I thought there was nothing in the fields of light
that was not there in darkness
After breakfast in a quiet house
surrounded by pastures of new frost
my heart crouches believing
the next sound will be
something it can sing
This is my persistent nightmare
I jump into a shallow river
Hy feet sink in mud
to mid-calf, the top
of my head
just breaks the surface
too soon for ice
to preserve me
At noon I warm my hands at the apples
ripening on a window sill
The smell of cold through an open window
On the corner of my desk
is a print of a mother-goddess
in a black plastic frame:
Third century B.C.
The guide-book defines
means living together
Sometimes a glancing blow
is the back of my wife’s hand
slowly down my thigh
And so it comes back to this
In Munich 1974
a man in a bar
said a cormorant
dropping from a cliff
is the soul of
whatever flung this
earth on the sea
Midnight on the highway through Perth County
wearing sunglasses against the headlights
I bite through the cold skin of an apple
Source: Waves vol 11, no 2 & 3, Winter 1983
Robert Billings, born in Niagara Falls, Ontario, and raised Fort Erie, became well known in Canadian literary circles as a poet, critic, teacher, and editor of Poetry Canada Review and Poetry Toronto. In 1983 he penned the poem “Epiphanies of the First Cold Day.” Epiphany 2 foreshadowed his eventual fate. In 1986 after his marriage broke down and bouts of depression hit him, he threw himself into the Niagara River. His body was not recovered until six months later.
FOR ROBERT BILLINGS whose body was recovered from the Niagara Gorge
Some things leave us speechless ‡‡‡‡‡fear of the unknown ‡‡‡‡‡confronting death ‡‡‡‡‡falling in & out of love ‡‡‡‡‡trouble so acute ‡‡‡‡‡we feel strapped ‡‡‡‡‡in a strait jacket ‡‡‡‡‡abandoned ‡‡‡‡‡with no road back ‡‡‡‡‡no forward ‡‡‡‡‡mute as a sacrifice ‡‡‡‡‡waiting to be rendered
‡‡‡‡‡here ‡‡‡‡‡was beauty created ‡‡‡‡‡poems spun ‡‡‡‡‡like tapestries ‡‡‡‡‡to enhance ‡‡‡‡‡the bleak corners ‡‡‡‡‡of existence
‡‡‡‡‡underneath ‡‡‡‡‡some dark corrosive ‡‡‡‡‡ate at the spirit ‡‡‡‡‡the eclectic rocket ‡‡‡‡‡somewhere misfired
‡‡‡‡‡who can judge ‡‡‡‡‡the why ‡‡‡‡‡the day ‡‡‡‡‡desolate as famine ‡‡‡‡‡that drove you ‡‡‡‡‡to the brink ‡‡‡‡‡lonely as a last moment ‡‡‡‡‡your body engulfed ‡‡‡‡‡by roaring mist…
‡‡‡‡‡the cruel rocks ‡‡‡‡‡keep their secret ‡‡‡‡‡where a cry ends ‡‡‡‡‡and silence begins
Source: Canadian Author & Bookman, Vol. 63, no.3, Spring 1988
Robert Billings, a Niagara Falls, Ontario, native, became well known in Canadian literary circles as a poet, critic, teacher, and editor of Poetry Canada Review and Poetry Toronto. In 1983 he penned the poem “Epiphanies of the First Cold Day.” Epiphany 2 reads in part:
This is my persistent nightmare: I jump into a shallow river My feet sink in mud to mid-calf, the top of my head just breaks the surface It’s November Too soon for the ice to preserve me.
In Waves, vol. 11, issue 2/3, winter 1983
In 1986 after his marriage broke down and bouts of depression hit him, he threw himself into the Niagara River. His body was not recovered until six months later.
Herb Barrett (c1912-1995) was a poet who first published in the Hamilton Spectator in the 1930s, helped found the Canadian Poetry Association, and was a long-time poetry magazine editor. The Haiku Foundation named The Herb Barrett Award after him.
The Riall Heights Plaza was a refuge in all weather
You come through the door, yelling about the Republican Party and the pandemic response, high on speed. Magnifying the voices of breathless men who score the TV. Winning in the poll, losing as I leave.
