The river carries me here
As a babe on its island’s shores I play
Palms and fingers squish soft sand, feet kick,
On my back, sun warmed laps of waves.
Currents change with the seasons
Moody green, then blue; milky, then grey
Factory polluted in a haphazard way.
In autumn steam rises after first frost
Buckhorn’s creek freezes over in white
Our skates’ steel cuts crust to granules of light
We hear the creak of the sheet unable
to bear our weight; it cracks, we lie on the ice
crawl to shore; imagine the classmate trapped
head under the lip of ice, face turned blue
frozen in his boots, red cap and jacket;
first of our generation to pay the price
like deer seeking to drink fresh water
stranded on ice floe; eyes wide in fear
headed for the Rapids, then the Falls.
Sooner or later the current carries us all.
Source: Kathy Gilbert, 2021
Award winning poet Kathy Gilbert grew up in Niagara Falls, NY, attending St John de La Salle, Prince of Peace, and 66th Street schools before moving to Grand Island. She currently resides in Northern California where she received an MFA in poetry from San Francisco State University. In 2020, she published a poetry collection, Aprils Three. Other poems have appeared in Transfer, Anomalous, Swampwriting, The Steel Toe Review, The Community of Writers, and,Vistas & Byways. She is currently working on a book about Niagara Falls.
The Falls of Niagara From Goat Island, 1853 Drawing by George Wallis. Courtesy of the Library of Congress
I am the flood gates between neighboring states, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And sever the waters in twain
That flow through great lakes, and in hill and vale takes ‡‡‡‡‡‡Its source in the Laurentian.
The racing rapids above, rush, jostle and shove, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And run at a furious pace,
Then, nearing my ledge, leap over the edge, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Like steeds in a steeple chase.
When the floods break asunder, they roar like thunder ‡‡‡‡‡‡As over my ledge they flow,
And roll in their might all day and all night, ‡‡‡‡‡‡In a termagant strife below.
Lying there at my feet in the chasm they beat, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where in fury they’re lashed to foam
‘Gainst stray fallen blocks of shattered old rocks, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And in agony writhe and moan.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡II.
But when they get free, how they rollick with glee, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Delighted my bondage to break,
And surge through the gorge into whirlpools, thence forge ‡‡‡‡‡‡Their way to Ontario Lake.
From the strength of my force, they take their long course, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where the banks of St. Lawrence guide,
Till they sweep full and free out to the blue sea, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where the waters are vast and wide.
When they bid me good-bye, I neither fret nor sigh ‡‡‡‡‡‡For I know they will merge with the tide,
And in clouds, spray or foam, with the winds wander home, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And again o’er my cataract glide.
For year in and year out, they come back with a shout, ‡‡‡‡‡‡From far parts of the old hemisphere,
To my green swarded shore, for my cataract’s roar ‡‡‡‡‡‡Has a musical charm to their ear.
They enjoy the great fun, o’er the rapids to run, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And leap into limitless space,
Then when they alight, from my great lofty height, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Down through the gorge run and race.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡III.
I’ve been a long time in this northern clime, ‡‡‡‡‡‡As Niagara’s flown on and on,
And centuries have sped since its waters I’ve shed, ‡‡‡‡‡‡As to me they have come and gone.
My banks and bowers are now laden with flowers, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where once the great forests held sway,
For man’s hand now designs, which did once the Divine’s ‡‡‡‡‡‡In an earlier ancient day.
I send them betimes, when favoring gale inclines, ‡‡‡‡‡‡A welcome refreshing cool shower,
That their spirits renew, like the moistening dew ‡‡‡‡‡‡That comes in the early morn hour,
The summer sun beams on the spray at times gleams, ‡‡‡‡‡‡As winds lift it up on their arm,
And clear rainbow rays reflect on these sprays ‡‡‡‡‡‡Their radiant beauty and charm.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡IV.
In stern winter’s embrace, or the sun’s beaming face, ‡‡‡‡‡‡These torrents dash over my bounds,
And incessantly flow through ice, sleet or snow, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And ever their roar resounds.
From the staggering shocks down over the rocks ‡‡‡‡‡‡A mist to the heavens ascends,
Which rears an ice bridge, with its girders and ridge, ‡‡‡‡‡‡That across my borders extends.
This misty spray sprite, in its devious flight, ‡‡‡‡‡‡With summer’s sunbeams paint rainbows,
But in winter’s chill grip, when icicles drip, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Sculptures weird fairy forms where it goes.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡V.
My old solid bed rocks have weathered the shocks ‡‡‡‡‡‡Of earthquakes and tempests and storm,
But the teeth of the tides, as it o’er my breast glides, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Have gnawed away part of my form.
