Fairview Cemetery, Niagara Falls, Ontario Image courtesy of the City of Niagara Falls
I walk alone, eyes downcast
seeking paths of fallen leaves,
to disguise the sound
of breaking armour.
Cemeteries in the fall
are good places for disguise.
I can lie there,
surrounded by stone confessors,
and speak aloud
all that is in me.
Joy, sorrow,
goodness and sin.
There is no forgiveness,
or absolution offered.
They are not my pardoners.
They are just marks left for others,
who perhaps, like me,
spent troubled times there,
before making it their home.
Source: Shie Sirianni published this poem in Captured Essence: Niagara Poetry Anthology, vol. 11. St. Catharines: Canadian Authors Association, Niagara Branch, 1995
With thanks to Arden Phair who pointed out this poem by Shie Sirianni to the Niagara Falls Poetry Project curator.
Where wild Niagara hurls his torrents down
A poet dwells who wears a sanguine crown ;
There Kirby with his strong and graphic pen
Shall rouse the warring legions up again : —
English and French, and Redmen, marshalled are,
And shake the plains, beneath the shock of war,
Yet not the reeking charge and bloody fray,
The lingering siege, or the victorious day,
Alone are his, he can at list digress
To plant the thorn that symbol of distress
An spin his little yarn of love betrayed
The faithful wife and the seducing maid : —
Ah ! fated concubine thy wicked hand
Is doomed to slay the lover “Bois-le-Grand”
Vain thy caresses, in his mortal pain,
He knows thee not but calls his chatelaine,
Yet faithful still like Conrad’s Kaled thou
Watched to the last and sharest his glory now.
Such is the story told in time and rhyme
That makes ridiculous this antique crime ;
Kirby no more thy leisure hours abuse
Collect thy customs but tempt not the muse.
Note by A.C. Stewart: Mr. Kirby is a bright star in William Douw’s Heaven, he will live longer probably, than Lighthall himself, Government official, author of “Canadian Idylls,” writer of some very good verse, and much rubbish. [William Douw Lighthall was a Canadian poet and philosopher]
Source: A.C. Stewart. The Poetical Review: a Brief Notice of Canadian Poets and Poetry. Toronto: J. Anderson, Printer, 1896. See the complete poem here
The “little yarn of love betrayed” is the poem Spina Christi, which can be viewed here
Stewart (1867-1944) came to Canada from Ireland, and became a tunnel and bridge contractor in Fort William, Ontario.
Kirby (1817-1906) came to Canada from Yorkshire, settled in present day Niagara-on-the-Lake, was a customs collector and author, and publisher of the Niagara Mail newspaper. Read more about him here
The day breaks like a glacier.
My mind is an aria of fever, in red air ablaze,
a clammy crescendo, as I talk on the phone
with friends and colleagues
during a meeting where I am supposed to be
attending in person. But I am too sick
to be around people. I cough. My thoughts sink
like rocks in a lake
as everyone speaks. I look
on my laptop screen: my friend Alan, eyebrows
and tuxedo on fleek, posing with Tony Lo Bianco, star
of stage and screen, for a picture taken
by his spouse, freshly posted
on Facebook and The Gram.
My soul is a waterfall, cascading
as I take another pill; as I sip another cup
of Chamomile tea, my joints aching,
I say goodbye and hang up. I thank
the man upstairs for my spouse’s chicken soup; I think
of how Washington DC would be
a closed amusement park to me
if I was there like I planned; asking Tony what it was like
to have worked with Gene Hackman, who is
sometimes Popeye Doyle to me, other times Lex Luthor,
as well as Roy Scheider, both of whom were
in The French Connection with him. But I think
of Roy as Chief Brody in Jaws, ever since
since I was 10 years old, when I saw French Connection and Jaws on TV, Cable
for the first time. Roy died
in 2008. The way I feel today
makes me think of my own death: would any
of the people I spoke with earlier
go to my wake or funeral
if I die before them? How long
will I suffer? Will I be alone?
Will I be in my own bed? Or in a hospital room,
like all of the women, natives and immigrants alike
in my family thus far? A hospice? A different country?
I am home. I have not left it
in a week, but it feels as if I have returned
from my nation’s capital.
I am not afraid exactly, but I have more
questions and concerns,
all of which will be answered in time;
all of which will be addressed in time;
like snow later on tonight; the weatherman
with the dashing moustache on TV, remarking
about a couple bundled up in Cobalt
blue jackets, their laughter sprays in water
onto a rusted hand rail, my head on fire.
Source: Leveler, issue 15, Summer 2016
Joey Nicoletti’s first book, Cannoli Gangster, was a finalist for the 2009 Steel Toe Books Poetry Prize. His other books include Boombox Serenade, Thundersnow, Reverse Graffiti, and Fan Mail, which was published by Broadstone Books in 2021. Nicoletti currently teaches at SUNY Buffalo State.
1
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
2
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 ice
to preserve me
At noon I warm my hands at the apples
ripening on a window sill
3
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:
Syria
Third century B.C.
The guide-book defines
Civilization
means living together
Sometimes a glancing blow
is the back of my wife’s hand
slowly down my thigh
4
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.
Fellow poet and editor Herb Barrett paid tribute to Billings in his poem For Robert Billings
Watch the video At the Brink: A Personal Look at Suicides Over Niagara Falls by Michael Clarkson. Clarkson was a long-time friend of Robert Billings, who is one of the people discussed in the video.
Mighty Niagara, the source of great power. ‡‡Seventh wonder of nature’s great toils,
Giving service to all, from God’s great dower; ‡‡Beauty sublime: as the river it coils
Through ravines, cut from the mighty rock bed. ‡‡Splendor superb, by its rainbows are made,
Grandiose scenes: as our willing ears are fed ‡‡By the musical roar of the mighty cascade.
Beautiful Niagara, a most wonderful sight, ‡‡Massive volume of waters, cascading ever;
Filling the vision and mind with delight. ‡‡Rushing headlong, obstruction ’twill sever
And hurl to destruction. Naught can impede ‡‡Its progress, or hold the swirling turmoil,
Except nature’s deep rockbound gorge. Indeed ‡‡With rising vapours, its waters seem to boil.
Ancient Niagara, aged work of unknown years ‡‡Patiently cut by the water’s great powers.
Its roaring noises, incite trembling fears, ‡‡Its wind whipped spray, make falling showers,
By moonlight, a weird fanciful elfin display, ‡‡With myriad light beams, mocking the stars.
Its loud roaring sounds, producing utter dismay ‡‡Like the ocean rollers, crossing the bars.
Wintery Niagara, most impressive white array ‡‡Mountains of ice, topped with covering snow,
Its immense power in near to stillness display ‡‡To the vision. As if its great bulk to show.
Crystal reflections a kaleidoscope make, ‡‡Grotesque shapes form while one watching stands.
The terrible ceaseless roar of waters unseen ‡‡Tell their story, of the might of unseen hands.
Source: R. W. Sanders. Up Into the Hills & Other Poems. St. Catharines, Ont.: The Author, 1958
