Gorge of the Niagara River from Niagara Falls: America’s Scenic Wonders Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Within the mighty Gorge I stand alone, ‡‡But little more than those small grains of sand
Which lie unnumbered, where the wave-worn shore ‡‡Stretched out to grasp them in its open hand.
But high above the river’s mighty voice, ‡‡A crystal throat brings in its note of charm—
The steady drip of water on a ledge ‡‡Of rocks, upheaved as by some mighty arm.
O’erhead the trees, with pray’rful murmurings, ‡‡Breathe soft to all the winds that flutter by—
The breezes that but came a moment hence ‡‡And went their airy journey with a sigh.
The river winds its fretful way along, ‡‡But deep within its plaintings, great and small,
I hear the mighty Maker’s mighty voice ‡‡In thousand thund’rous accents rise and fall.
Source: Ada Elizabeth Fuller. Sunshine and Shadow: Poems by Ada Elizabeth Fuller. Niagara Falls, Ont. Ada Elizabeth Fuller, 1919
The Crowland Safe Guard Union and Port Robinson Presbyterian Sabbath Schools held a union picnic at the Falls on Aug. 15, and the occasion has been immortalized by the Crowland poet, as followeth : —
Wheelbarrow Race During Picnic in Queen Victoria Park, July 1927. Photo by Edwin Hodge Courtesy of the Niagara Parks Commission / Niagara Falls Public Library
Did you ever Pic-nic at the Falls ‡‡Upon a summer’s day ?
If not, I tell you, ’tis the place ‡‡To pass the time away.
Now first of all you name the day, ‡‡But then, if it should rain,
You fix upon another date, ‡‡And then perhaps again.
And next you must a chicken catch, ‡‡Be sure to take off its head,
Then fill it well with dressing ‡‡And roast it when it’s dead.
You fix a lot of other things ‡‡To fill the basket up ;
‘Tis well to take some dishes too, ‡‡A plate and spoon and cup.
The time comes round — you’re on the road, ‡‡Your best friend at your side,
And if you chose a pleasant day ‡‡You will enjoy the ride.
You can go by the Clifton hill, ‡‡Or down the old ravine,
No difference how you get there ‡‡Upon the park and green.
You meet your many neighbours there ‡‡Their friendship to renew,
Along perhaps with relatives ‡‡And strangers quite a few.
You’ll meet there Col. Gzowski ‡‡And he’ll not speak to you,
But gaze in blissful ignorance ‡‡Upon the sights to view.
And noon comes round, the tables spread ‡‡With pies and cakes and such
And some one at your elbow says, ‡‡“Take care, don’t eat too much.”
Now some drink water pure and bright, ‡‡But grannies have their tea,
For you can get hot water ‡‡Right at the park Q. V.
We sit along the bank awhile ‡‡And watch the Misty Maid ;
Some people will not ride on her ‡‡Because they are afraid.
The day is spent, we start for home ; ‡‡On two things we agree.
That we have had a pleasant time, ‡‡We’re tired as we can be.
Many thanks to Arden Phair for referring this poem to the Niagara Falls Poetry Project curator.
Source: Undated newspaper clipping (probably the Welland Tribune) found in The Diaries of Melvin Byron Misener, held at the Mayholme Foundation in St. Catharines. The clipping has the date “1900” handwritten in the margin of the previous page. Misener (1847-1936) was known as “The Crowland Poet.” Read more about Misener
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.
