cheeks burnished
with joy, like a nobleman joining the Pharaoh on his hot dry run into sand. Beginning As if taking a long deserved nap the old sparrow lay quiet by the front porch. Earlier in the evening it had come, longing for rest, warmed by the setting sun-- once more it opened its tiny eyes, blue and sunken as if it were slowly flying back through its own pupils receding until it became a pulsing spot, then just a distant dot, at last simply still and invisible as it once was at the very, very beginning. Above the Puerta for
Bernd Dietz Scattering above
the Puerta de
Almodóvar loud
formations of
starlings rise
over the palms, break
into arcs, wheel back again towards
the gravity of the tower. Why
should they guide
themselves to our feet or
plentiful crumbs? They are high, higher
now than the pacific sun which earlier nudged
them into the
thousand and one perches and shelters by the gardens along the ancient walls. Afire
with flight they
pepper the air, careening
buckshot aimed
at the ceramic blue. They shatter the peace with
yet another
lunge before night
settles them into the armistice of sleep. Cordoba November
2000 Cordoba There is a smell of leather in
Cordoba, of tanned hide. Even the walls and
squares are stricken as if with the slow strokes of a tanner. They are thickened by
each blow of submission without word, past glory
preserved. Hold Cordoba snugly under
your arm, hold her close full
as she is, a seasoned satchel bleached and baked by the impassive but
crafty sun. Ten
Of the first fright: one, of shadows breaking away from
words: two, of wings fluttering in the night: three, of books standing like angels on guard: four-- But of the knife, five and six, and the bully with the revolver, seven,
eight and nine, and of the trigger-happy finger-- ten ready to do their part in
staving off the plagues. Jonah
How does one die? Does it burst out like a flood rising for a lifetime to its level of escape? Or does it coil around in the cave of a dream, shutting off the vista of light with a sudden jerk and the silence holds louder than God? Daughters of Prophecy She who approaches meets
sentinel of stone. * Do
not let his shield detract
you. He
too was once frail flesh
and bone. * At the brush of eyelids return
him to muscle and skin. With a light touch he
will recover speech. * He
proclaims in the square and
challenges kin! * You wait for the words to end, then
quickly embrace. He abandons his jeremiads, becomes
dumb with joy. Yet lingers to remain stone --but
not his face. * There
his eyes sink close
lidded and
he curls into dormant
dreams. * Hail, women Levites
of Zion, daughters of prophecy who
encircle the hill-- * To
the unfaithful, hard
of heart, Jerusalem
will not yield even
one of her gates! Breadcrumbs In
memory of Shoshi Hyman Will the blue birds perch
today with breadcrumbs in their beaks or with wings still rest
in the back garden where your abandoned studio stands behind
the spacious house on Ben Maimon? You were always on a tight schedule, too
too busy --so what was the rush, Shoshi, to leave so soon? June 9,
1996 22
Sivan 5756 Pebbles for Ben
Hollander However hewn the stones of Jerusalem, the fine pebbles of Camp Ramah reveal a more modest finish. Scraped smooth from the slow retreat of crushing glaciers, they have learned the silence of long seasons endlessly repeating under the impassive Canadian sky.
They have less to say, perhaps nothing at all: blood trickling into their veins of ore draws from expiring mosquitoes-- or from bloodroot yielding its sanguine essence without pain, without the piercing shrapnel of speech. Skeleton
Lake, Muskoka
Whose Light In
memory of Louis Dudek Whose light is this anyway? A cosmic stunt for credulous eyes? While beyond the exponential distance the darkness enfolds itself up to the first second before the crack of instant creation-- Who believes in light everlasting enlightening silence, darkness and the first and final word? Equinox If early light returns, is there renewed hope for ailing tongues rising in darkness?
Crows The crows of Sandy Hill are much too big, sleek with wide bristling wings.
Hail Hail peppered the air like seed as
you were lowered below the frost line. All those bags--careful markings
by flower and plant you put aside for another season. Passed on to others devoted
to the soil, will they sprout--abundant-- erasing the sting of words, deeds
undone? Will your green touch resuscitate unseen, healing a winter of silence?
Real Estate My father passed on no
faithful piety. Whomever he may have
addressed in prayer the name was never bequeathed in
letter or will. Nor did he let on who sent
his guardian angel to wave his way --when
he was barely tall-- from the ripe horizon of
a field of high grain. Out there he was safe in
sun or beating rain. He never forgot those
pear trees hung with succulent gold and
the maturing soil yielding what was tastiest from
his distant corner of Ukraine. Here in his last town, Montreal, he held no plot dearer than
his backyard, his row of tomato plants and
cucumbers inching forward in green formation to
a briny fate. Who will tend with
the same devotion his final real estate
in De la Savane, claimed as it will be to
the end with his bare chiselled
name?
In memory
of Ralph Gustafson Hanging from the underbelly of bark, full raindrops wait for your eyes to behold them. They glimmer for the thousandth time not knowing you have gone only to return with words turning pages into your refined yet vulnerable voice. Frost Cold morning, winter’s reconnaissance scouts out the terrain for a sortie of sudden snow.
December Flight These starlings swerve in flocks, turning their frantic wings towards the sun’s slanting light. Vessels As if scattered in celebration of God’s domestic air, this show of confetti stills
the festive tongue with silent wonder: foolscap shredding sheet
after sheet, each
torn flake flying then embedding like seed-- today’s snow recycling feeds
into yesterday’s swollen solar pumpkin and
next season’s blueberry bush crowded
with vessels of
pungent wine. all poems © Seymour Mayne
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