Racing the sparkling, champagne SUVs which pour down the street. Asking for a truce once they take the lead. Passing a string of houses with front yard pesticides and driveway gates. The kid sleeping inside, born with a royal name.
Settling at the commercial plaza which shelters a bar, campaign office, and other businesses; which end and begin to end again. Beneath the desperate cover of a patio umbrella, I find a childhood friend. just as the rain collapses on the peeling parking lot.
We talk about holidays, the pitcher pricing, and attempting to forget every lie we’ve told, as we create the next. The rain moves on in a moment of disbelief. Likely toward downtown. Standing to walk home, he says you better not fucking die.
Source: The author, 2021
Cole McInerney is a student studying English at Ryerson University. He lives in Toronto. He was born and raised in Niagara Falls, Ontario. His poems have been published in several print and online publications, including Dots Publications, The Continuist, and Lippy Kids.
My grandmother at forty woke up before dawn
to dress, put on make-up, and curl her hair.
She was divorced, a mother of five, and a waitress
at the Best Western hotel in Niagara Falls.
The job started at eight o’clock but, always,
she left her apartment on Main Street early. Turned
the key in the lock. The click in the lock
told her she had the freedom to claim the open,
silent walk. She was a waitress at the Best
Western hotel in Niagara Falls. The boss was waiting
at the job, but the shift started at eight o’clock,
and just after dawn my grandmother still found worlds
of time. Worlds enough to breathe the air and know
she was alive. In 1980, in Niagara Falls,
the air smelled of water and smoke and big car
engines. Morning leavings of tourist bacchanals
performed all night before. But she didn’t care
for any of that. She was a waitress at the Best
Western hotel, and when she walked down
the Fallsview Boulevard hill she knew—she was alive.
These days my grandmother’s legs are frail
as the stilts of dying birds, but four decades back
they were still strong enough to work all day—
work and wake again before the dawn, wake
to descend the last stretch of hill. Watch
the rising sun turn Niagara’s jagged trench
and torrent liquid gold. Now at eighty years,
my grandmother trains my gaze with misty eyes
and lifts a brittle claw. When I was forty,
she confides, I was a waitress at the Best Western
hotel. Every morning before work, I’d walk down
to Niagara Falls. Watched the water. Knew
I was alive. A smile snakes across her skull. You know,
I thought I was so old. My God, she whispers,
I’d give anything now to be forty. Walk
down the hill to the water. Alive.
Source: FJ Doucet, 2021
FJ Doucet’s work has been published in grey borders magazine, The Banister, Hamilton Arts and Letters, Red Bird Chapbook website, Ascent Aspirations, and The Lyric. She is the newest president of the Brooklin Poetry Society. Doucet was born and mostly raised in Niagara Falls, Ontario, and though she has since lived on three continents, Niagara continues to haunt her.
