Poetry of and about Niagara Falls & the Niagara River – the waterfalls, the city, the history, the stunters, and everything else Niagara
Author: Andrew Porteus
Andrew Porteus is a retired librarian who started the Niagara Falls Poetry Project in 1998 in order to gather in one place the hundreds of poems that exist about Niagara Falls. Andrew returned to Brock University to get a Master of Art degree based on the website
Abram Hull was a captain in the United States Infantry, and was killed in the battle of Lundy’s Lane, 25th July, 1814, and interred on the battleground, near to the spot where he fell, with the fallen on both sides. The battleground was consecrated as a cemetery, and is now kept in order by the Lundy’s Lane Historical Society.
Not that thou wast an enemy do I desire
Thy grave shall be no mound of weeds or mire ;
My country’s enemies are mine, and I would fight
With tireless arm to guard her sacred right.
Not that thou wast an enemy and I forget
The fierce incursion—unforgiven yet.
But that thou wast a mother’s son, I’d keep,
For mother-love, thy bed in thy last sleep.
Lay e’er, my son, in stranger-land a foe,
I would some mother-breast should pity know,
Some kindly hand should smooth, as I do now,
His last long pillow, and upon his brow
Drop gentle tears for one so brave and young,
Nor leave, for enmity, a warrior’s dirge unsung.
Source: The Dominion Illustrated, 17th August 1889
Almighty God ! who sees the dew-drop fall.
And sends the rain that falls alike on all ;
Who pours the fountain from its secret source,
And guides the river in its onward course ;
Who parts the waters from the teeming land.
And holds the ocean in His mighty hand ;
Who states the tides and moves upon the deep,
To rouse the billow or to bid it sleep ;
Who deluged earth and covered mountains high,
Then set this token in the hallowed sky, —
Here, by these waters, in their ceaseless flow,
Has fixed His covenant. Behold the Bow !
And while earth trembles ‘neath the mighty load,
Man sees the promise and the power of God !
Source: Horace P. Biddle. Poems. New York: Hurd & Houghton, 1868
“Girl, all I ever wanted to do was let go: stumble, grumbling, drunk on my own juices. Spread my thighs two nations wide. It’s funny how popular you get when your business is falling all over yourself, when your schtick is snatching rattles, wallets, cameras, whatever’s around,” Niagara Falls hisses one night, when I find myself in town. “Now, my name is known by newlyweds and bachelors alike, my sloth is franchised, recklessness advertised as entertainment. Put a penny in my mouth and I’ll grind a souvenir version out – American, Canadian, whichever currency is handy – so randy you’ll need to wear a raincoat when you come near.”
I know a true hedonist when I hear one, but I can’t relate. Born of beings who, too, never knew embarrassment, bacchanal-bred in a house full of guns and confetti, I grew to be the cleaner-upper, morning husher of embers hot in the fireplace all night. I don’t know what nonchalance feels like, those lazylays on scenic horizons. I’m always on guard, a connoisseur of armor, at the perfect temperature in an airtight container. I wear mosquito netting to the grocery store, don’t open the door for anyone short of the police or Elvis, don’t collect the mail without wearing a barrel, don’t pummel, don’t know how it feels to be pummeled. I shy from precipices, hazards brash and shiny. You know, every fall begins with curiosity.
Every undoing begins with intrigue: ask the boxcar jumper, the organ-grinder, the ice cream truck driver, those who’ve watched a soggy decade spring from a weekend fling. I’m comfortable on dry land, don’t need to throw my heart into a lake to know the splash it would make. I’ll never court brute force, can’t imagine managing a violence so safe that people come in droves to let lick their children’s faces, so steady it seems quaint. I will never spawn such bawdy superfluity, such abandon, enough to power a city.
Interview With the Monument was first published in Litro, November 18, 2022
Jessica Manack holds degrees from Hollins University and lives with her family in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her writing has recently appeared in Maudlin House, Five South and Peregrine. She is a recipient of a 2022 Curious Creators Grant.
ALL hail to thee, Niagara ! Monarch thou,
Before whose echoing thunders, every sound
Shrinks tearfully away ! The pilgrim heart
Bowing in deepest homage at thy shrine,
Trembles, and sinks in fear ! The admiring eye,
Pressed by thy startling grandeur, droops in tears :
And the frail lyre that would its sweetest strains
Invoke unto thy praise, alas ! grows dumb.
Bright as the stars ! thy mantle : and thy crown,
The circling bow wherewith He spans the heavens.
And thy cloud-shadowed feet, even stand as once
At Israel’s tent, thy glorious Maker’s stood :
Of whose great majesty and power sublime,
His hand hath formed thee evermore to speak !
Source: Wood. M. Elva. Songs of the Noon and Night. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 1866