These tides have flown on, as the ages have gone, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And I’ve seen races pass away,
Who lived out their life ‘mid its labor and strife, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And now mingle with earth and clay.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VI.
With their feastings and songs, I attract great throngs ‡‡‡‡‡‡From every known portion of earth,
Who gaze and wonder if my floods and thunder ‡‡‡‡‡‡Date back to the time of its birth.
And the ages pass by and the winds at times sigh, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And the sun, moon and stars rule the sky,
But I keep in my breast their yearning request, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And neither affirm nor deny.
And so the world’s throng have gazed on me long, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And heard my floods roar like thunder,
Till the sights and sound, as they pour and bound, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Have made me the world’s great wonder.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VII.
In the days of yore on my dense wooded shore, ‡‡‡‡‡‡The wild forest beasts came to drink,
And the Indian’s shrill yell, with its echoing swell, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Filled the canyon from brink to brink.
Then all Nature was wild and the sun kindly smiled ‡‡‡‡‡‡On a primitive race of man,
Who paddled a canoe, camped under skies blue, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And was monarch of all it o’er ran.
From my fleet flowing floods in the heart of his woods, ‡‡‡‡‡‡His mind caught a glimpse divine,
And when their voice roared, his gods he implored, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And made me the seat of his shrine.
Ah ! they were my guests on their hunting quests, ‡‡‡‡‡‡When this land was the home of these braves,
In far hunting ground, their souls may be found, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Here their ashes lie scattered in graves.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VIII.
I hold in my palms two friendly clasped hands ‡‡‡‡‡‡Of nations whose love will ne’er cease;
With floods from both hands, I baptize these two lands ‡‡‡‡‡‡In the name of the spirit of peace.
And may there abide in these lands side by side, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Through season of good or ill,
A reign of long peace, may my arc never cease ‡‡‡‡‡‡To betoken their national good will.
My stream parts in twain, but their blood is the same, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And they hold sway on sea and land,
And lead the broad way to that promising day ‡‡‡‡‡‡That the great Prince of Peace has planned.
Source: William Melville McClemont (1865-1935) published this privately in Hamilton, Ontario, undated.
How strangely human your adventured way !
From boundlessness you come. An infancy
‘Tween parent banks you spend in fretless glee
Ere adolescent drives exert their sway
And churn your waters white. Then comes the day
You take the plunge of destiny, to be
Thenceforth a man; and, filled with urgency
A purpose to pursue, charge to the fray
Of strenuous enterprise. With sharp dismay
You sense the walls you dug so joyously
Are closing in on life, and to break free
Your waters vainly whirl and rage till they
Find calm and comfort in acceptancy
And drift to join again the boundless sea.
Source: The Tower: The Poets of the Niagara Peninsula. The Tower Poetry Society, 1958.
Interior View of Milk Cave, Also Known as Buttermilk Cave, on the Niagara River. New York Power Authority. Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Here is the place of lores,
Of heroes that never return,
The site of sagas and Mysteries
Of tales before old Histories
Of council-fires that burn
Hid from the pound of the waters where the ‡‡‡‡Cataract trembles and pours.
Here in the dusky quiet,
Cadenced with birds and tides —
Here in the forest’s circling mood
The sense of truth-in-solitude —
It’s here that legend hides —
And stones and forests and cliffs shut out the ‡‡‡‡world’s tumultous riot.
Only the echoes remain
Like the thought-of-a-thought —
Only the whisper of falls
Like the talk, (in their council walls
Of pine,) together brought,
Discussing their people’s strange plight with ‡‡‡‡Stoic indifference to pain.
Day-hours are lived in the strife
Night-hours are spent in the Essence,
Wildly the waters shall lave,
Silences seal the great cave —
Its fate is a lost evanescence,
(Oh, moment magnificent with thought of primitive life).
Source: Evelyn M. Watson. Poems of the Niagara Frontier. New York: Dean & Company, 1929.
Frozen Niagara River with the American Falls in the background just before the fatal disaster of February 4, 1912. Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
TO MY DEAR BROTHER
ELDRIDGE STANTON (JUNIOR)
WHO DIED BRAVELY AT NIAGARA, ON THE AFTERNOON OF
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4TH, 1912
No tears for thee, no tears, or sighs,
Or breaking heart —
But smiles, that thou so well that bitter hour
Didst play thy part !
Source: Virna Sheard. The Miracle and Other Poems. Toronto: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1913
A dedication to Eldridge Stanton, Junior, who died alongside his wife, Clara, and Burrell Hecock when the ice bridge across the Niagara River just below Niagara Falls broke up suddenly, leaving them adrift. Read Brian Busby’s account of the tragedy and the dedication in Virna Sheard’s book in his posting “A Dedication Born of Tragedy” in The Dusty Bookcase blog, November 7, 2019.