The air was soft, the sky was clear October’s sun shone mild and fair, With orb depress’d and slanting ray, While hastening round the autumnal day; With mellow fruit the orchard hung, Where birds the parting chorus sung, And spread their opening wings to fly — For winter frown’d in northern sky, Black o’er the wide-extended plain The crested buckwheat wav’d amain; The Indian corn along the vale Bow’d rustling to the passing gale — Scene of delight! Reward of toil, The product of a genial soil. ‡‡Fort Gorge is now far in my rear, And the great cataract I hear: — And shall I pass? No, turn and see Thy wonders, famed Niagara.** There the Saint Lawrence silent glides, A broad and smooth, yet rapid, tide; Then, tumbling with a sudden force, It tosses on its foaming course, Resistless o’er its craggy bed, Where many a huge rock lifts its head; Then down the steep the torrent rolls, And scarce the rock its rage controuled. The bowels of the earth profound It pierces with unfathom’d wound, There dark and deep the chasm lies, Round which huge cliffs tremendous rise; Dense clouds of spray, an awful brow! O’erhang, obscure, the space below, Admitting scarce the dubious eye Where, half conceal’d, dark wonders lie. The bow of heaven, a glorious sight, Arches the spray in splendour bright, While, unobscured, the king of day Shoots down his bright effulgent ray, The wandering fish-hawk, seeking prey, Hither perchance, directs his way; But ah! he finds no finny brood To tempt him in the foaming flood, The eagle, as he passes by, Casts o’er the scene a scowling eye; Amazed, looks from the dizzy height, And claps his wings for surer flight. While the deep bellowing thunder breaks, The trembling earth, percussive, shakes — It totters on its quivering base, And seems as moving from its place. Heaven’s thunders scarce, tho’ dread to hear, More dreadful strike the astonish’d ear, Or dire tempest rolling vast, Borne on the force compelling blast — The terrors of the storm combined, So forcibly can strike the mind, Emerging from a veil of spray, The river shoots its giddy way, Deep channel’d in its rocky course With eddies, whirls, and sweeping force. The towering rocks, a dreadful show, Dark frowning, shade the tide below, And cast a drear and solemn gloom, Like deep destruction’s yawning tomb. There, from the river’s stormy breast, An island rears its shaggy crest: With rugged rocks ’tis verged around — With venerable hemlocks crown’d, And cedars tall, whose evergreen Adds to the bold, majestic scene. Below the isle, from both its sides, Two tumbling torrents join their tides, And boiling, plunging, foam away, Mantled in froth, and veiled in spray. ‡‡Here oft the raised spectator stands Astonish’d — with uplifted hands — His eye is fix’d in steadfast gaze — His soul is chain’d in deep amaze — His tongue forgets its power to speak — Imagination — wilder’d weak — Fancy, unfledg’d descends from flight, — Confounded — lost, in such a sight! — What dread sublimity is here! What awful grandeur doth appear! We ponder on the scene before Our eyes — we turn — we view once more: Then turn away with mind deep fraught — Big with unutterable thought. ‡‡But yonder is that bloody field Where war’s dire thunders lately peal’d, With mingled groans, and savage yell, While death-guns told their awful knell. Yes, here, though dreadful to be told, Here has the rage of battle roll’d, Here tears of blood Columbia shed, And here Britannia’s bosom bled, Here the war-trump’s provoking blast Roused many a soldier for the last — And here life’s crimson flow’d amain, While hundreds bit the gory plain. And here the cannon’s fiery breath Belch’d out destruction, flames, and death. O’er the sad subject of this tale Night hung a dark and sable veil. Confusion rear’d his gorgon-head, While fate was glutted with the dead. Ah! must the mournful harp be strung! Ah! must the solemn dirge be sung. Shall widow tears in torrents flow While listening to the tales of woe? Must parents mourn their offspring dear, And orphans murmur as they hear? The maid betrothed, in beauty’s bloom — Ah! death has waved his sable plume O’er him whose vows engaged thy heart — But cease recording muse! I start! My soul recoils, and hangs between — Come, silence, then, and close the awful scene!* ‡‡No longer could I bear to stay, But up the river bent my way, And sought the old paternal spot Where first existence frail I got, — Where first the breath of life I drew, And first my mother’s kindness knew, Serene in mild effulgence drest, The sun was sinking down the west, And Erie murmur’d on his shore A gentle, dying, soothing roar. The well known sound I quickly knew — My boyish rambles rose to view, Distinct in idea, though away On time’s swift flight full many a day, In youth how often did I lave My limbs in Erie’s limpid wave, Or sat me down upon the shore To hear the tumbling billows roar, Or have I climb’d the hill and stood To view the tempest-beaten flood Or frolick’d round in wanton play, Or chaunted to the woodland lay! But ah! those happy days are past — For me a different die is cast — The silver lake remains no more — The sandy beach — the pebbly shore — They all are fled — and manhood brings A thousand cares upon his wings: The chequer’d paths of pain and woe Engross my steps where’er I go, While clouds of error gather round Impenetrable, dark, profound, Alas! frail man! it is thy lot, And sure thou canst avoid it not. But for these troubles all combined, Can we no consolation find? Is there nought in this world below But toil and trouble, pain and woe? O yes! a cure for every wound Has our adored creator found: — He’s told us friendship, love, and truth Should guard us, up to age from youth, And meek religion’s heavenly ray Direct us to eternal day. ‡‡I pass’d the wood, where, when a lad, With cudel arm’d, and buck-skin clad, With faithful Gunner by my side, On such emergencies oft tried, I’d venture forth to seek the cows, And drove them home at night from browse, Led by the tinkling of the bell, Which welcome news to me did tell. Oft have I sought, and sought in vain, And luckless turn’d me home again, Retraced my steps with eager bound, Yet watched, alarm’d at every sound; For then the sun had sunk to lave His disc in Huron’s purple wave. Oft then as I remember well, The owl began his evening yell, And hooted from his hollow tree, Gods! how his screeches frightened me! — Gunner I’d call, yet scarce could spare A whistle or a breath of air, And keep him closely by my side, For on his courage I relied. Bears, wolves and foxes, dreadful foes, In my imagination rose, And all the formidable train Terror could picture on my brain. Whene’er I heard the bushes crack I thought them bouncing on my back, And twitch’d about my head to see What monster was attacking me! But ah! how would my bounding heart Within my bursting jacket start, When thro the opening trees I saw The fields, the house, the barn and a’, Then courage kindled in my breast, And boldly I defied the beast That howled so hideous in my rear, And made my body quake with fear. Around the evening fire I’d tell Of the terrific, frightful yell, And having just escap’d the claw Of monster that I never saw. My listening brothers gather’d near, Intent my every word to hear, Believed the stories that I told, And wondered how I was so bold. ‡‡But now I see the fields arise And greet my long desiring eyes — My father’s fields — where early day, My boyish years I pass’d away. There stand, deep rooted in the soil The stumps, memorials of my toil: — There have I swung the axe around And fell’d the tall trees to the ground, And listened to the echoing roar, The fields resounding o’er and o’er: There have I often held the plow, And mark’d the field with furrows thro’: — And here my father once did crack The oxgood smartly round my back, Because I did refuse to do What he was pleased to bid me to. There oft beneath that plumb tree’s shade, [sic] I’ve loll’d a summer’s day and play’d. Or early at the rising morn I’ve scared the black-birds from the corn, Arm’d with a sling, and nimbly thrown Amidst their flocks the whizzing stone, And forced the thief to quit his prey, And spread his wings and flit away. There old Van Hoozer once went by, And caught me treading down the rye: — He call’d — I ran — he broke a switch — But I was quickly out of reach. There oft, beneath the burning sun The sharp, the keen-edged scythe I’ve swung, Or spread the new-mown swathe to dry, While Phoebus glowed in southern sky. Oft have on this same ground I tread, My inexperienced fingers bled, When first I did the sickle wield To reap the harvest off the field: — But what for that? — the golden year Brought the reward of labour near, — The sheaves upraised their heads around, And joy and pleasure did abound. ‡‡But cease! — my journey’s at an end — Out bounces Gunner — good old friend! — With hearty welcome home once more He turns to lead me to the door: — My parents are alive and well, — Then think the rest — I can not tell.
Port Talbot, U.C.
Adam Hood Burwell published poems under the pen name Erieus
Source: Burwell, Adam Hood. The Poems of Adam Hood Burwell, Pioneer Poet of Upper Canada. ed. by Dr. Carl F. Klinck. (Western Ontario History Nuggets no. 30, May 1963). London, Ont.: Lawson Memorial Library, The University of Western Ontario, 1963
First published in The Scribbler of Montreal, in two parts. vol. 2, 18 July 1822, p. 39-42 & * p. 47-52
** [A note by the Editor of The Scribbler]: “The rhyme here would require Niagara to be pronounced Niagaree. It is singular that the name of this celebrated cataract should be pronounced in a totally different manner on this side of the Atlantic, from what it is in Europe. Here. and all over the new continent, it is pronounced, Niagara, Europeans call it Niagara, which is the way it is accented by Thomson, and the other English poets who have occasion to use it. As it is originally an Indian name, it would be worth while to inquire how the aborigines pronounced it; old inhabitants say that in their youth, it was pronounced even here, Niagāra.”